Dear Baby,
It’s been over a year since I’ve really written anything about you. It’s not because I haven’t been thinking about you; it’s exactly the opposite. I think about you every waking hour of my life. I’ve dreamed about you while I’ve slept. I’ve had entire conversations with you about everything from God and Jesus to sex and dating… but it’s all been in my head. But even though I can’t get you off of my mind, even when I try, sitting down and trying to put all of this into words has been just too difficult. It’s like writing it all down makes this nightmare real.
I mean, it is real. You’re still lost. Every time I tried to update this site, I put it off, thinking the nightmare was just about to end and we’d find you. But that hasn’t happened yet. It’s been over a year since I’ve written anything down, and if anything, we’re worse off than we were before.
A lot has happened in a year. We tried to find you with an IVF procedure. In fact, the last time I really talked about you here was on day 5 of that journey, which ultimately ended in disaster. We did retrieve 12 eggs, but only 6 were mature. All arrested before day five. We tried so hard to find you via science and medicine, but my body failed me.
We tried again this past August. Another round of hormones, steriods, and pills. Another egg retrieval that ended in failure. We retrieved 17 eggs. 5 were mature. All arrested. Our doctor told us we shouldn’t try again; there’s something wrong with me on a cellular level and I’ll never get pregnant like this. We’ll never find you like this.
So, yeah. A lot of doors have closed for us, without too many more opening. So it’s been too hard to put into words exactly how I feel. I’ve been in a kind of fugue for these past several months. I go to work, I come home, and I cry. Knowing you’re out there but seemingly forever beyond my reach is eating at me.
What do I feel when I think about you? Is it love for something I can see and feel and nurture, but only when I close my eyes? That’s a part of it.
Is it longing for a chance to carry you in my body, to feed you from my breast and watch you grow and play and develop your own personality? Is it jealously at all the other moms out there who have found their baby, once, twice, sometimes three or more times over? Is it anger at a situation that’s completely out of my control?
It’s all of that and more. It varies greatly, depending on where I am and what’s going on around me. Right now, as I’m forcing myself to write this, I’m angry and I’m sad. I’m angry that we’re living in an age where women are celebrating the control they have over their bodies, now more than ever – there’s a movement going on, where women are finally standing up for themselves and taking control of their lives and their bodies; but here I am, sitting on the sidelines, because MY body is completely out of my control. And this lack of control – something that most women take for granted – is what keeps me and your dad so far away from you. And that makes me angry.
And sad. But mostly angry.
I think about you and I know that I have to find you. I won’t say that I can’t imagine life without you, because I’ve been living a pretty amazing life, even though we’ve been searching for you for more than ten years.
Your dad is wonderful. We could talk for hours about the man I get to call my husband, and the man you’ll get to call Daddy. You and I got so lucky, and I can’t wait to share him with you. But that’s for another time. I have a great career and a lot of truly amazing friends. You’ll have an entire network of aunts and uncles and cousins when you find your way to us, because if there’s one thing I’ve learned through all of this, it’s that family means more than flesh and blood. I have sisters without a drop of my dna. I have fathers I didn’t meet until I was an adult. I have a brother who married your aunt. We’re all family, and I cant wait for you to meet everyone.
But we’re missing something. We’re missing you. As great as things are for your dad and me, there’s a gaping hole in our lives, and I feel it every day. I carry it with me every day.
I found someone to talk to about you. Just you. And I don’t have to censor myself or stick to social norms and ask how she’s doing as well. She’s there for me in a way that no one else can be, because she’s been there. It took her a very long time to find her baby, and so she knows how long and hard the road is. But she reached the end. She found her baby. And so I have to believe that if she can find hers, there’s hope for me and your dad, too.
She’s the one who encouraged me to continue writing this down, but to change the format a bit. See, it’s not about the past anymore. It’s not about what worked, and what didn’t, or what medicine I’m taking or how many follicles I have. None of that matters. What matters is you. So, from now on, this blog is for you. My baby.
Love,
Mom
My Stork Got Lost 