I’ve sat down several times in the last few weeks, but I just can’t think of anything that I feel I really need to say.
So I’ll just say this. The pain fades, eventually. And you move from a place of searing grief, dazzling emotional highs and lows, and blinding anger to one where remembering your infertility is like remembering to take the trash out on Tuesday. It doesn’t go away, but dealing with it is more a reflexive action trained by repetitive mental gymnastics.
I’m currently waiting on a baby announcement. My friend has been trying for two months now, and I’ve surrendered to the inevitable. Every time I see her, my stomach clenches a little until I see her drink a beer. I know it’s coming, and I try to prepare — I’ve gone so far as to practice an enthusiastic smile and a congratulations. I don’t pretend that it won’t hurt — I know it will — but I also know I’ll get through it. And at the end of nine months, I will add another “niece” or “nephew” to my fold. I am Aunt Sharah. I always will be.
My one-year anniversary of walking away is next month. Did you know that my busiest day ever was the day I posted about stopping? Boggles the mind, it does. It doesn’t seem like a year can have gone by this fast.
There are times when the house is quiet and I think of what might have been and I ache to my bones. But those moments are fewer and farther between. I don’t want to feel that pain, that longing. When I bump up against it, I turn away, I deflect, I look for something else to do, to say, to think, to feel. And because I make that choice, the wall around my heart grows stronger.