There are times when I LOVE my body. Today I love it.
After the Breakthrough Bleeding Disaster of 2009 (aka “last cycle”) I re-set my body and had been having a very spot-free cycle, as normal. And then I started spotting – but very very lightly – my last four days of taking the pills. I ignored it. When I took no more pills I had no more spotting. I just sat back and counted down the days.
My period arrived tonight. I was expecting it tomorrow morning so it is off by a few hours, but tonight is possibly even better since I don’t have to spend tonight wondering if it’s going to be on time. Tomorrow I call the nurses, and friday I go in for baseline. This works out perfectly because I’m scheduled to go in late on friday so I don’t have to take any time off for the baseline or let anyone know that I’m starting now. (Next week I won’t be so lucky, but obviously there’s a point where it’s going to be obvious that I am cycling.)
I love that my body can count.
Of course I am still terrified. I am trying very hard not to think about fertilization, instead I’m just looking one step ahead. Starting stims, I can handle that. And stims will probably go well – although, different protocol, there’s reason to be concerned about that too. So basically, no thinking allowed this cycle.
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Seeing a therapist is kind of a weird thing to me. It’s not weird for the same reason that it is weird to most people: spilling out all of my innermost thoughts is more or less second nature to me. But saving them all up and then deciding what is important enough to talk about in the one hour I have, well that just feels unnatural. But it has caused me to think about things before I go. That can result in some interesting thoughts.
When I sit and think about my life and the way I lead it, I can’t really say that I’m terribly depressed. I can’t even say that I’m terribly sad anymore. I am underneath – I know I’m not entirely happy – but I just don’t live my days in deep sadness.
I don’t cry much anymore. I don’t think it’s because I’m suppressing emotions (I’ve never been very good at that, anyways). I’m not numb the way I was for many months. I know for the first few months I would alternate between crying heavily and feeling totally empty and numb, like there just weren’t tears left. And then I would cry again. They came easily, for little things, little reminders, little thoughts. They just came.
But now, not so much. Sometimes the tears will well up when I’m really bringing up old memories. Sometimes, in a dark mood when I’m writing from my inner soul, that’s when the memories and tears come bubbling up from within. But they are small tears now. The lingering tears of a hurt that just won’t go away, instead of the deep, unbelievable grief. I think it comes with acceptance. I no longer feel such shock at the thought that he is dead. I no longer feel such disbelief.
In a way I have adjusted to Devin being my dead child. He is my child, and I am happy for that.. But he is not here. It will always be painful. There will always be regrets and frustrations and sadness. But it doesn’t feel like a huge bandaid ripped off my tender inner skin. It’s a scar now. It will never look the way it did before I was cut open… it will always be obvious that I was hurt. But it has faded, healed a little bit. If you don’t look too closely at my soul you might even miss it. When I wake up in the morning I’m thinking about the alarm clock, not that my son isn’t here.
But I am carrying a huge hurt on my shoulders. I am angry, I am bitter, I am sometimes not very pleasant. I realized it’s because of the infertility. This is the pain that I am dealing with right now: my inability to get pregnant again. This is why I rant and rail in my head (and sometimes outloud). This is why my heart hurts so deeply when I see pregnant women.
I still sleep with the blanket I bought because it reminded me of Devin. And between our pillows are the sheep, the pillow, and the taggies blanket. I tend to touch them before going to sleep. Sometimes I pull Sheepie a little closer at night, when I feel like I need a little extra comfort.
When I think of Devin I smile, because the memories are so beautiful, because I had him, had that experience. Isn’t that ironic? My son died, and yet he is the one comforting me through this struggle.
