My mood has been as grey and hazy as the dreadful sky recently.
I found out that two of my friends lost their babies: one saw a straight line at the screen of the ultrasound machine instead of a heartbeat while the other’s little one died after a battle against a congenital condition.
My heart broke. I ended up crying at my desk.
I wish there is a world where babies don’t die and everyone who wants a baby can have a happy, healthy bubs in their arms. I wish that I didn’t know anyone who has ever lost a baby.
But, as P shared with me, all the babies who have left us are now twinkling stars, watching over us in the calm of the night.
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I was chatting with my girlfriend over Whatsapp during a particularly dull meeting and somehow, the topic veered to the anger over being infertile.
We’ve long gone past the stage of being angry and wondering why that chain-smoking, coffee-drinking lady with bad tattoos can get pregnant simply by breathing and we can’t. Well, I couldn’t. Until I could.
She, on the other hand, has experienced two losses after two successful IVFs. Her story is another story for another day but suffice to say, she and her husband have gone through enough infertility anguish for 10 couples. Or more. They are moving on to another round of expensive treatments and damn if it isn’t successful.
Anger aside, we both agreed that this infertility scar will forever be engraved deep in our minds. We’ll never react to news of our friends being pregnant with the purest and sincerest joy because a little niggling voice at the back of our hearts will feel sore. And that even if we have kids, we will always be reminded of what we had gone through and just how far we have come.
It’s true.
Not a day goes by without me taking a long, sweet look at my little man and saying a little prayer of thanks. To whoever made this happen, to my baby boy for being here with us, to the beautiful ending to what could have been a long-drawn and deeply painful journey. Even on days when he wakes up for the nth time in the night and I am trying desperately to keep those heavy eyelids up at work, I feel no sense of resentment. Simply because he is here. With me.
And that’s all it matters.
The girlfriend says that she doesn’t dare to hope anymore and that she feels like her glass is not half empty but COMPLETELY empty. But I know that’s not true. Because if her glass is really devoid of hope, she wouldn’t be putting herself through IVF all over again. There is a glimmer of hope in there.
All it takes is a sperm and an egg and a spark.
Let’s hope that this works.
Yannisms 