It goes without saying that some days are tough, while others are blissfully easy. This same logic applies with living with infertility, I’ve found that the majority of the time you can be completely fine and get on with life like everyone else around you. Yet there are some days that are so painful that it’s hard to breathe, let alone function. Sometimes things or events can set these moods off , but for me it’s more that I’ve woken up that day and my brain has gone “Haha nope not working today!” even though I know I have to carry on as normal. Now I’m incredibly lucky that this doesn’t happen often for me, sure I’ll have moments some days that will trigger a tearful moment but after a good cry I’m usually okay and can continue as normal.
Yesterday was definitely the worst day in a long time (not including Mother’s Day last week) but as usual I stuck a smile on my face and didn’t mention it because we had things to do, but I just felt so alone. We needed to take the car to the garage next door as I needed the tracking sorted and a new spare tyre, Mitch needed to get a haircut before he started at his new job today, and I wanted to look for some books and go to Primark as I’d seen online that they had some beautiful Bambi bed sheets that I wanted to get.
Things with the car went well although our bank account wouldn’t agree with that statement. Primark and the bookshops not so much. Believe me I know how stupid it sounds saying that I was upset because they didn’t have some sheets, but it wasn’t about the sheets. Not really, as for me it was just another slap in the face from life saying “you want this but you can’t have it” Despite wanting to cry in the middle of Primark I held myself together. They had other beautiful Disney sets as Mitch pointed out but it wasn’t the same, as I then proceeded to defiantly walk around their home section four more times before accepting that they didn’t have them. Instead they had a beautiful Bambi throw so I settled for that instead, although I will keep returning until those sheets are mine.
I feel I should start this next bit by saying that I went to three bookshops over the weekend and had no luck in any of them. I know in my previous posts I’ve mentioned that having looked online there are no books out there geared towards helping people process their infertility and people sharing their stories, but yesterday I just felt so alone that all I wanted was to read someone else’s experiences and feel a bit better. In each bookshop we visited I made sure we walked around the whole shop and checked the health section thoroughly. First one, nothing. Second one, nothing. Third one, you guessed it… absolutely nothing. By the third bookshop I was feeling well and truly alone and deflated, to the point that I just stood there pointing at the books and declared “One in eight people Mitch. That’s a lot of people and there’s absolutely nothing to make you feel any better! I can’t cope with this, I feel so alone. I can’t do it” and just burst into tears in the middle of the shop. Now that is the first time I have ever cried about my infertility in public, but I couldn’t help it I just broke down. Poor Mitch had absolutely no idea I’d been trying not to do that all day and just went into auto pilot I think, he hugged tightly, told me that I’m coping amazingly, and reminded me that is exactly why I’d decided to write a book. He’s right that is why I’d decided to write a book, but at the same time I wanted to remain hopeful that maybe there was something out there. I still didn’t tell Mitch how I was feeling, I know we’re in this together and he’d be nothing but supportive but at the same I didn’t want to burden him and bring him down too.
I’m not really much better today either, everyone at work has mentioned several times today that I’m very quiet, but I’ve brushed it off as being tired and changed the subject. Truth is I am tired, but I also don’t want to “human” today. I want to go back to bed, cry it all out, and carry as normal tomorrow. I’ve realised today though that it’s more than alright to have a blip. I’m allowed to feel sad sometimes. An infertility diagnosis requires a grieving period, and no one can tell you how much time you’ll need. I am allowed to be sad about it. As are you.