I don’t usually remember what I dream. There’s something about the alarm going off that shocks me awake, and I can’t hold on to the thought. Last night though, I wasn’t sleeping well since I wasn’t home. I kept waking up throughout the night, which apparently let me capture part of one of my dreams. In my dream, I had started seriously dating a tennis player (have no idea where Manly was) (also, I don’t watch tennis, so I don’t know where the other guy came from). What I remember most clearly was him saying to me, “I want to start a family with you!” Even in my dreams, I replied, “I’m infertile. You should know that up front. We would have to do IUI or IVF.”
It amazes me how deeply ingrained infertility has become in my perception of myself. It’s kind of reached the point where it’s like having blue eyes or the birthmark on my leg. It’s not a shock or a surprise anymore, it’s just who I am. I still remember how, at the beginning, I couldn’t even use the word to describe my situation. And now it’s wormed so deeply into my psyche that it shows up even in my dream-self.
I wonder sometimes what a shrink would make of my acceptance of my infertility. I worry that I’m glossing over the pain, burying the grief and pretending to just move on. But I spend a lot of time thinking about my situation, and the implications it has for my future. I’m not shying away from the pain, and I still have bad days where I just want to curl up and cry for myself. I just don’t know. Everyone else in the blogworld seems to bemoan the loss of their child-rearing dreams, and it almost feels politically incorrect to say that I’m okay with it. I can’t change the fact that my endocrine system won’t behave, and it almost feels like a waste of time and energy to be angry. But I am angry. Sometimes. I’m rambling, I know, but that’s how it is to be in my head these days. One minute, I’m celebrating the fact that I’ll never have to budget for college or sacrifice for private school. The next, I’m so pissed off at the universe for giving children to undeserving parents that I can’t see straight. Sometimes I feel elastic to changing my expectations for the future, while at others I feel brittle and ready to break the next time I see my BIL coo at my shiny new niece. Is this what the healing process is like? Will I ever reach the point where I go back to just being “Sharah” instead of “infertile Sharah”?
PS — my arm is surprisingly NOT purple today. It still hurts like a bitch, though.