...so she's reading blogs and trying to calm herself to sleep.
The Baby Immersion weekend was actually a lovely time, no thanks to Delta for delaying both the departing and returning flights. Seeing B and L, and S, and of course Baby A, was great. I was very proud of myself for not breaking down even once. It helped that B and L took a genuine interest in my struggles, and that B expressed their support for me in simple, heartfelt terms.
And I got to hold a baby I held a sweet little two-month-old for what probably totals up to hours. I haven't had that opportunity in so long...five years, I think. In my arms I could pretend she was mine. I sang to her in Yiddish and Hebrew. I rocked her. She fell asleep in my arms. And I won't lie. I pretended...that's allowed, isn't it? It doesn't hurt anyone, and at least if I can't have real children I shouldn't be denied my dreams.
And I think increasingly about giving up. I can't close this door yet. I also know I will NEVER be truly happy without children of my (sort of) own, and I don't want to be happy without children because that would truly mean giving up. But I just don't know how I can go through this again. I nearly broke at least twice. (Losing Baby B was easier because we still had Peanut.) Can I venture there again? Because I have no more hope. This is a perfunctory exercise in futility that I am doing only because if I quit now I would always wonder if maybe the next cycle would be The One. And honestly -- I don't want hope. Hope hurts horribly. Pessimism, on the other hand, is a protective blanket in which I can wrap myself.
People tell me this next cycle will work. Why? Why should it be any different? Yes, I know the egg donor is a different young woman -- that is, IF she passes her colonoscopy on Wednesday. With the luck I've had thus far...
I'm going to give a shout out to S for volunteering again, by the way. I love you dearly. I know I could count on you if I need to do so.
And I know my sister (who's ten years younger than I) will probably finish having children in another fifteen or twenty years, but would she be willing to make me one? And is my late forties too late?
I am not giving up, but sometimes I don't know why. This just feels like the definition of futile care. And I HATE that I don't even bear the brunt of it! Other people are taking medications, undergoing procedures, and paying more money than I can imagine, because of me and my flawed meiosis. Why?
And the ridiculous part is, from an evolutionary standpoint, I shouldn't even exist.
I did have a sweet, wonderful, miraculous afternoon and I shouldn't neglect to record that. I had a lovely morning clinic with one nutty patient and one very pleasant woman, and after noon conference ad a quick stop at Target, I picked up my little cousin and we made challah together. While the dough rose we played hide and seek, and put on makeup, and ate marshmallows and chocolate chips. And we both got covered with flour. And yes, the challah tasted delicious. Just like Shabbos should.