It's Time

It's July already. It hasn't felt like that long has passed. I keep thinking about coming back here but somehow time is time, things move on. I did not really want to leave the blog. It's just that the mood shifted. This wasn't an adventure anymore. It just became real life and I couldn't really bring myself to write about it.

I've written it in my head over and over again, like a would a story. From the excitement of waiting hearing a heart beat to lying in a oversized hospital gown with my wife holding my hand, but, again, I couldn't write it down. Not when it happened to us. Not when one of the happiest moments of my life and the worst happened just a few weeks apart.

It was too fresh then, a few days after when Jenni started a post and it just sat there as a saved draft. It suddenly feels too fresh now.

I remember writing that my worst fear of this trip was that we would have to come home and tell people that it just didn't happen for us. It never occurred to me that it could be much worst than that. Because we've both still have had to do what we thought could not get any worse. Jenni has to tell everyone that at the moment she has unexplained infertility and that her wife had an Ectopic pregnancy and I have to say the same. I have to try not to cry when I say it or try to stay strong, because I'm at work or on the street and no where near my bed and most of times no where near my wife. Yes, those are two most comfort zones.

I have to say to everyone, 'Yes, I healed quite quickly' and 'we're just glad to be home.' which is so true. Physically, I'm my normal self and home is everything I needed it to be. But there is so much I could say. Like, I am crossed. I feel like I want to give up. This was harder than we ever imagined and now we know that things can go down from here. I want to write the story of how I felt when there was just black in my ultrasound and my giddiness turning into darkness. I don't want to relive the feeling of waking up from surgery but sometimes I just want to talk about it.

Sometimes, I want to talk about all the little rude and careless things people said or did to us while this was going on. Sometimes, I want to go on about how amazing my wife was. I want to paint a picture of her, this tall hero, sleeping crunched up on what the hospital described as a recliner, which was just a chair that wasn't as vertical as your standard chair, but she was there. She was so strong with her back ache and her own unmatched pain, in a word so unlike ours. I know that I rather be me, not because the of chair but because I can't put myself in her shoes and still be able to survive this.

I want to tell people that all I want is a child. I want to tell them about all the children I dreamed happening but those words don't come out. Sometimes, I don't want to even think about it and sometimes I want to cry about it. Sometimes I fantasize to myself, thinking that time does pass and that our future will become our lives.

Yet, when I go to say it, it's not the right person in front of me. No matter who they are it just feels like they aren't the right people to tell. It feels like no one is, and that it would be easier to tell a stranger. It feels like the pain belongs to Jenni and me alone.

It could be because there is no right thing to say, or words to sooth this. Sometimes I fell like. I don't want to be babied. It was just a few cells that would never be more than just the size of a poppy seed. Sometimes I feel like we lost something so much bigger than that.

A lot of people say, 'It will happen.' but it won't just happen. We have to through all of this again. It's frightening and discouraging and I have to add expensive. I got a referral to both the Calgary clinic and one is Saskatchewan . We can wait now, save up, and that seems like the only things we have in our hands.

One of the best ways I have been able to describe this journey for myself is that I'm standing is a field filled with landmines. Each bomb is just another statistic. At any moment, it can all blow up again. There's no direction we need to be going, and not a lot we can do. It's all just blind steps. With Jenni's treatments, we never even got passed the first step. The pieces get harder to put together with each failed attempt. The stats grow against us; the bombs are lined up more closely together. It's hard to say that it's all worth the end game. We could very well end up right back to where we are now, the same place we were three months ago when this all started.

I have yet to face that possibly.