This is the post wherein the humble blogger details with contrition all the reasons for abandoning this space, though I’m not sure I feel much remorse, if I’m being candid. I created this writing space for me, initially, and it seems to have diminished in its purpose. While this is pure conjecture, I get the sense that my audience has dwindled as infertiles, formerly in need of solidarity, moved on to parenthood and stopped reading blogs, and those still reading struggle to understand and empathize with my choices. I am not pursuing adoption or working through acceptance of childlessness, as I suspect many readers think I ought to after everything that’s happened to me in pursuit of a biological child. I am, in fact, still problem-solving my way through OEIVF, so telling my story has started to feel staid and stodgy, repetitive and tedious. I’m reticent to burden the universe with such updates since it feels somewhat narcissistic to do so, and I have exactly zero interest in justifying my choices to anyone outside of my marriage. I find there is a tacit contract inherent to blogging such personal aspects of my life in which they almost become public property, like agreeing to go on a reality TV show, and that creates an imperative to defend my story, either against the onslaught of comments or the judgement that oozes from silence.
I am only compelled to return because I have received comments and emails from readers whose words swell achingly with varying degrees of angst and isolation; it’s them I regret abandoning. It always takes me by surprise that anyone is even reading my stupid little story about trying like mad to make a baby, particularly since it’s something that most people do with such ease, but I remember the blogs that first drew me into this sphere and how I hung on every word to feel less alone in a family-centric world, with its hostile obstacle course of swollen bellies and Mother’s Day brunches. Hello to you, sister-friends. I’m terribly sorry for your grief, as I know it all too well.
So the update? I have been waiting to wait, as they say, and making incremental progress toward a transfer while busying myself with life stuff. Since the efforts of winter devolved into an utterly absurd episode of reproductive tomfoolery seemingly right out of a Lewis Carroll story, I have (probably) cleared out my scar tissue. Arranging that surgery and trying to get to the bottom of why it formed and what the risks were for cutting into it was a convoluted process involving several doctors with conflicting insights and prognoses, which really shook my faith in the quality of care at RMA-NJ. Nevertheless, the surgeon did the clean-up at the end of April, and that was followed by a few weeks of estrogen therapy to heal the lining. I had a 3D saline sono earlier this month to evaluate whether the surgery was successful, and my uterus looked clear with none of the previous puckering from bands pulling at the walls. Right now I am finishing out the school year, which has consumed a lot of my mental energy this spring. In the hours outside of work, I have my hands in the soil most weekends, transplanting rose bushes out of the courtyard to make way for a deck in its place. I am continuing to reconnect with my mom and relishing some new friendships sprung from the transfer to the high school last year. I have a tall stack of books beckoning from my shelf, just waiting for me to finish grades on Monday or Tuesday. Tomorrow we plan to pack the beach umbrella and the picnic basket for a day at the Jersey Shore after monitoring in the morning. We’ve talked loosely about camping this summer, maybe a long weekend on the New England coast, and a transfer some time in July.
See? Just boring regular life stuff. I’ve struck a kind of strange, tenuous peace with my infertility where the waiting is less excruciating and ART is more of a side-project than the dominating focus of my days. Call it compartmentalization or, I don’t know, self-preservation, but this is a more livable existence, and blogging only refocuses my attention on what I want and don’t have, making this a blithe and fruitful hiatus.