Cheerleading

Anyone who knows me in real life would probably say I am not a bubbly and sparkly cheerleader type.  I am pretty down to earth, practical and level headed.  At least most of the time.

Yet, I find myself becoming a bit of cheerleader these days.

When someone in the infertility blogging community announces a pregnancy, I find myself cheering them on. Rather than closing my WordPress reader, I find myself hoping for them and caring for their little baby.

I’ve realized there are a few reasons why I’m always cheering on any infertile person who has entered the ranks of being an expecting parent.

First, for some reason I feel like anyone who has struggled to get pregnant or maintain a pregnancy deserves to have extra love, excitement and happiness. I find that the most someone else has struggled, the more I am genuinely happy for them and the less I have twinges of envy.

Also, I choose to cheer on any expecting infertile in part because I know first-hand that things go wrong, and when they unfortunately do, I want to be able to offer my love and support. I hate that I can read posts about betas/fetal heart rates and guess with pretty decent accuracy if people are going to miscarry – I know the stats because I’ve fallen on the bad side of them each and every time.  I figure, while it may be hard for me at times to cheer someone on during the early stages of their pregnancy, if it goes wrong for them they will likely need more support and I want to be there to offer support.

Third, a few months ago, a blogger reached out to me after she announced she was pregnant and I left a short congratulatory comment on her blog.  What she said really stuck with me – evidently my comment of encouragement meant a lot to her.  To know that with everything I’ve been through that I took the time to support her, was very special to her.  And in the end she lost the baby, and turned to me again for advice.  I guess, knowing how much my simple congratulation note meant to her, gives me motivation to keep doing it.

And, most importantly, somewhere along this road, I’ve decided that my hurt is never going to go away. As we move to adoption there will always be things I long for, but will never be part of my life. Simple things like a healthy ultrasound, actually having a NT scan, feeling the first kicks, or giving birth. On bad days, I might not read word for word the detailed updates, but yet I know that I cannot shut myself off either. I have loved many of the women who have recently given birth, are now expecting or hopefully will be one day in the future, and I’m not going to stop loving and caring for them just because my body will not do what theirs is. So, rather than shut myself off from those who are living the dream, I want to encourage my true friends, just as they have me. Being a voice of support is more important to me, then wallowing in my hurt. I assume that these pangs of self-pity will be with me for the rest of my life, and I’m hoping with time they will reduce in their strength as we get further and further into our adoption, because while I will miss some of the aforementioned things, there are still many others (like loving and parenting a wonderful little child) that I will get to have soon enough. So, for now, I am going to focus on being a good friend and supporting those through their exciting times just as I did through their bad times.

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If I could turn back time, would I do it all over again?

Would I delay trying for kids until we were educated and stable in our careers, just to end up leaving my career?

Would I keep trying after our first loss? Our second? Our third? And our fourth and fifth?

Would I naïvely trust my local fertility clinic?

Would I seek out specialized medical expertise sooner?

Would I let myself experience the loss of 5 babies?

Would I voluntary sign up for another abortion to safe myself?

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Honestly, I don’t know. There is no way to know for certain because what we know today changed our ability to try again.

Part of me says, absolutely. I would relive every moment, to just have one more moment with each of my little ones growing inside of me. To know the unconditional love that goes along with creating and carrying a baby, I would do it all over again.

Part of me thinks yes, it’s better to have loved and lost then to have never loved at all.   I cherish each and every moment of happiness that we had with our little ones. I cherish each positive test, and I would give anything to have had more than one ultrasounds when we saw our little one’s healthy heart beat flickering away. I would give anything to spend my day filling up on soda crackers to keep the nausea away.

Some days, I still long for more time with each one of them. I long to know them as individuals, to see their smiles, to sing them lullabies, to read them stories, to laugh as their cute little antics and to watch them sleep the night away. My heart will always long for a future that we did not get.

If I could back in time and know that I would suffer, Mr. MPB would suffer, our babies would suffer, I don’t know if I would. Mr. MPB and I have found our own ways to handle the suffering and to live with the grief and the loss. But our babies, they should never have been forced to live the short little lives they did. Our babies should never have suffered. Our babies should have had the chance to grow strong.

Knowing my babies suffered is so hard to accept and to be at peace with. I struggle immensely with this.

We created them with the absolute best of intentions. We loved them like we’ve never loved before. Yet, we were naïve. Knowing what we know now, we realize our babies never had a chance thanks to my body. They had no chance, my uterus was going to slowly kill them no matter what we did to help them and no matter how hard they fought to live. Our diagnosis, this piece of information, was the game change for us. This made us realize that creating life that is bound to die is something we could not do. We could not sign up to put an innocent child to death, slowly.

My feelings aside, my longing for another moment, I would never wish a small baby to die, and yet that’s what we did. Part of me feels very selfish for wanting another moment with them, knowing that they would have been dying. Part of me feels overjoyed that I got what I did, while each life was too short, at least I got to know what it feels like to be pregnant, to carry a life within me, to love unconditionally, if only for a little while.

So, I have no idea how to the answer the question, would I do it all over again. Yes, if I were still naïve to our diagnosis, I probably would do everything the same again from the very beginning – get married and try for kids once our careers were stable, it was the responsible decision. I would probably try again for a first or second time. Would I try again for a 3rd, 4th or 5th? I don’t know, maybe. My trust in the medical system is gone now, so I find it hard to believe I would be naïve for as long, but who knows, maybe I would be because it was a necessary (albeit slightly evil) process.

But, what I do know, is that our burden of knowledge means that now I could never try again. I could never create a life to essentially just watch it die. I cannot relive that agony.  I cannot imagine having to endure another abortion for medical reasons.  And, I most definitely cannot put another innocent baby through a slow death. I just can’t.

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