I’ve been in a socially sanctioned relationship for over two years now and trying to conceive for one. One year. For those not in the know one year of trying to conceive (TTC) is when doctors start labeling your struggle “infertility”. On the one hand it doesn’t seem so long and yet crossing that threshold has me right in the feels.
Secondary infertility (since I have had a previous successful pregnancy) is taunting me daily. I feel it when I wake up and take my basal body temperature before getting out of bed. I feel it when I’m out of bed and realize I forgot to temp (what if today I ovulate but I miss it because I forgot to temp?). I feel it when I pee on a stick each morning to determine when/if I’m ovulating and when the result comes back as an error and when I pee on a stick to see if maybe just maybe I got pregnant this month and when the result comes back as a no. I feel it when people ask when we’ll start trying or don’t I want kids or don’t I know how old I am and I’d better start thinking about it soon.
Sometimes i smile and give a noncommittal response. Sometimes I talk about Kidlet and ask why I’d bother having more kids when I’ve already created perfection. Sometimes I tell people my body doesn’t work that way any more (cue awkward silence). Sometimes I tell them school and work keep me busy. But almost never do I tell them that I’ve failed. That I abandoned my first child and now nature won’t allow me a second chance to screw up. Even though that’s what goes through my head at least once a day. Because as frought as TTC is for everyone there’s always that extra layer as a birth mom.
Whether it’s punishment or justice or something else all together the universe has decided and I may always be a mother of one a parent of zero.