Struggling to Conceive: The Moment

Note: I didn't write this intending it to be part of the series, but it seemed to fit, though a different kind of piece than I've been publishing. I debated over sharing it, but I've decided it's worth putting out there. 

I spent some time working on this after yet another failed month of getting pregnant. 

So this is for all the other women who are intimately acquainted with The Moment. You are not alone. And you will get better, too. 

-Jill 

The Moment

I wish it would get easier. After 18 months, it really has not gotten easier.

The moment: the dropped BBT in the morning, the gut-wrenching cramps, crimson on my panties, the not pregnant that flashes on the screen of the little peed-on stick that sits on the bathroom counter.

Every time the moment approaches, I tell myself to expect the worst.

You’re not pregnant, I tell myself sternly, as though I have a little serious schoolmarm who sits on my shoulder as the voice of reason. You’re not pregnant.

But there’s also the other imaginary version of myself on the other shoulder, who looks a hippy, with long hair and a long skirt and a bright smile. Despite my trying to silence her, she whispers hopefully, But you might be.

The moment comes each month, and the result is always the same.

The feeling is always the same—a knot in my stomach, heat in my chest, and the pressure of tears behind my eyes. I can see the equilibrium of calm I have achieved completely disrupted, like the surface of a still pond when a rock is dropped in.

I told you that you weren’t pregnant, says the schoolmarm voice, angry. Humiliated. I told you. You should have listened.  

My hippy voice has disappeared.

The moment drags on, my emotions raging. I try to say a prayer, but I can get nothing out aside from a silent, anguished scream.

I wish I could say that it’s gotten better.

But it hasn’t.

This morning, I faced a moment.

The BBT thermometer flashes a number too low, and the cramps in my belly are too familiar.

All the calm that has precipitated from our recent white beach getaway, from the summer off from school, from the calm of sewing projects, tea, blog posting about fertility, and just quiet time at the ranch…all of that calm seems to dissipate as though it never was.

I feel sadness overtake me…then rage roils up…followed by self-deprecation…hopelessness…discouragement…sadness.          

And it all happens in the span of about 30 seconds, following the sight of the low BBT on the little digital screen, glowing green against the darkness of my bedroom.

The day ahead of me promises good things: ranch work. A morning moving cows on horseback for a neighbor, which I love. Then time at home, hauling hay, dinner with friends, followed by worship practice at church.

But suddenly I hate this day. I want nothing more than to bury my face in my pillow and go back to sleep and pretend that low BBT never happened. I want to rewind three minutes to when I could still hope that there was a baby taking up residence in my womb. I want to tell the Lord that this is all just so unfair and I don’t want this to be part of my story.

What I really want is to have a tantrum—a yelling, sobbing, railing tantrum—but instead, I get out of bed.

I have a black cloud over my head as I get ready to go. I am grumpy, and Hubster knows it. He gives me space, though he keeps a watchful eye on me. I want to tell my husband about this devastation, but it’s so raw I am afraid of it. Afraid of myself.

I say nothing. Not yet. I can’t say it yet.

Hubster goes outside and I make him a cup of coffee, myself a cup of tea.

Outside, my horse acts up when I go to saddle, and I have to fight my temper. I don’t take a deep breath so much as I suck air in through my teeth, and the schoolmarm voice reminds me that losing my cool won’t help the situation.

But I am taken aback at the raw anger in me. It leapt into my chest ferociously, and I wanted nothing more than to hit something, break something, or swear and cuss at the top of my lungs.

Have a tantrum.

But I don’t, rather opting to take a deep breath—a real one this time. It takes the edge off a little. I focus on helping my horse focus on his job. I rub his neck, appreciating the feel of his warmth beneath my palm.

We saddle without further incident, and he loads into the trailer meekly. I look into his dark eye and see that he understands my mood. I feel grateful for the simple and unconditional love my animals give to me.

I am grumpy in the truck, my belly cramping at regular intervals. Good thing I packed a roller bottle of Dragon Time oil, which eases cramps when rubbed on my abdomen.

Dragon Time, I think. Surely a man picked that name.

I want to find said man and punch him for picking such an insensitive name.

Not that punching him would help my case that the oil for period symptoms shouldn’t be named after a giant, furious fire-breathing dragon.

Hubster reaches for my hand while we drive, squeezing it reassuringly. I feel grateful for the unconditional love he offers me each day.

And somewhere between leaving our ranch and arriving at the Grazing Association pasture, about 6 miles from home, my grumpiness slips away from me. I feel a little sad, but that slips farther yet as I mount Jettaroo and we head off to go chase cows.

The July morning is cool and overcast, perfect for gathering and pushing cows. I look out over the high plains and feel thankful for this land, our friends, and the good horse I am riding.

By lunchtime, I am less dragon-ish than I was following the moment.

I do some mental math: about 6 hours to feel okay again.

Something my bestie, Ayme, says often comes to my mind: “It doesn’t get easier. But we do get better.”

I smile at the sound of her voice in my head, and this thought shifts my perspective on this morning’s moment.

That surprises me.

It’s really not easier.

I am not sure that it will ever be any easier.

But if I can be okay again just a few hours later, then I think I am getting better.

If the moment came and went without wrecking my whole day, without robbing me completely of my joy, without sending me into a deep and dark spiral, then I am getting better.

I am trusting God more.

I want to weep with relief. That small mercy is so sweet, and I feel gratitude for it well up in my chest.

Going forward, I will remind myself that the moment won’t get easier.

But I will get better.

Thank God for that.