It’s been over 3 weeks since we found out that our IVF fresh cycle failed.
On the “something not-good happened to me” scale of 1 to 10, where 1 is “Life sucks” and 10 is “Ow I stubbed my toe,” I was a solid 2 when we first got the news. It was a rough two weeks. But I’m feeling better. I’d say I’m at about a 8.5 right now.
I haven’t hidden any more new Moms on Facebook. Unless I’m trying to run, I actually forget about stabbing myself in the ass for six straight weeks. Infertility crap doesn’t occupy my thoughts anymore, and I am now capable of thinking about other things (most of the time).
And when a friend (very considerately, and privately) told me about her pregnancy last week, I only cried for a minute or two! (Full disclosure: I had a good cry about it later, but I was pretty proud of myself for holding it together. I’m happy for them, I truly am. She’s a wonderful enough friend that I can be happier for her than I am sad for myself).
I. Am. Not. Over. It.
But I’m not “over” our failed cycle. I wish I was, because I think I would have been unsympathetic to someone like me not long ago.
Somehow, I know that it’s not okay for me to be upset anymore. Why? Because I’ve reached my Sympathy Expiration Date — the point at which the sympathy from others runs out. It’s the moment when nobody’s going to care if you continue crying and whining about something awful that’s happened to you. They feel like it’s about time you sucked it up and moved on. And they’re right.
While nobody’s come right out and said it, I still feel like I’ve exhausted the supply of sympathy from others. Now I feel guilty talking about our fertility troubles to most people. Should I feel bad? I don’t know. But I do.
I have a couple of close friends that I know will always be there to listen, no matter how much they think I should have shut up two weeks ago — thanks, ladies — and my therapist, whose job it is to listen (awesome).
So now I guess I just suffer, a little less than last week, but in a little more silence than before.