Perspective is one of those things you can't have until after the fact. Like experience. Or hindsight. I've never had the perspective of a pregnant woman before. I thought it would be different. Specifically, my perspective is that of an infertile pregnant woman and that is entirely different than just a regular ole pregnant lady.
There are some things that this unique perspective has brought me. An increased excitement for the baby in my womb is one thing. And although I know I've never experienced the joys of being pregnant without trying for two years, deep inside me I just know that this is more exciting. Not to downplay the excitement that regular women feel, but there's just something different about going from "I doubt if it will EVER happen" to "praise the Lord there's a baby in my womb!" This is a perspective I really cherish. I thank God for the increased awareness of this gift and the increased excitement of every little milestone because I'm so keenly aware that it could have never been.
Another perspective that I have as a (former) infertile. (eek-still a little scary to write that one knowing I could be back in that category in the blink of an eye) is that of those still waiting. I haven't forgotten the pain, the tears, the worry. It's all so fresh in my mind. Sometimes an incident crosses my mind-seeing my period after a really hopeful cycle, being told by the doctor that my follicles aren't developing-and I burst into tears. It's like I'm actually still sad about all of those things happening. The pain is still so tangible and can bring me to tears in a split second. This isn't a "crying because others are still suffering" kind of cry-that would be too noble of me. It's an "I'm so miserable, this hurts so much" kind of cry. It feels almost as bad as when I cried about it the first time. Although my womb is full of life, my heart is still infertile.
And why should it be any different? After all, I was infertile for two years. I was a pro at that struggle. I've spent every part of our marriage as someone who couldn't get pregnant. We've only known about our pregnancy for 6 weeks. Six weeks compared to two years. I've got some adjusting to do.
My history of infertility has made it nearly impossible to be "care-free" during this pregnancy. And although I don't think any (good) mother can make it through her entire pregnancy without worrying, I'm probably taking it a bit to the extreme. Miscarriage is always in the back of my mind. And although I am celebrating this life with every fiber of my being, I never lose sight of the possibility that my body, which had no idea how to get pregnant, will eventually have no idea how to stay pregnant. As much as I want to be a normal pregnant lady in her tenth week of pregnancy who registers for baby gear and anxiously awaits ultrasounds-I'm just not.
Most of the time, this perspective is a good thing. I lost it once. Just for a bit. And I was very, very upset with myself. Ted and I conceived right after Mother's Day. Mother's Day was so hard for me that we left town and went on vacation for it. I emailed our priest and asked him to include a petition for infertile couples at the Mass. I moped, I struggled, and I prayed. Then comes Father's Day. We were about seven weeks pregnant and had known for three. Ted and I went to Mass that morning with smiles from ear to ear. He was so excited about his first Father's Day. He was excited to be included in those mentioned during the Mass, excited to hear "Happy Father's Day" from his friends. I didn't realize until weeks later that I had completely forgotten about those fathers who don't have their children yet. I didn't email the priest and ask for the same petition to be included. I doubt I even remembered to pray for the husbands of my infertile friends in the excitement of the day. I lost my infertile perspective. I forgot how much it hurt. I don't ever want that to happen again.
My infertile heart was present last night, when I threw a baby shower for one of my best friends. I've never thrown a baby shower before (and don't know how some of you do it when you're still waiting for your own!) but I've been to plenty and fought to get through them. To say they hurt is the understatement of the century. I did volunteer to throw the shower before we got pregnant. I knew it would be hard, but I knew I needed to do it. Thankfully, I didn't have to sit through last night's shower as the only person in the room who couldn't have kids. The conversation revolved around weight gain, cravings, pelvic positioning, and incontinence for most of the evening. And while it didn't hurt to listen to, it was definitely weird. I still didn't feel quite like I "fit in", although the little green olive sized miracle in my womb would say otherwise. And while I welcomed all of the advice (or were they warnings??) I couldn't get these thoughts out of my mind: What would we be talking about right now if I was still infertile? Would they remember to avoid the conversation? Maybe. Would they assume it was ok because we're at a baby shower? Probably. Would I have spent the night in tears as soon as Ted came home? Definitely. And those were thoughts I just couldn't shake.
I've living in two worlds. The scars and wounds and memories of someone who has fought so hard to bring life into this world are so present. And the excitement, joy, and anticipation of the little one I'm just waiting to meet greets me everyday. Will this feeling last forever? What if we go on to have six more kids without any effort at all? What if this is our first and our last? What if we lose this baby and never conceive again? And yes, I realize there is no point in dwelling on any of those possibilities (except the one where I have seven kids perhaps......) but I can't help but be curious as to what our future holds and how infertility will shape it. I really do hope that I never forget how much it hurts. I hope I never lose sight of my strength during that time and my husband's unending support. But it sure would be nice to feel like a normal pregnant woman, especially when I'm at a baby shower.
