What I never want to happen is for anyone to tell me they are pregnant with a heavy heart. No one should feel guilty or anything but elated for themselves and the child growing in their womb when they find out they have conceived.
My honest feelings about friends who get pregnant are a jumble of jealousy, happiness, sadness, disappointment in my internal reaction, and worry for my friends. I make every effort to express only positive, congratulatory emotions in regards to new pregnancies. I don't construct strange rules in my mind, restricting friends from announcing their pregnancies or births on facebook or not calling me with their happy news -- the world doesn't revolve around me and my inability thus far to get pregnant.
So does that change when my sister tells me she is pregnant?
Is it harder or easier to hear news like that?
Would I ever wish anything but ultimate happiness for my sister, her husband, and their future baby?
Never, not in a million years, ever, ever. My sister had a miscarriage the night before my wedding five years ago, and still managed to be my matron of honor. Shortly after that, she was diagnosed with Type 1 diabetes. This will be a high-risk pregnancy. So in the infertility world, she has done her time; paid her dues. She deserves this.
But I still couldn't write last week. I found out Monday, and on Tuesday, when I would normally draft my post for this blog, I couldn't do it. I wasn't thrashing and crying and moaning and wondering Why or When or How; I was just numb. I don't even understand my own reaction, so I had to turn away from the numbness and focus on something else.
I will be an aunt, and my husband an uncle. My parents are elated -- this is their first grandchild. Yes, as the oldest daughter, I'd have loved to give them their first grandchild, but I can't expect everyone to wait and wait and wait as month after month the pregnancy tests are negative.
And as I am in the middle of my month of bliss -- my month off of peeing on ovulation sticks and taking my temperature and charting every damn thing that comes out of my vagina -- I am finding that I am enjoying life more. Shocking, I know. Remove an obsession and life gets put into perspective again. I almost feel like Kids: Who needs em? If they happen, awesome. If not, guess who has two thumbs and is taking a trip around the world?
That might be an exaggeration.
My new insurance kicks in mid-month, and then I'll be returning to an OB I really like, to have a long talk and figure out what exactly is going on here.