Image: The Young Mummy.
I’ve just walked in from the doctors. With a heavy heart, I walked inside to my husband who made me only cry more with the generous hug he gave me. He held me for a long time, but it still doesn’t seem like long enough. Today I am again deflated. Today I am again mentally exhausted. Today, my doctor said to me those two words: fertility treatment.
I have been wanting to write about my journey of getting pregnant a second time for a while now. I feel that I’ve shared every little detail with you all throughout my TYM journey thus far, so why not this? But something kept stopping me. Was I embarrassed? Was I ashamed to admit that we were having troubles?
We had decided not to tell a single soul when we started trying in the second half of last year, and as a couple we wanted to maintain that privacy so we could surprise our families & friends so much when the joyful news came. I very recently confided in Jaryd’s Stepmum by telling her we’d be trying for four months.
A shameful lie. Another reason I’ve put off writing about this is because part of me maintained hope, and I thought “Na, don’t write that now, because I’ll definitely get pregnant next month and then I’ll look silly!” As the months passed, how wrong was I? (WATCH: Jessica Rowe speaks about her experience with IVF. Post continues after video.)
I was also conscious of a piece like this upsetting some people. I’m well aware that fertility trouble creates a very touchy area, something I’m starting to learn all about. I have to firstly say my heart goes out to all of you, and I hope not to offend anyone with this piece.
Whilst I can acknowledge that some of you may have been battling for a MUCH longer period that we have (a close girlfriend of mine who I recently confided in told me she tried for 19 months before seeking help) I put my hand up and say this is simply my story and my experiences and I’m well aware there are many couples and women in worse-off situations than I am. I can also appreciate how lucky I am to have my Bobby and I would never want to seem ungrateful for that amazing opportunity.
But reality well and truly kicked in at the beginning of this week when I, unsuspectingly, got my period. Again. My body told me I was pregnant in the way it told me I was pregnant with Bobby. But no, I was wrong. Again. My mum was over visiting from Melbourne, and my husband was at work at the time.
Like mentioned above, we hadn’t told anybody of our ambition to grow our family some more, so I stood hiding in the bathroom in tears not knowing what to do. When I walked out, trying to keep a straight face and act like nothing was up, the little girl in me couldn’t fight it anymore and I hysterically cried into my mum’s arms…just like every girl wants to. I confessed our problems.
Why was I embarrassed when doing this I’ll never know? I can’t explain the guilt I feel when I get upset about it. It’s like I hear exactly what the critics would be thinking. “You already have a child, be grateful!” and “You’re only 25, you have heaps of time!” But that doesn’t make the process any easier. (Post continues after gallery.)