There’s a quote I liked when I was younger: “We do not remember days, we remember moments.” But now I don’t entirely agree with it – I think we do remember days, especially with the passing of time. Anniversaries especially are days of remembrance. But there’s one anniversary where there will be no cards, no facebook messages, no notice except for our own – the anniversary of the time you start trying.
Today is our three year “anniversary” of trying to start a family. Three years have gone by, entirely too quickly though the days felt so long, and we’re still waiting. In the beginning we thought it would happen within 3 months, tops. Maybe 4. Like it does for “everybody else.” I took my first pregnancy test on our 5-year wedding anniversary, thinking wouldn’t this be neat? Now we’re nearing 8 years of marriage and we buy those sticks in bulk.
I can’t bring myself to call this thing a journey, or a path, or anything poetic like that. It’s just a thing, and it has gone on for a very long time, and it hangs over everything.
It feels like we’ve been left behind. Of most of the people we know, we started first, and we’ll be finishing last, if we finish at all. We can’t help remembering it’s been 3 years when other people’s kids are turning 2.
Three years – I was so, so, so very much hoping we wouldn’t pass this mark. It feels unreal. I can barely remember life before this. I remember passing two years and thinking the same thing – turns out three is much worse.
I remember days. There were so many days that I knew weren’t our month – a wedding anniversary, the day before my sister’s wedding, the day we found out somone was pregnant, the day we flew back from a trip where I had been so sure it would happen by then. Those are days that I remember.
These past 3 years are blurry when I think back on them. Darek got a new job, we went to Scotland for our 5-year anniversary, we went to Mexico for my 30th birthday (as a “consolation prize” for not being pregnant), I turned not only 30 but also 31, Darek had surgery, I had surgery, I grew a business that was successful for awhile, we both got “new” cars.
And there were moments.
I held my newborn neice and was simultaneously filled with overwhelming grief and love. We watched the most incredible sunset for an hour over a small bay in a small town on a beautiful island in Scotland. I watched my middle sister walk down the aisle and couldn’t hold back tears of joy. We stood on the beach and let the waves wash over our feet.
And there were the pertinent milestones.
The upsetting day of the initial diagnosis. Watching Darek being wheeled into surgery. The phone call to say the problem had been fixed. The first time I took fertility drugs. The day the last round of the drugs failed. The first visit to the RE. The lonely first time I had a sonogram – in the room where couples rejoice at the sound of the first heartbeat – to see if my empty insides were ok. The first time Darek gave me a shot – just before Thanksgiving. The day of our first IUI. The moment I knew it failed. The day we learned a growth had kept anything from happening for months and maybe years. The day I laid on the table of an operating room, staring at the ceiling in terror. The long three months that are coming to an end as we give up the hope of success without intervention.
My God, this is long. But the years have been too.
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