When I was four, my Mother caught me standing in front of the microwave, staring fixedly in at the popcorn as it began to jump around. She said, tongue-in-cheek,
"If you stare long enough, you won't be able to have a baby one day."
I heard the laughter in her voice, the light-hearted playfulness that was not to be taken seriously, yet something in her statement registered paranoia in me. What if she's right? From then on, I threw my TV dinners and popcorn in quickly and rushed out of the room, only to return long after the 'ding' had gone off. Even then I knew I deeply wanted children someday and even then, something inside me whispered that when the time came, it wouldn't come easily.
Boy was this an understatement.
For four years now, I have been surrounded by friends and family who likely never worried about the microwave. Most (if not all) have never thrown out birth control for two years, only to come to the conclusion that the whispers they heard long ago was actually their intuition screaming. Most have never taken five rounds of Clomid and had four intrauterine inseminations. A dozen needles, ultrasounds, leave time from work. Endless. And after four years, thousands of dollars, and so much heartache and time, most have never had their dream finally come true by watching and listening to a tiny heartbeat on the ultrasound screen, only to lose that heartbeat at just past 10 weeks. Most people that I am surrounded with had a very, very different story.
Accidental pregnancies. Trying for two weeks, with success. Picking out names and announcing to the world the second they find out without an ounce of trepidation. This is what I am surrounded with. Stories that seem not to mirror mine. This is why I'm here.
I know my story isn't unique, but in my world it is. This makes it so incredibly easy to feel alone in the biggest fight of my life. There is one thing that gives me hope, though. When whoever is destined to arrive does, I know all this will be worth it in the end.