Never Wear Mascara to the Fertility Center

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“Never wear mascara to the fertility center” that’s what my husband says.  After my cervix had to be dilated so my HSG could be performed and I looked like a raccoon from the smeared mascara, my husband set this silly rule in place.

Today was a great day to follow that rule.  Today, at the fertility center, I cried.

I cried when the nurse told me that although we tried Femara this round instead of Clomid my uterine lining was thinner than ever.

I cried when I asked just how thin it was and she said 4.6.

I cried when she told me my plan was to take my Ovidrel shot tomorrow morning and come in Wednesday afternoon for an IUI (intrauterine insemination aka artificial insemination).

I cried when I told her that I got a positive OPK and EWCM this morning and I was afraid that by Wednesday I will have ovulated already.

I cried when she came back from consulting the RE again and told me that the new plan was to do the Ovidrel shot today and IUI tomorrow.

I cried because although my lining was that thin, the RE was still suggesting an IUI.

I cried when I told her I wouldn’t do an IUI with lining that thin, that it was too expensive and too painful.

I cried when she told me she didn’t blame me.

I cried because in a building full of doctors and nurses who specialize in fertility, I’m the only person looking out for what is best for me.

I cried because it is hard for me to stand up for myself, going against what the professionals are saying.

I cried when the nurse handed me information about injectables.

I cried when I told her I was not interested in injectables until more tests were ran.

I cried when she mentioned me going on birth control pills to be able to time a hysteroscopy and laparoscopy correctly, if I wanted them performed before the end of the year.

I cried when I told her I was not interested in taking birth control pills.

I cried all the way home thinking about how hard this all is and wondering what God is doing with me during this time of wait.

I cried because I still don’t know why we haven’t gotten pregnant, I have no diagnosis.

BUT…

Before all that, I cried.

I cried in the small waiting area outside the ultrasound rooms.

I cried when I heard sobs coming out of one of those rooms.

I cried for the lady who was being told that there was no longer a baby where there once had been.

I cried wondering about who will support her besides her husband – do her friends and family know her battle, do they understand?

I cried because I can not begin to imagine her pain, a pain that scares me to my core, a pain I have never experienced but fear I might.

AND I’M STILL CRYING…

I’m crying because there are women who have been battling this for years and years, we’re going on our nineteenth month, will that turn into years and years?

I’m crying for those women and their husbands and their families.

I’m crying thinking about last Christmas when I asked Miguel if he thought we would have a baby this Christmas.  We won’t.

I’m crying because I know God has a great plan for our lives and I want it revealed to me so that I can accept this.

I’m crying because I’m impatient and am wishing away precious days but am trying so hard to not.

I’m crying because I’m scared, sad, lonely and discouraged.

I’m crying because I’m blessed beyond measure and take it for granted each minute of each day.

I’m crying because most days I don’t cry.  Most days I’m happy.  But on the days where the pain takes over the best thing I can do is just…cry.

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