The following is from an article in the NY Times, the author has been writing about her fertility journey and was hoping that a recent round of IVF would work. Sadly the pregnancy didn't stick, I'm sure you can all relate to what she's feeling:
But after another miscarriage, I’ve become that woman: defined, almost, by my fertility problems. This time, I was less saddened about losing a baby – after all, I didn’t feel pregnant, I didn’t see a heartbeat, and with my low-rising hormone levels, I was warned of failure almost from the start. No, this time I was sad because I didn’t know if I’d ever carry a baby of my own to term.
As I lay there on the couch, zoned out from painkillers, I kept asking myself how this could have happened: I was not supposed to have another miscarriage. The doctor had remedied my blood-clotting tendency that had probably caused my previous loss.
With the TV blaring in the background, I couldn’t help but think, “Why is all of this happening to me?” I didn’t believe there was some nefarious divinity out to get me, personally, and I also knew there were worse things in life: one friend just discovered he’s HIV positive, another was found to have cancer, which is much, much worse. I wanted her to live more than I wanted to have a baby.
Did I want to have a baby? Was it worth putting myself and my body through all of this? I couldn’t imagine going back to the clinic, starting again with the hormones, the pills, the blood tests, the waiting … again. It was new and exciting the first time, and now it was just sad.
How do you get up the nerve and courage to try again?