2006 encompassed desperation and hope in our home. In January, I went to Doctor to discuss some test results and options. I was very hopeful. Don’t ask me why, but I was. I felt stronger after the holidays. I had some much needed time off of work to reflect and rejuvenate. I was trying really hard to not only “be positive” but also to interact with babies and act more faithful. To my complete and utter surprise, my most recent batch of blood work indicated a pregnancy.  I had actually taken a home pregnancy test during the holidays, but it was negative. I figured my body was still recuperating from the ectopic the past fall. But Doctor said I must have tested too early. The bad news was that my quants were too low for how far along I was. The tiny moment of hope that a new pregnancy always brings was eclipsed by the inevitable loss.

Miscarriage number three–Check! I guess if I had to rate the immediate difficulty of my pregnancy losses, this one comes in last. I was losing the baby before I knew there was one. And the recovery was fairly quick. I consciously decided to stay strong. The doctors were talking about options so I moved through it without any mourning, which I regretted later. In that moment, though, I felt a sudden urgency to “fix” this problem–because now, after three miscarriages in a row, it was definitely a problem. I was convinced that since I could apparently get pregnant with little difficulty the Clomid that Doctor was recommending would help even my cycle out and we would be on our way to parenthood within a few months. I even went so far as to paint our “nursery” over the holidays. I chose a sweet and airy shade of green. We put the few baby items we had out on the shelves. Looking back, it was my way of embracing the experience of fertility and trying to live faithfully. Although I never actually pictured myself with a newborn, I was always able to picture myself as a mom. That gave me strength. I rarely entered the nursery, but I knew it was there “just in case.”

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Clomid, clomid, clomid–the cure-all for any fertility ailment, right? Whatever! Doctor said he wouldn’t make me go more than five cycles. For me, the side effects of Clomid were almost as bad as passing a miscarriage. I was soooooo tired–exhausted actually. Instead of being sleepy in the morning because I was sad, I was sleepy because of a pill. I was a tightly wound ball of tears–poor Adam, he never knew if, how, or why I was crying. The cramping and nausea were incredibly intense–the worse I had ever experienced because it was non-stop for the entire cycle. But every ounce of discomfort and emotion was worth the hope of a growing fetus!

Five cycles (months) of clomid equalled no pregnancy…not even a hint of a baby! By our third round I began to worry. By our fourth I was desperate. And by our fifth and final round I was ready to give up and move on. Well, I was also hysterical. I was not ready to visit an adoption agency and I also was not ready to commit my time, money, and body to a fertility clinic. Even though, in my heart, I knew we would be choosing one of these paths, I wanted desperately to hide in my bedroom, twinkle my nose, and will our child here. I was trying my best to learn and grow, but the experience was still very raw. After all, it had only been two years of disappointment.

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