My body, thus far, has not been able to sustain a pregnancy. Compared to some women, I’ve been through a lot and compared to others desiring to reproduce, I am quite fortunate. Bottom line this time though, is that I’ve just been left disappointed once again. Sometimes I can be breezy about it all. “It will happen when the time is right.” Other times I have had psychotic thoughts like, “God hates me.” Since I am getting older and aging does not help a woman get pregnant, one might think I would be getting more panicky. I’ve tried to get worked up, feeling like I should. I should go on message boards as babydreams574, describe every detail of my experiences, and sprinkle “baby dust” and wish “sticky vibes” (yes, I’m mentally running to the toilet now) on a bunch of reproduction-obsessed women.
As much as I want to have a child with my amazing husband, I can’t bring myself to freak out and completely lose it. Part of what is stopping me is faith that it will happen, and that it will indeed happen with excellent timing and circumstances. The other thing that stands in the way of my having a cow (I am a child of the 80s, okay?) is my body.
Yes, I would like there to be something to blame for the failures thus far, and my body seemed like it might be the most appropriate one. I tried it on. “Darned body. You can’t do this? You’re a woman. What is wrong with you?” It didn’t fit, because I couldn’t deny the fact that I woke up, breathing, after sleeping so hard that I didn’t know I was alive. I opened my eyes and saw clearly. Getting out of bed was a cinch and completely pain-free. Boy did I have to pee, and that was easy and pain-free as well. It was a sunny morning, which is not so common where I live, and I could hear the birds celebrating. Talking to and laughing with my husband before he left for work was something to enjoy. I could go on, about how I love to taste food, which my body has no problem digesting. How thankful I am that my skin can feel and heal without my having to put forth effort. So, as you can see, my body comes out the hero because it’s alive, does wonderful things for me pretty much constantly, and it’s not apparently about to die.
I like being alive. My body makes that possible. I love and appreciate it, imperfections and all. It is not a pregnancy that I am not able to to sustain, it is disappointment. That transforms the scapegoat from an elusive creature into an irrelevant one.