Little C has this new thing, when he’s done eating, playing listening to me etc… he just stops and says “All done” and then walks away. I was watching him this weekend, thinking how nice it would be to be two again. When you’re done, you’re just done. There’s no thought to the what if’s, or the should’s. You’re just done. The other great thing about being two? If you change your mind later, no big deal.
Lately, I’ve been pondering being all done with fertility treatments. I’ve been thinking about adoption and hey if we end up with two, great, if not, great. I’m really FAR too much of a control freak to really let go that much, but sometimes I want to. I miss having a life that didn’t include never knowing if I was pregnant (or how long I’d be pregnant). I miss having a life.
Oh, I have all the outward signs of having a life. I have photo books full of smiling faces (if you look closely, you’ll notice that I’m in 1% of the photos and am usually not smiling, though). I go places on the weekends. I shop. I work. I talk to people on the phone. But, most of the time, I’m not really there. I’m really well protected deep inside myself going through the motions, but not really “there.”
I miss being there. I miss going entire weeks, let alone days, without crying. I miss being happy. I miss having sex with my husband because I want to, not because I might possibly be ovulating and every sperm counts. I miss my life. I want to be all done with this nightmare. I want my baby back.
Mo at Life and Love in the Petri Dish said something yesterday that just hit me spot on regarding this whole all done predicament: “I think that without realizing it, I’ve been unconsciously hoping that someone will be able to tell us that it just is not going to happen, so that I can stop with a clear conscience that I didn’t give up too early, just when we were about to succeed.” That really hit me, because while I have been ready to stop, I was ready after Blueberry Bean, G isn’t. I don’t have permission to stop, and I don’t have a doctor saying that there’s no hope. My doctors are saying just the opposite, there is hope, just hang in there. So while I want to be done, I can’t quit. Which means the only way to be done is to get pregnant again, and manage to carry it full term. I’m scared shitless of getting pregnant again. I feel like Charlie Brown kicking that goddamned football.
On the other hand, Little C also says things like he wants candy and he’s going to Harry Potter’s house, so perhaps I shouldn’t be making any life altering decisions based on his ramblings.