it's grief.

This may just be a difference between men and women when it comes to infertility.  Or maybe it's a difference between me and other people.  I don't know.  But one day when my husband and I were having an emotional conversation about the path ahead of us and how each of us is coping with our situation, I brought up the word grief.  I didn't think this would be any kind of controversial term for what I'm experiencing.  In fact, in my mind it's the perfect word for what I'm experiencing.  I'm a combination of sad, rational, pissed, excited, overwhelmed, guilty, and anxious.  I've been in denial, I've been sad, I've been angry, I've bargained, and I'm working toward accepting whatever will be the end to this journey.  That's grief, right?

My husband didn't understand why I would use the word grief.  In his mind, there's nothing to mourn here.  We haven't lost anything.  It's just that what we wanted to happen when we wanted it to happen didn't ... but we're not any worse off than we were two years ago.

Yes, I see what he's saying.  I was not one day holding my child in my arms only to have it ripped away or to watch it die.  Nope, that definitely didn't happen.  What did happen, though, was that I had this dream for oh, like 20-some years, that I would be a mother to a child that was this perfect combination of the man I love and myself.  I had this dream that I would be pregnant and that my husband and I would enjoy the secret between ourselves for a little while and then have such fun telling those we love that we were bringing this new, incredible human being into the world.  I had this dream that I would give birth to another person -- a person I would love more than anything ever.  And it would be this love that I couldn't even imagine, couldn't even begin to fathom.  I had this dream that I would foster my child's growth and development, that he or she would need me and love me, and that my husband and I would be partners in raising these amazing human beings who would contribute great things to our world.  And we would be so proud and so honored that they came from us.

This was the dream I had.  In fact, I made a lot of plans around this dream.  I chose to be a teacher because I thought it would be a wonderful career to have as a mother.  I would learn so much about children and parenting just by doing my job each day.  I would have the perfect schedule for raising kids.  It would allow me to be home with my children when they were home.  I bought specific vehicles because of their safety ratings and their child seat accommodations.  I bought insurance expecting it to help supplement my income when I was on maternity leave.

That baby that I dreamed about never arrived.  I didn't lose it because it was never here. But you know what I have lost?  I lost a future that most of us assume we're guaranteed.  Because instead of going through all of those steps that I dreamed about, I'm learning that I can't have any of that the way everyone else does.  I need to undergo dozens of invasive medical procedures.  I need to have surgeries and be on months of injections.  I need to be on strict vitamin and prescription regimens.  And even with all that, my husband and I cannot together make a child.

But remember, I didn't lose anything.  No baby was taken from my arms.  It's just that this big dream -- this dream that dictated my whole life -- was taken from me.  And so I mourn that I can't have children the way everyone else can.  I cry because this hole inside of me can't be filled the way I imagined.  I grieve the loss of an easy, joyful path to motherhood.

See, it's grief.  I'm sad that there is no baby in my arms after all that.  I'm pissed that I've done everything right and have nothing to show for it.  I'm bitter that so many parents take for granted the thing I've worked so hard for.  I'm envious of all of the mothers out there who have experienced the greatest miracle of all and who might not even realize it.  I feel all of these things silently for the most part because it's much more difficult for others to recognize grief over something intangible than tangible.  But to me, my loss is very real.

No, I will not abandon my path to motherhood -- even though it's a long, windy, treacherous one.  I will be a mother someday because that's what I want most in this life.  And when I can calm down and think rationally I am able to remind myself that it will be more a matter of patience and resilience than anything.  Sometimes, though, that's not comforting enough.

Sometimes I just have to grieve.