Something I try to repeat to myself every month: the odds. The odds are shit. The odds are against you.
Even with perfectly-timed shenanigans, most couples have a 20-30% chance of conceiving every month. It can take 6 months for the healthiest folks with the best plans or even 12 months just because.
It’s kinda all I’ve got.
But the hard part about it is not knowing if there’s anything actually wrong. And of course you assume everything is wrong. They don’t run tests until you’ve been trying for over 12 months, or 6 if you’re over 35. We’re under, so it’s just a waiting and hoping game.
Disappointment comes in many forms for me. It’s so hard to plan your life not knowing whether or not you’ll need to factor in a baby. I have budgets and travel plans and ideas, and I’ve put a baby into all of those. Because optimism, right? But at the same time, it’s really, really hard. I want this more than anything in the world – it’s all I really want. And being a planner, it is so frustrating that I don’t really have that much control over it.
If it’s something that I’m/we’re not able to do, I honestly don’t know what I’ll do with myself. I think I will grieve that for a long time. I know there are other options, but I want nothing more than to be pregnant. I want to feel and experience that. I want my kids to carry on traits of my family and to be like my husband, and that’s becoming more important to me during this process – imagining him as a Dad or having wee ones whose eyes or smile or laugh remind me of him is one of the best things I can imagine, ever.
But I can’t give up yet. We’re coming up on cycle 7, and it’s far from over. It can just be so disappointing. Each month is a new little heartbreak.
Holding onto hope for me and you this month.