Once you start down the road of infertility, you never know how long it is going to be. You know there are treatments, drugs and plenty of doctors and with each visit you try to hold on to some semblance of hope and each month you pray that this month will be THE MONTH you will take an exit off this highway that you never wanted to be on in the first place.
Last year, early on a summer Saturday morning, I took another pregnancy test and crossed my fingers. It felt as if I was holding my breath for the entire waiting time trying to not stare at the stick I just peed on. Then the test faintly displayed the two lines I wanted so desperately to see for the last few years…
I felt pure elation, but overwhelmingly I felt relief. Relief that Danny and I could finally move forward, relief that we didn’t have to work with an unexplained case anymore, relief from the worry, grief and pain.
A few days prior, I told Danny that something felt different, but we were both skeptical, and didn’t want to get our hopes up. But pessimism went out the window. We talked about our plans for the future, how we might feel if it was positive. We both thought we might be nervous about finally becoming parents, are we really ready?
When I finally set the pregnancy test down, returned to bed and whispered to him, “I’m pregnant.” We both took an audible sigh of relief, he squeezed me tight and we felt at peace.
A month later, we found ourselves back on that road we hoped was behind us. I felt so broken, it took about six months for me to claw my way back to my old-new normal I had established for myself once we admitted we were having troubles.
About three months ago, I had been feeling like I needed to do something, anything! I started writing, designing, and biking more, and with each sentence and mile I grew stronger, mentally and physically. It took one email to really push my resolve to make a positive impact, an email about Advocacy Day. I had heard about it a few years ago, but never fully committed to the challenges Danny and I were facing, choosing to remain in denial.
But this year is different, we lost someone, a life, a dream; we suffered in silence and tried to pick up the pieces while maintaining our facade of normalcy. It was hard to find closure, there is no outward symbolism or ritual for a miscarriage. Nothing to illustrate your pain or to grieve the life that could have been.
So when I got the invitation to attend Advocacy Day, I instantly knew I was going to bike there, my outward expression of the pain and sadness for the loss we experienced last summer. This year I am no longer in denial, I am mad as hell and nobody will stand in my way.