Three years ago today, Zappa called to tell me Mom was dead. Three years. And we’re still no closer to having the baby she always wanted for us. Her death and our infertility are forever intertwined, each influencing my feelings about the other. Besides missing my mom, this day is just another reminder of time moving forward while we seem to be standing still.
Sometimes it feels like this is it, this is how our life will always be: Hubby unemployed, living in the student ghetto, and with no children. Ever.
And it scares the shit out of me.
* * *
I confessed to my therapist that I haven’t talked to my dad since they left here and we got the news of the failed FET. I just couldn’t picture myself crying to him or him offering any kind of comfort. “If my mom were here,” I said, “it would be different.” Dr. N asked me what I thought my mom would say. It’s not so much what she would say. I know there’s nothing she could say that would make this better, but she would listen to me cry and maybe say something like, “I’m sorry this is so hard.” Because that’s what moms are for.
I did cry to Zappa on the phone today. And she said something very close. After all, she is a mom.
* * *
A couple of months ago, while we were undergoing treatments, I looked ahead to this day and thought, This year it will be easier. At least I’ll be pregnant. But I’m not pregnant. And there’s nothing easy about any of it.