But you see, I’ve gotten some good news!  Small scale good news, but good news just the same, and I feel like I deserve to celebrate this amazing discovery, even if it is silly or completely insane.

I’ve been charting my menstrual cycles for some time now — a little less than a year — and this month is the first in which my chart clearly reflects ovulation.  Yes, that Big ‘O’ — what were you thinking?

I know, it’s goofy to be elated about what most women consider to be a simple thing, but really, ovulating has never been something my body has done effortlessly.

I suffer from PCOS and the disease really messes with me; physically, emotionally, mentally and reproductively.  I take medication for this condition and I will have to take it for the rest of my life (save for a miracle), so when I saw the data on my chart, I cried.  Happy tears.  Tears of joy.

All of the charts before this month had inconclusive data, meaning that it’s possible I ovulated each month but stress or other factors may have affected my physical health and hormone production so there’s no solid proof — and if my ovaries did release eggs, they may not have been viable or were unable to be fertilized.

My doctor believes that for the past year, my body has been trying to adjust and regulate itself and perhaps I’ve finally crossed the threshold.  Maybe this is the month.  Maybe.  I’m not getting my hopes up.  Seriously.  I’m betting I’m not pregnant and I’m okay with that.  The fact that my body is finally working is amazing, and I’m content with this. I feel like I’m one step closer to my wish coming true.

Send all your good luck my way.  You know, just in case.

I had to quickly get in the shower and wash away all the tears, wash away the pain, before leaving for CCD.  I’m teaching 2nd grade this year, and tonight was our Christmas program.

I didn’t know how I was going to get through the lyrics of “Away In a Manger” without crying, but when I arrived at church I felt calm.  No more tears.  No more anger.  Just a feeling of peace.  A welcomed feeling that everything was going to be okay.

And then the nausea hit.  On top of the cramps from hell I had to fight the urge to throw up in the beautiful poinsettias in the foyer. Although, strangely, the plant’s red leaves reminded me of my awful PMS.

I managed to get through the wave of nausea.   And the students sang their songs beautifully.

Aren’t they sweet?  After the little concert I rounded up the kids and their parents and led them to the Mary room for cookies and juice.  I then quickly excused myself to throw up in the ladies room.

It’s the freakin’ flu.  I figured it out once I got home and threw up again.  Cold sweats, body chills and stomach upset quickly followed.  This morning?  I feel like death warmed up.

So maybe my body was too busy fighting this awful bug and couldn’t be bothered with conception.

Okay, I know.  I’m losing it.  At least I’m trying to look on the bright side.

Although if puking all night and day is the bright side of this situation?  All I have to say is, “Ugh!”

In between bouts of crying, yelling and fists to the wall, I’m trying desperately not to lose sight of the big picture.  I can always try again next month.  I’m rolling my eyes.  The frustration is just too….oh I don’t know…too much to deal with.

I’m so sick of sulking, and yet I feel better when I let these emotional bursts ooze out of me.

Did I tell you I prayed two rosaries this week?  I did.  And the whole time I was fighting the urge to yell at God.  I know it’s all up to him.  I know I can’t let this consume me.  And yet, all I want to do is tell someone or something to go straight to hell.  But that would be very un-Catholic behavior so I refrain, being the season of Christ and all.

Oh, the sarcasm.  I can’t stand it myself.  I’m thinking I just need to attend a penance service and cleanse my soul of all the angry thoughts.  That might help.  For awhile, I mean.  Until the next disappointment, you know?  And then I’ll be in the same hole of emotional suckage that I’m drowning in right now.

And the thing that really gets me, is that I know I’m being ridiculous.  This wallowing isn’t healthy, but it’s all I can do to not lose it.  I’m grasping at straws here, trying so hard to keep my composure…trying not to make my problem someone else’s problem, too.

I’m trying to be kind to my husband, but really, all I want to do is blame him.  He’s done nothing wrong, but I want him to take the blame for our infertility problems.  I want him to carry the burden, I want him to erase this deep emotional scar, the one that fills my uterus where a baby should be.

And he looks at me and says, “You look tired, Hon…”  And I know I’m tired, and all I can do is shrug, force a half-smile and grieve.  Grieve over a loss that isn’t really a loss.  I mean, how can you lose something you never had to begin with?

I look at Dawson and I cry.  He’s so beautiful.  He is so kind and sensitive, too.  He sees me crying and asks, “Mumma, why are you so sad?”

And I don’t know what to tell him.  What can I say that his 4-year-old mind will comprehend.

“Mumma wants to have another baby and it’s just not working out right now.”

“Don’t worry Mumma, you can have a baby in two days,” he says, as he hold up his two little fingers.  Oh, how I wish it were that easy.

For so long, Doug and I have talked about babies and pregnancy and made “dates” to do the BD (baby dance, I know it’s a funny term).  When things were more optimistic we’d ask Dawson if he wanted a sister or brother and he’d reply, “I want a baby brudder.  I want to feed him and change his diaper and share my toys, too.”

It breaks my heart.

This morning he decided he no longer needs to use his little potty chair.  He pushed the step over to the big toilet and after doing his business he said, “I’m a big boy, now.  That baby potty will be for my brudder.”

And last week in church during the petitions, Father Trempe said a blessing for all the prayers in our hearts.  Dawson says, “I pray for a baby, Mumma!”

Through tear-filled eyes I said, “That’s great, Dawson.”

“Lord, have our prayer!” he said.  I couldn’t stop crying.  I was thrilled that he was so excited over the possibility of being a big brother.

I think that’s why this week’s disappointment is especially difficult for me.  I feel like more than just my hopes were shattered.

I don’t know where to go from here.  Right now, the mourning is all I can do….

——————————————

Just after I wrote this post, I read a blog post titled “Christmas IS a Time for Miracles” or something like that, in which the author revealed she was pregnant.  At least someone’s miracle came true, I thought.  And then I read the part where she said pregnancy was the last thing she and her husband wanted.  And I found myself shouting at my computer screen.

“Fuck you.  Fuck you!  Fuck you!”

Sure, I felt better for all of five seconds.  Then the guilt set in, because it’s not fair of me to be so angry at someone I don’t even know.

I realized that I set myself up for this let down.  I did.  When we were tracking my ovulation with OPK’s and found the most fertile day, I kept thinking this was the month.  I had dreams of conceiving and taking the pregnancy test after I missed my period — my test date would have been tomorrow — and seeing that word “Pregnant” appear on the stick.  I envisioned not telling Doug until Christmas, with a surprise card signed, “Love Dana, Dawson and Baby.”

Oh how naive I was.  How stupid I am.  How utterly freakin’ stupid.  It’s my own fault…..

To distract myself I went outside in the cold Wisconsin weather to get the mail.  Christmas cards were crammed inside and I was delusional in thinking they would cheer me up.

The first card I opened was from our neighbors and it was signed “A, M, J & The Twins”.  My friend is pregnant and her twins are due next May.  She decided to announce this in her card…   Surprise!

I broke down into a fit of tearful rage. Everywhere I turn I’m reminded of the fact that I’m not pregnant. God, what am I supposed to learn from this pain?  I just don’t get it!

My head hurts from all the crying, my eyes are red and swollen, and I just can’t take this anymore….

And then I clicked on this blog post and I realized I’m Full of The Angry, too….

And that’s just the way it’s gonna be for awhile.  No sense in fighting it.

Tell me what you know about Implantation Bleeding.

Don’t read into this too much, I think it’s just my period.

Five days early…

But I’m curious…

Have you experienced this type of thing?  I want to know all about it.

——————————————-

Never mind.  It turns out it’s just one messed up cycle.  Here we fucking go again.  Disappointment and anger.  Anger and disappointment.  Crying, crying, crying.

So, a period five days early, indicates a luteal phase of around 10 days.  This may not be long enough for my body to sustain a pregnancy.  So, if I did conceive, the embryo probably never attached to the uterine wall and blah, blah, blah.

The nurse at the doctor’s office was quite bitchy, implying that I was wasting her precious time with my ridiculous questions (insert eye roll here).  I just wanted to know what to expect.  I wanted to have some idea as to why my body is failing me.

I tried to be postive, because things were looking up.  Things were going well.  And now this.  This is just too much for me.  I’m so tired of it all, and yet I can’t let it go…

This isn’t making my holiday season any merrier.  I know, there are more important things to worry about.  It’s not about me.

I realize I should be celebrating the birth of Jesus, but can I just tell you how difficult that is when I hurt so terribly?

This sucks.  Suckity-sucks.

Rachel wanted to know if Doug and I would consider adopting the baby.  I’ll be honest.  Before Rachel called me I had never considered adoption.  I really didn’t know how I felt about it.

One of my closest friends is adopted and for years I watched her struggle with not knowing who her biological parents were.  She wanted so desperately to know who she looked like and why her parents were unable to raise her.

It wasn’t that she didn’t love her adoptive parents, she does, it’s just that she often felt incomplete because there were so many unanswered questions about “where she came from.”  Eventually, she found her birth mother and they have established an amazing relationship.  Her birth father passed away several years ago, before she had the chance to meet him.  Amazingly she did discover that her biological father remarried and had another daughter.  My friend is so happy to have a sister.

After having Dawson and loving him so much it hurts, I can’t imagine the heartbreak a woman goes through when deciding to give up her child. The more I thought about it, the more I realized that I wanted to consider adoption as a way to expand my family.

Struggling with infertility has taught me many valuable lessons.  I think knowing how difficult it is for me to conceive has made me realize that life doesn’t always happen the way we plan.  Sometimes our wishes don’t come true, at least not the way we want them to.  I know that sounds a little depressing, but what I mean is, maybe, our wishes come true in their own time.

A few months after my sister told me about her friend’s situation, a friend of my father’s called to ask if I’d like to work for her law office/title company part-time.  Since I’d lost my job a few months before, I agreed.  Turns out she practices family law and handles many adoptions.  It seemed like a funny coincidence, and I brushed aside the nagging idea that Doug and I should adopt a child.

Fast forward to a month ago when I attended a MOPs meeting.  One of my new friends and I were talking about children and she asked if I wanted to have any more.  She wasn’t aware of my fertility issues, so I confessed that Doug and I had been trying for another baby for quite a few months but weren’t having any luck.

“Have you considered adoption?” she asked.  “Both of my kids are adopted.  It’s the best decision I ever made.  Karl and I suffered with infertility for many long years.”

My friend and I commiserated about our reproductive challenges and kept thinking that God was trying to send me a message.  I mean, He was practically hitting me on the head with his “subtle” hints.

A few days ago I was doing some blog reading and I learned that November is National Adoption Awareness Month.

It’s just so coincidental.  All the signs.  I’m wondering if this is why I haven’t been able to get pregnant.  Maybe I have a higher purpose at this point in my life.  Maybe I’m supposed to adopt.

I’m still working through all the emotions and processing all the information I’ve acquired.   I’m not sure where to begin, or if adoption is right for Doug and me.  I just wanted to share my feelings with you and read your comments on the subject.  If you have an experience to share, please feel free to tell me about it.

Can I just tell you how awful my cravings were?  I cannot even describe the ridiculous dependency my body had has on carbohydrates.  Seriously, it got to the point where I had dreams of baked potatoes loaded with all the fixings.

You’re probably wondering what possessed me to begin such a diet and I’m more than happy to tell you why.

Almost ten years ago I was diagnosed with Polycystic Ovary Syndrome (PCOS), a metabolic (and endocrine) disorder that affects ovulation, weight loss/gain, hormonal fluctuations and causes my body to be desensitized to insulin.  When I first received this diagnosis, I thought it was some bullshit syndrome that doctors made up because they weren’t sure what was wrong with the women who experienced the symptoms now classified as part of this disease.

The fact that PCOS is a disease scared me, partly because if left untreated the condition can become life threatening.  Women with untreated PCOS can develop diabetes, heart disease, stroke, cervical and uterine cancers and other scary things.  Sadly, this disease is genetic and typically runs in families.  My mother and sister most likely suffer from PCOS, as they’ve experienced most, if not all, of the same symptoms I do.  They haven’t been diagnosed just yet, but I’m urging them to get to their doctors to have testing done.

I went to the library and got some books on this condition, along with books on nutrition and fertility because I wanted to be completely in-the-know about what was happening with my body.

I won’t lie.  My reasons were selfish at first.  I’ve made it known that I want to have another baby (Soon, damn it!  Soon!) but that I’m not having any luck in the getting pregnant department.  Part of the blame is because of PCOS.

My very amazing new doctor (whom I began seeing this past June) prescribed a medication typically given to patients diagnosed with Type II diabetes.  The medicine is called Metformin (known as the brand Glucophage).  Metformin is given to sensitize the body to insulin (which is what helps the diabetic patient), and this can help regulate hormones and cure some of the endocrine disorder.

I’ve been taking this stuff for a little over five months and while it’s regulating insulin production, it isn’t really doing all of it’s job.  Such as trigger ovulation.  I know this because I’ve been charting my basal body temperature for months.

Two weeks ago, I went in for a re-check and Dr. F upped the dose of my Rx to four pills a day instead of two.  It’s sort of wrecking havoc with my stomach (a symptom of taking the meds), but I’ve noticed some changes since the increase.

For one, my acne is slowly disappearing.  I am one of the unlucky women post-puberty that still gets the occasional zit (or twelve) around the chin area.  Acne is a symptom of PCOS.  So is hirsutism (excess hair growth on the face and other unwanted areas of the body — I know, that’s so general).  I noticed that I had some facial hair problems (mostly on the chin and neck), but now that I’ve been taking the Metformin, it seems to be fading away.

But the biggest change is that my menstrual cycles are shortening.  Pre-metformin, my cycles were 47 days plus.  Probably why it’s been so difficult to coneive.  Each month I’d lose a day or two.  I’m down to about 35-39 days depending on other stress factors.

Okay, I take that back.  The biggest change isn’t just that my periods are getting more “regular.”  I’ve lost 17 pounds, too.  Seventeen.  Dr. F was so elated when I weighed in.  My goal was to lose 10% of my weight in order to trigger ovulation again.  I have 10 more pounds to go.

People, this is progress.  And while, it’s still frustrating to know that I’m not getting pregnant yet, it’s comforting to know that by sticking to the plan and making small, subtle changes to my lifestyle, perhaps I’ll be pregnant by Christmas.  Or maybe Valentine’s Day.

I’m trying not to get my hopes up, but I’m also trying not to give up.  It’s like I’m in a holding pattern.  Being sick with a cold the last twelve days hasn’t helped either.  When I’m sick, I have no ambition to eat healthy or exercise. Sad, but true.

The low-carb diet was much more difficult this time around. (I did it four years ago which is how I conceived Dawson.)  Instead, I’m counting calories, making healthier food choices and exercising 4-6 times a week.  I feel good about myself and I noticed I’m not as depressed as I used to be.

So, anyway…I’m just really happy with how things are going and I wanted to blog about it so that I can look back and see how far I’ve come.  There were devastating days, I know.  I lost my shit a time or two.  But like Scarlet O’Hara once said, “After all, tomorrow is another day.”

I’m looking forward to my tomorrows.

————

P.S.

I don’t know many people who also struggle with PCOS, but I’m hoping that if you are dealing with this condition or know someone who is dealing with it, you’ll leave a comment on this post (please?).  I’d love to hear about your experiences.

If you think you may have PCOS and have not yet been diagnosed, please make an appointment with your doctor.  It’s very important for you to get treatment.  There is help for your condition.  And no, you’re not crazy.  No, these symptoms are not “in your head.”

I’m happy to talk more about PCOS, and to blog about it, too.  The more informed we are, the better we can manage our conditions.

The last few months have been miserable.  I’ve said it all before.  I don’t want to rehash all the emotions, but it’s constantly on my mind, this baby business.

Yesterday I stopped to count the months, the many long months, that my husband and I have been trying to conceive a second child.  Today marks the end of the eighteenth month of trying.  The end, because my period started this morning.

A few days ago, I thought for sure that I was pregnant.  I had all the “symptoms.”  Sore breasts, bloating, exhaustion, frequent urination, night sweats, nausea, headaches, stuffy nose, moodiness and irritability, heightened sense of smell, increased appetite.

However, I knew in my heart that it was just another phantom pregnancy, that I was just obsessing about it all and therefore my body was playing tricks on me.  Or it was all the beginning of monster PMS.

And still, I drove to the store and bought a pregnancy test.  I went so far as to say a prayer before peeing on the fucking thing, thinking a miracle could impact the results.  Even though I thought I was pregnant, I knew that yesterday’s HPT would turn out the way the last seventeen did.

Just like every month before, the negative line appears and 24 hours later my period begins.  It happens every time.

Then the devastation and disappointment set in.  The crying ensues.  The frustration and anger sweep in and take over.  The bitter jealousy follows closely behind.  The vicious cycle continues and I’m helpless to stop it.

I want more children so badly that it’s all I can think about, dream about, hope for.

I’ve been in a funk and it’s beginning to evolve into a depression.  I accused my husband of jinxing us because maybe he doesn’t want this as much as I do.  I’ve blamed myself for being reproductively broken.  I’ve even looked in the mirror and berated myself for being a failure.

I didn’t go to church last Sunday because I didn’t want to stare at all the adorable pregnant women and wonder why God has granted their wishes and not mine.

Instead, I read passages in the Bible and tried to swallow this jagged little pill.  I’ve tried to put these thoughts out of my head.  I’ve avoided speaking about it with my friends and family because I don’t think they understand, nor do I think they want to hear about my “problem” anymore.

Then today, something wonderful happened.  I attended my bimonthly MOPS meeting.

I must confess that I didn’t want to go.  At my first meeting two weeks ago, I struggled.  There were many mothers in the group who were expecting, and others who were nursing their babies during the focus groups.  It was hard to think happy thoughts and not be overcome by grief and jealousy, but I managed.

Knowing the wound would be opened again, I told myself last night that I wasn’t going.  I didn’t have faith that I could deal with my issues.  Then I dropped Dawson off at preschool this morning and one of the other MOPS moms has a child in Dawson’s class.

“On your way to the meeting?” she asked.

“Ummm…I dunno.  I’ve got a lot of work to do at home…”

“Come on,” she cut me off.  “You don’t want to miss today’s speaker.  She’s inspirational.”

Even though I told myself it would take more than some inspirational woman sharing her life story to shake me out of my depression, I agreed to attend.  I prayed silently in the car for God to grant me the strength to stifle whatever emotions decided to flow out of me upon seeing all the babies.

The meeting started and our speaker, Jessica, was introduced to our group.  Jessica told us she had been a featured speaker at many women’s groups and her message that day was about how to find hope when things don’t go our way.

I admit, I was skeptical.  It was oh so coincidental that things in my life were definitely not going my way.  How did Jessica think she was going to help me, I wondered.  Does she even know anything about me?  Does she know that I’m struggling?  Does she know about my history with PCOS?  Does she know it took three years to conceive Dawson, or that I had a miscarriage when Dawson was 11 months old?  Does she know that I’m losing faith that I’ll ever get pregnant again?

My bitterness was swallowing me whole, but no sooner than these thoughts flowed from my consciousness did I realize how wrong I was about Jessica.

She told us about her marriage to her husband, Gary, and how they celebrated their 27th wedding anniversary.  She told us that after she and Gary were married they had a honeymoon baby, a boy, and a daughter 18 months after that.  She always knew she wanted more than two children, but after her daughter was born she had many miscarriages.

One day she was driving home from picking her children up from school on a terrible winter’s day.  It had rained and the rain froze, then it snowed on top of that.  She hit a patch of ice and her car swerved into oncoming traffic.  She hit a semi head on.  Her son, her oldest child, was killed instantly.  She and her daughter suffered several injuries.  Her son was 7 years old.  Her daughter was 5 1/2.

Hearing Jessica’s words, I began to cry.  As tears streamed down my cheeks, Jessica continued.   She talked about how painful it was to lose her son, but she also told us she was 10 weeks pregnant during the accident but no one else knew but her husband.  After all the miscarriages she was afraid to tell anyone about the pregnancy because she figured she’d lose that baby, too.  Especially after the tragic accident resulting in her son’s death.

Jessica talked about how her daughter went from being the youngest child, to an only child and then to the oldest child all in a year’s time.  She never expected to have a seven year age gap between her daughter and the baby boy she had seven months after the car accident.  She went on to have three more children after that.

I began sobbing.   Sobbing because I realized I was meant to be at this meeting.  God wanted me to hear Jessica speak.  He enlisted the help of my friend to make sure I heard what Jessica had to say.

Jessica told us that she learned to rearrange her priorities after the accident.  She began renewing her faith in God and putting Him first in her life, before her husband and children.  She realized that while she loved Gary and their children so very much, without God she may never have been able to have more children.

In that moment, alarms went off in my head.  I realized that I’ve been dwelling on this baby thing for too long.  I’ve lost my faith in God and His plans for me.  I’ve been putting my husband and son and everything else in my life before God.

Even though I attend church and teach CCD and pray, I really wasn’t listening to God.  I wasn’t hearing His words and understanding His plan.  And He does have a plan.  He had a plan for Jessica, and she was smart enough to trust and follow Him.

After Jessica’s talk was over, I felt at peace.  All my harried thoughts disappeared.  Instead of worrying about my biological clock ticking, instead of thinking I have to get pregnant right now because I don’t want my children to be too far apart, my mind was quiet.  And my heart was open.

I realize this might sound crazy, but I honestly believe that God has intervened.  He’s trying to tell me that He’s listening.  He’s watching.  He has given me respite from all the worry and disappointment.

For the first time in so long, I feel at peace, and I’m so grateful.

Every month, I pee on ovulation predictor kits (OPKs).  I get the signal that ovulation is near.  Every month we “plan” baby making around those days.  Every month, period is not on time, I get that hopeful feeling.  Every month I pee on a home pregnancy test (HPT) and get that big fat negative (BFN).  Every month, I cry.

Every day I feel angry.  Angry because I know every acronym and abbreviation and all the vocabulary used in the world of infertility.

Every day I do what the doctor tells me.  I take the Metformin.  I eat healthy foods.  I don’t smoke.  I don’t drink.  I exercise.

Every week, I listen to someone tell me to “just relax.”  Every week I hear someone say, “It will happen, don’t fret.”

Every day I read a blog or twenty, about pregnancy and babies.  Every other day I read a new announcement of another blogger’s pregnancy or delivery of another blogger’s sweet baby.

Every day I try not to let it affect me, because it’s not about me, it’s not personal.

Every day, I feel resentment and jealousy.  Every day, I feel guilty for feeling the way I do.

Every night, I dream of babies and pregnancy and holding another child in my arms.

Every night, I cry just a little.

And every day and night, I pray.

But I can’t do it anymore.  Won’t do it anymore.  It hurts too much.

Every month I say that I’ll give up and I never do.  It’s a vicious cycle.

I won’t do this to myself any longer.  It hurts too much.

It only took 15 telephone calls, 3 technician no-shows, one failed system reset and 3 threats to call the FCC and BBB.  Charter finally came through and everything works.  The problem was that the company was making frequency changes in our area and this caused the system to fail.  Do you think their brilliant call center representatives could have just told me that, instead of promising things and not delivering?

I mean, I’m a reasonable person when I’m told the honest truth.  But this company lied to me repeatedly, and the poor tech guy who came over to help was furious when he discovered that those same brilliant call center reps reset the modem and router remotely (over the phone) and this is what screwed up my entire communication system.

Anyhow, it’s working now (knock on wood) and I can blog, check e-mails, get work done and download some iTunes that I’ve been patiently (ha ha) waiting to buy.

The plan for the day is to get all my work done, clean the house, and lock myself at home for the weekend.  I’ve got a stack of books to read that I checked out from the library (two of which are about PCOS and infertility, good reads), even though I have another stack of books I’ve bought one time or another and haven’t read, and a few books I need to read and review.

Actually, I do have to leave the house a couple times this weekend, once for a trip to the grocery store and another to the gym.  My workouts have been lacking and I’m noticing the fit and trim feeling I once knew is long gone.

Also, I’ve just had a “fertility check-up” with my OB/GYN and it turns out I’m not ovulating.  After all the changes I’d been making health-wise, I thought for sure this would be the month I would conceive, but my temperature charting didn’t show much of a spike which means I’m probably not releasing those necessary things called eggs.

It’s a frustrating battle, one I’m tired of, frankly.  I really feel like giving up and sulking and feeling sorry for myself, but this little voice is screaming at me because she knows that self-pity will only delay this process.  So it’s back to square one.  I met with Dr. F, had tests done and we decided I need to do the same things I did when I got pregnant with Dawson:  cut out carbs, drop the weight and start taking all those vitamins again.

I know I have to do this, but I suddenly crave mashed potatoes and pasta, the very evil insulin releasing enemies that are screwing up my life.  Wish me luck.  I need lots of it.

I can’t count the number of times I cried and cursed, confessed and denied my anger, and prayed to God; please Dear Lord, grant me a child. All I wanted was to be a mother. From the moment Doug and I spoke our vows in front of hundreds of relatives and friends at beautiful St. Bronislava church, visions of babies danced in my head.

As a Polish Catholic, I was raised with the notion that a woman’s purpose was to have lots of babies, cook too much food and feed everyone. After all, the women in my family are baby factories. Most have four or more children. When I realized my body may never house a child, I panicked.

Thanks be to God, I did get pregnant and delivered a healthy baby boy, but those early trials still haunt me. As if they happened only yesterday, I still remember the frustration, sadness and anger. The questions from family as to when we’d have children and why….why wasn’t it happening already?

Four years and 9 months later, I’m suffering infertility once again. My husband and I have been trying to have a second child for over a year without success. It’s a battle that I often feel like I’m losing. How can two people who love each other so much survive the battle of infertility?

The Parent Bloggers Network asked me if I’d like to read the book Maybe Baby by Matthew M.F. Miller and I jumped at the chance. I was excited to read a man’s point of view on infertility issues. Then the book arrived and I read the back cover and began to cry.

“Constance got her period for the tenth month in a row, and I stood in the bathroom having never felt like less of a man in my entire life.”

I cried because when it comes to infertility, it’s usually the woman with the “problem”. In Matthew’s case, he discovered he had a low sperm count. It doesn’t matter if you’re male or female, if you’re “the one,” the infertile, the feelings of inadequacy are devastatingly real.

Matthew’s story begins with memories of his youth, from the house he grew up in, to his struggles as an overweight teen. He describes his emotions with vivid recollection of how he avoided “full-on sex” until he “was no longer fat”, to meeting the woman of his dreams, Constance, and the passionate love they share.

Their desire for children began with beautiful green nursery bedding from Pottery Barn, which they ordered before becoming pregnant (after crawling out of $18,000 in credit card debt — due to their love of the stylish, and shopaholic tendencies).

As I read about the excitement Matthew and Constance shared when opening the box of green frill and softness, I remembered my own excitement when I bought that first baby sleeper after discovering I was indeed having a baby.

But years before, whenever I shopped for gifts for friends’ baby showers, my anticipation of my own pregnancies caused waves of excitement and to wash over me. But I have never experienced the pain of knowing that a $300 dollar nursery set is tucked in a closet, unused, because of infertility.

I must confess: reading Matthew’s book was difficult for me. Tears stained every other page as I read about the four moments he knew he wanted to be a father, to his anxiety over “masturbating in public” at the clinic.

Reading about Matthew and Constance’s struggles with Clomid refreshed my memory of my own use of the fertility drug. His anticipation over the results of a home pregnancy test and the let down he and Constance felt upon seeing that Big Fat Negative made me recall my own disappointment with every stick I’ve ever peed on.

And then I read chapter sixteen, and all of page 188 is now soaked with my salty tears:

“Joe’s funeral was a wholly Catholic affair. Polish Catholic to be exact, which led to an hour and a a half of standing, kneeling, sitting, praying, and sobbing. All of which was closely followed by countless rounds of food and beverages served up by and white-and-black clad waiters in a Polish banquet hall. Sausages, sauerkraut, pierogies, liver and dumplings, chicken and beef were all served as a gut-busting tribute to our dear friend’s brother.”

Oh, how true this is! Polish Catholic funerals are grand affairs; celebrations of the lives of our loved ones who have passed.

And then I read page 189:

“Two pews in front of us, a young woman was struggling to contain the pacifier and slightly jarring coos of a less-than-two-year-old toddler as Gina’s mom stoically revealed the irreparable heartbreak of her daughter, who had purchased her wedding dress the day before the accident. teh toddler was a perfect, dark-skinned, dark-eyed beauty with a mat of curls secured on the top of her head by a small pink bow.”

Church is my private hell. Catholic women are raised to make babies. Every Sunday at Mass, I cry just a little as I watch the family with seven beautiful children make their way to the front pew. A few rows over, another family with five children, gets situated in their seats.

Meanwhile, I sit in the far back row, with my husband and son, so that no one can see me cry over the children I wish I had. It isn’t that my son isn’t enough, I love him dearly — more than words can describe. I cry because the house of God is a safe place, but for me it represents pain. Pain I can’t seem to let go.

Instead of celebrating the vows my husband and I took in that very church, or celebrating the baptism of the child we have, the sacred sacraments professed in praise to God, I cry silent tears in the last row.

Matthew writes so openly about his struggles and about the hope he and Constance felt when choosing to do IVF. While IVF isn’t something I’m able to do (for religious reasons), I pray that this method works for Constance and Matthew.

This book is brilliant; honest and compassionate. Matthew shares his raw emotions with the reader. He reaches out to those who have walked in his shoes, as well as to those who may not understand what the infertile world goes through.

This book isn’t just about the pain he and Constance have endured, it’s also a love story. A story of two people who stand by each other through good times and bad, through life and loss, and for all the days of their lives.

Thank you, Matthew Miller, for sharing your story with us. Thank you PBN, for allowing me the privilege of reading this amazing book.

For more information about Maybe Baby, please visit Matthew’s website.