I wrote last night's post right before bed and then pretty much slunk my weeping ass to bed, where I let sleep make it better, until Ethan woke up at 1am, at which time I slunk over to his room and let his feet burrowing under my legs and his still-a-baby breath make it all better.
I was overwhelmed to wake to an inbox full of your kind condolences. Not that I don't realize how wonderful and supportive you are, interwebs. I know I can always count on you to have my back and to say nice things to me that make my very real hurts feel just that little bit better. But really, thank you for taking the moment or two to respond to my post. Infertility is such a lonely place and it's like a big hug to read your words. And to those of you who said you are also dealing with infertility, I hope you never come to a night like mine last night. I hope your path leads you to a happy place where there are kicks to feel and heartbeats to hear and names to pick out and a lifetime of happiness with your child.
Right now it feels very much like there's been a death in the family. Closing this door is essentially cutting off life support to a dream. I am grieving harder than I thought I would. This giving up has been in my mind for a while now, so I expected I would take this day, when it came, with far fewer tears than I'm actually shedding.
But even though I have been curled up in a ball on the bathroom floor sobbing once or twice in the past 24 hours, I can feel that this is not going to break me. It hurts something terrible right now, but I can feel somewhere on the inside that this is not going to send me to the dark places I've been to in the past. I don't know whether it's the year of therapy I had in Los Angeles that gave me such a sense of myself and my strength or if it's just the realization that my life, as it is right now, this moment, even as this dream dies, is good. And better than what a lot of people get.
This morning, dropping Ethan off at preschool, one of my friends who'd read my blog post from last night, grabbed me up in a big hug that kind of knocked the air out of me with all it wordlessly said. I've known this woman for a few months and given that, you as my reader, know she has of course heard about every ultrasound, every shot, every procedure I've undergone in that time--because I am nothing if not an over-sharer. And things like that hug make me so glad that I am. And waking up to an inbox full of thoughts and concern for me from so many of you, many of whom I've never even met make me so glad that I cannot keep anything to myself. I promise to find some joy to share with you soon.
Thank you so much.