“She was brave and strong and broken all at once.”

I watched her. I know her story. Knowing the stories changes everything.

“That’s quite a large age gap. You’d have to be ready for number 2. He’ll be a great big brother.”

She responds with a smile and laugh. My heart skips a beat as I hold my breath… but I watch in admiration. She displays such mercy to the unsuspecting. If only they knew. “It’s happened again.” 3 years and miscarriage number 4. It’s called secondary infertility. She doesn’t blame anyone for their apparent insensitivity. She reads people’s hearts more than their words. She knows not everyone has an intention to pry into her reproductive business. She knows it’s just a gesture. A conversation filler. An appeal of concern. An invitation to share. She has every right to be bitter, but instead, she exerts such beauty, patience and compassion. It hurts.

She’s brave, strong and broken all at once.

I tell myself wishfully, “I won’t have another until they can.”

It’s an internal plea. Do I really think that negating my own fertility may benefit someone else? Does our universe work like this?

I assume conception will be a guarantee. We conceive first time, each time. This seems so unfair when others want and deserve it far more than me. Why do I get the choice while others struggle for years?

They’re pregnant. They’re further along than they have ever been since this journey began. Maybe this is the sign? I’ve always imagined we’d have more than one. Maybe we should at least try?

One month.

Two months.

Three months.

Talking about fertility is like tapping on a chipped window; we hold our breath and wait to see if it will either withstand the pressure, make the crack worse, or shatter the glass into a million pieces. Maybe that’s why we don’t talk about it. We’re too afraid. It’s too private. It’s a burden to carry alone. Mind your own business. 

She’s brave, strong and broken all at once.

Four months.

Five months.

Six months.

I’ve met her. She generously reveals glimpses of her turbulent journey; the yearly struggle, the anticipation and disappointment, the endless IVF cycles, the invasive testings, the losses, the miracle babies, the unmerciful realities, the empty arms.

She’s brave, strong and broken all at once.

Seven months.

Eight months.

I research all things fertility. I’m filled with dread and fear. I don’t want to go down that road. I know what I’m made of, and I know I can’t do as they do. She’s made of bravery and strength. I can’t be her.

The stories change everything. They embrace the hurting and whisper, “you’re not alone”. They remind us to count our blessings. They uncover the mercies we’re granted. They encourage and reveal life’s truths. They give our pain a purpose.

To our brave, strong and broken; thank you for your stories. You’ve comforted more people than you’ll ever know.

Don’t be afraid to share yours.

“Everything that happens to you is your teacher. The secret is to learn to sit at the feet of your own life and be taught by it.”

*For a brave, strong and broken story (and more facts about fertility) read this heart-wrenching and highly informative article: The Parent Trap.  http://www.scoop.com.au/Online-Articles/The-Parent-Trap

“People keep telling me that life goes on, but to me, that’s the saddest part.”

He hates me. I sense it in his presence. He doesn’t want to be here just as much as I don’t want him here. We haven’t spoken properly for a while, not that we have anything to say. The resentment has virtually dwindled, which has been replaced with numbness. We’ve moved into dangerous territory. The one person who made up my other half now makes me feel incomplete. I whisper to myself: “I hate him.” How did we get to this place?

It’s the 3^rd anniversary. She would have turned 3 this year. I can’t even fathom it. Life has moved on as it should. It’s a day spent at home with my Little One. It’s not a day that needs any public gesture or recognition, but it was the most defining event in our life. It is our divide in time. It’s our BC/AD. Everything changed on that day. It changed for the worse, and then for the better.

On return from his day at work, I stand in the doorway staring at his empty hands. I wait. He doesn’t notice. I can’t hold my tongue: “no flowers this year?” He responds with a blank look of disgust and bites back, “What’s so special about today?”

He must have seen the glaze in my eyes as the words rolled over his tongue. Within a snap I watch his icy façade melt into thousands of shattered pieces. I saw the memory flood through him as he reached for me with the familiar warmth I had always loved. I’m ice cold. It has nothing to do with the flowers. It never has anything to do with the flowers.

  I hate him.

“The words you speak become the house you live in.” – Hafiz

According to John Gottman, ph.D., there is a habit of mind that makes us either ‘Masters’ or ‘Disasters’. Masters “are scanning social environment for things they can appreciate and say thank you for. They are building this culture of respect and appreciation very purposefully. Disasters are scanning the social environment for partners’ mistakes.”

We’ve always been Masters. In our own journeys of self-improvement and acknowledgement of our personal flaws, we’ve always been a team. Iron sharpened iron… but it’s clear we have swapped sides. Even when I’ve felt completely alone, I always had him. We’ve lost each other. I sob in the shower. Life has really gone on. It’s gone on without me.

I hate him.

Our 5^th year of marriage has been the worst yet. We finally realised what everyone meant when they said it was “hard work”. Before now it really had been easy. It’s hard to be kind when you’re tired. It’s hard to be thankful when you’re dealing with your own demons. It’s hard to appreciate when all you’re focusing on is the mistakes. It’s hard to add value when you feel devalued, but we don’t want to be the ‘Disasters’ anymore. The decision has to be made, can we be bothered to be purposeful in our words and actions, even when we don’t feel like it? There lies the challenge. There lies the answer.

A year has passed. It’s the 4th anniversary. She would have turned 4 this year. I can’t even fathom it. So much has changed in 12 months. He arrives home from a long week at work. I’m sure he is tired, but he decides to still radiate the warmth I have always loved about him. He doesn’t have to say anything. His hands are full; 1 white rose amongst the red. It has nothing to do with the flowers. It never has anything to do with the flowers. By our choices, we are found.

 I always have. I always will. 

I love him.

“And you loved me like I was and had always been the answer and the question did not and would never matter.”