This week's GBE2 prompt of the week is "very, very small", but I'm writing with a pain that is very, very big.
This morning I woke up feeling like it just might be possible that after 5 years of trying, crying and wishing, my girly bits could be cooperating. I should have known better, but I let my guard down. I allowed myself to feel hopeful and by the afternoon, my body knocked me back down a peg.
I think my facebook post from this afternoon said it all:
"Until you've struggled with infertility for longer than a year (5 years, in my case), you can't possibly understand just how much one tiny ray of hope will both drive you and destroy you. Month after excruciating month."
There isn't much I can write that I haven't already written. Besides, nobody likes a whiner. I have been lucky enough to have one child. I was blessed to carry a beautiful, healthy little girl inside my body. It's not as though I'm ungrateful for her. I realize how amazing and huge it is that she was given to me; that I nourished her within me and labored for 13.5 hours to bring her into the world. She is perfect, freckly, smart and hilarious.
Justin is an amazing father. Trin is not biologically his, but he is her Daddy in every single sense of the word. Yet he missed the beginning of it all. He didn't get to feel her kick the first time. He didn't get to see her static-y image on a screen while a technician moved a transducer around on my gooey tummy. He has never witnessed that moment when your child enters the world and you see a little piece of yourself in them and you feel so full of love that you think you'll burst. I want to give him that, but I can't.
Each month, I hold my breath and pray that my period won't come. Hope. It's what keeps me going. And when I see the first signs that my prayers aren't being answered yet again, its having that little bit of hope that breaks my heart. Piece by tiny piece.