Ever since I can remember, all I've ever wanted was to be a mom. That was my whole dream. It was my purpose. I was good with kids, I loved being around kids. I was the babysitter everyone called, and I tutored kids when I was in high school. Kids were my calling and my dream. There was no doubt at all in my mind when I married young that my time was finally here. I was 20 when we decided to try to get pregnant and fulfill our dream, I was so excited and was sure that Christmas 2002 would consist of breastfeeding, cuddles and knitting. It didn't. I didn't get pregnant at all. And we tried and we kept trying. In 2003, I recieved my label.
Infertility. I think that's the ugliest word I know. It's the most hurtful word that defines me. Usually it's not one I choose to focus on, but it's always there, lurking in the background waiting until Kind or Generous or Blessed get a little blurry and then it slaps me in the face and lights up a marquee. No one thinks it's one of their words until they've had to face the heartbreak of seeing their dreams of a baby crushed.
We met with doctors and, a few fertility treatments later, I got pregnant. Pregnant! Seeing my baby's heartbeat was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen. The pregnancy was difficult, I was on bedrest almost the whole time and then it ended at 15 weeks. There was no squishy baby at Christmas 2008 like I'd dreamed of. There was nothing.