I was stumbling my way through blogs late last night. A veritable rabbit hole of blogs stemming from the blog rolls of new followers, old followers and followers of followers. I wasn’t looking FOR anything in a particular, I was just interested. it started put as boredom and a bit of curiosity of who these newbie are (Hi!).
And more than one of the blogs I came across were fertility, conception, miscarriage and baby loss sites. I know, I am a sucker for punishment. But really, isn’t it more detrimental to be lurking on mummy blogs (sorry, I know you probably hate that term). Hanging out ohhing and ahhing over the most recent family addition. Seriously, I didn’t notice how full my blogroll was of pregnancy, babies and cutie kids party’s and things. I mean really, what the hell am I doing to myself. Attempting to push myself off a metaphorical ledge? Seriously. Well really think about it.
Anyways. Back to topic.
I got reading and I realised what a newbie, what a total amateur I am when it comes down to it. Me and my 15 months of trying for a baby with one pregnancy and one miscarriage is like, nothing. Now, hold on there, don’t freak yet, stay with me. I am not minimizing mine or anyone else’s pain, struggle, FRUSTRATION or whatever, this is supposed to be interesting. And investigation into the strength of the human spirit. And conversation about relativity.
I’m sure you are aware of these people and their journeys. I was. But what I knew barely scratched the surface. I learned that there are couples/families who have been doing this for waaaaay more years than us. Not that I thought I invented this, ummm, affliction (for lack of a better word). They have spent loads of money, some with results and others are still empty handed (or arm’ed). Been poked and prodded and bled and tested to within an inch of their life. They have suffered loss, the magnitude of which I cannot even fathom with miscarriages well into the double figures…
Some have picked their hat gently up from out of the ring, safely stowed it with their broken hearts and lost dreams and stopped trying. Not in the flippant way a 27 year old such as the likes of me can, but genuinely have commenced grieving for the future that is no longer theirs. They broke my heart. I never once considered that it didn’t happen. Or wouldn’t. Something. I cannot imagine that. I hope to never have to deal with that grief.
And I found what a resource they are for each other and us newbie joining their dubious club. A club I’m sure none of them would ever wish another member to be counted amongst their ranks. The trying club. The loss club. The we have tried everything and naddah club.
And I got that I haven’t even tried that hard. Not really. For one thing, I haven’t stuck to a word of the things I said I would. Not after day three anyway. I have not lost weight. I have not eaten better or quit the stress or stayed home and had good nights sleep as I was told to do. I still cannot stomach 6 serves of protein a day to help my body store proteins for… well everything baby related.
Plus I saw a photo of me the other day and all I could think was, Oh. I think this is the fattest I have ever been. Uh oh. And there is only one way back from here. Hard work. Careful planning. Support. Back to my best chance of a healthy body. Back to giving me the best chance I can to fall naturally before our intervention deadline of 30. Mine, not his. 30th that is.
Right now even though I feel good, inspired, uplifted and all that. I also can’t help but feel ungracious, and clumsy (with my words, I haven’t been tripping over stuff) and silly. And kinda insignificant in the grand scheme of things. I guess it is all just part of this growing and changing thing. This development of self.
Righto. Pondering complete. What do you think?
Suger 
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