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My heart is broken.

For me. For Greg. For Oscar.

And I feel broken. In all pieces, laying here just trying to figure out how I am going to be put back together. This is harder than I ever imagined and as I write this, I can’t hold back the tears. A part of me wishes it was yesterday again, after I got the call. It felt okay to cry then. To let it all out and to have that time. It was as if the remainder of the day had been reserved for that. Today, I am back to packing lunches, making the bed and getting Oscar off to school. Trying to be normal when things are not.

Yesterday, I felt defiant. This WILL happen. Somehow. We will make this happen.

Today, the reality is hitting me hard and I cannot be in denial about our situation. When Greg and I visited our first fertility doctor, he told us that Oscar may be our “miracle” baby. At the time, I could not believe he had said that. It was so easy then. It happened four months after we had started trying. When we met our current doctor, he said that our chances of conceiving naturally, after trying for 3 years, was less than 3 percent. However, we were perfect candidates for IVF and we were both convinced I would be pregnant at the end of March. When we attended the IVF meetings in January, I felt I had the biggest advantage because I had already had a baby. I thought I WAS that 60% success rate. I believed everything was on our side.

Now, I have taken down the picture of the 3 embryos from the refrigerator and have stored them away. I can’t bring myself to place them in the garbage. It doesn’t’ feel right. They were something to me. I see that now. They were a whole new adventure and a whole new future. They were something more for us to love and we so desperately wanted them. All three of them, if they would have us.

When I was younger, I always wished for a big family. In my twenties, Greg and I would banter back and forth about his ideal family of four and my ideal family of six. 4 kids, I would say. THAT is what we are having!

When Oscar was born, THE next day, I looked over at Greg while Oscar was in my arms and told him I was ready for another. When I met our boy, I knew what I was suppose to do and who I was suppose to be and I knew we would have more babies. What I had forgotten to keep in mind is that life never quite goes as planned. Even now, I know there is something more for us, but it is hard to focus on it when my heart hurts.

I keep catching myself saying, “The hardest thing about this…” There are a lot of them and they run through my brain like a list. But there is one that stands out the most. It is something I have dreamt about for the past three years. It was the excitement I felt when I thought about getting a positive on the pregnancy test and being able to tell my family and friends. To make that phone call and to hear joy on the other end. I want nothing more than to give you all something in return. For me to say, “It worked! All this positive energy, love and support helped create this! This baby will see how much it was wanted and loved." It truly breaks me that I could not do that.

Thank you for all your kind words and for sending love our way. Especially a few of you who used choice words that would otherwise be censored. They made me smile. I won’t lie, Greg and I need all those words and love. Neither of us can even imagine how long this will take to get over. Before this all started, I naively thought I had accepted this as a final chance. If it didn’t work, I would begin the grieving process and wash my hands of it all. Now, it feels like I want it more than ever (oh, lordy, not now Kompetitive Kara). The reality is there may not be another chance.

We meet with the doctor on April 4. Though I imagine it is good news that he now can say it is endometriosis, I am terrified of what he may say about the embryos not progressing. That may be our greatest concern.

So that is that.

I am not sure what will become of this blog. I have loved it far more than I ever thought possible. It has been a lifeline for me. You have all been a lifeline for me. I am sure there will be more posts, and some may still be a way for me to process all of this. What I do know is that we are not ready to throw in the towel. Not yet. And as broken as I feel, I can sense a tiny hint of light trying to push its way through the cracks.

ps-we don’t usually have kleenex in the house (see photo)


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