Beauty in the Darkness

“Write hard and clear about what hurts.”

Today, I got the call.

It didn’t work. We aren’t pregnant.

We had already been at what we thought was going to be the final cycle, two months ago, and after another failed cycle, we decided on a last Hail Mary attempt in hopes that a more aggressive protocol would work.

And it didn’t.

It’s hard to explain to those who have never experienced infertility, let alone the loss of a child, how mind-numbing this can all become.

My cycle begins, we call the RE, I get an ultrasound and get put on medications that make my body go a little batty trying to make more eggs, more meds, then an insemination, then more meds and a 2 week wait that feels like a 2 year wait, just to find out, again, that we are not pregnant.

You are hopeful. So hopeful. You repeat the process over and over, until you make the decision that you just can’t anymore. Your body can’t take it, your mind can’t take it, and you are forced to make the choice on your quality of life.

And this is where we are now. At the end of the road.

It’s a challenge not to look around at families with multiple children, in awe and with a bit of envy. It breaks my heart to look at Elia walk around alone, without a sibling of her own, without a built-in best friend. I can’t explain to you how much my heart hurts for her.

She came with us to the first appointment during this last cycle, and she told the doctor she wanted a baby girl sister. We were so hopeful.

And that, is why today, I am devastated.

I have Elia. I have Gina. I even have a crazy little dog on wheels. We have each other. And for them, I am so grateful.

We found out last Thursday that our friend who has been battling cancer, has now come to a point where they have ended all chemotherapy and entered hospice care. Her life, and the potential of it ending, has reminded me of how lucky we are. She has bright eyes and a sparkly personality. And soon, she will likely be leaving her body. I feel like this has been perfectly timed by life for my own lesson. 

Since last Thursday, I have been replaying the news, and these feelings, over and over again.

How can I complain about my life, when my friend’s life is ending?

We can’t compare the two.

I am allowed my pain, and my sadness. We are allowed our moments in the dark. After all, it is the dark that allows us to see the true beauty.

I can be heartbroken about my own experience.

But I also know well enough now, through my son Luca’s death, and the reminders from the precious lives of those taken too soon, that I can pick myself up at some point, and life will get lighter again.

When is that going to happen?

Can’t quite pinpoint it. Right now, I’m feeling all of it.  I’m down. My heart is heavy. I’ve had tears in my eyes for the last three hours, wondering what’s next? Wondering, what is this life about? I’ve been a mama to a baby and a toddler and now a preschooler, and she needs me less and less, and I’m not sure how to handle that transition when I was so certain we would have another baby.

But, in just a few hours, I get to pick up Elia from school, smother her in kisses, and play make-believe with her until it’s time for sleep. We get to wake up to her wide-eyes, and to her requests of what she would like to do and see, and then feel her wrap her little arms tightly around me in a big hug. I get to live in a beautiful city with the beach and the mountains and the desert, and the freedom to do whatever I’d like. I get to be surrounded by friends who know our journey, and give me a safe place to land when I need the support.

I get to live. And that right now, is certainly enough.

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