"What did you expect?"

This is what my husband said to me as I'm stumbling out of the clinic this morning, blinded by tears that just won't stop and weak with sadness and 2 1/2 years of emotional exhaustion. It is a question worthy of exploration. What DO I expect?

I expect to wake up from this nightmare one day and have all of it go away.

I expect to NOT be the 1 woman out of 10 who are dealing with infertility.

I expected to be able to have as many babies as I wanted in exactly the time frame that I wanted them.

I expect to get what I want if I try as hard as I possibly can.

I expect someone to be able to give me a good reason that my 31 year-old healthy body is failing me.

I expect there to be an answer.

I expect a miracle.

I have always liked my RE because he doesn't beat around the bush. He is very kind and compassionate, but also very realistic. This morning I felt like he was wielding a red-hot poker and with every kind and compassionate statement he made, it was stabbing me in my heart.

"Your eggs are just not robust enough to support a typical menstrual cycle - hence your spotting and short luteal phases" STAB!

"Even with your normal FSH and fairly young age, I think it's likely you just don't have much ovarian reserve left" STAB!

"I'd give IVF a 30-35% chance of pregnancy for you" STAB!

"Egg donation would definitely be your best statistical option" STAB! STAB! STAB!

Not that I was necessarily surprised by any of these statements. It was just so damn painful to hear them out loud. Even after 2 years I still am in awe that those statements are describing ME. Me, who got pregnant the very first time I ever had unprotected sex. Me, who at 27 was still one of the first of my high school friends to have a baby. Me, whose body from the outside is the picture of health. Me, who in every other aspect of my life, has it all. What cruel irony!

I actually don't cry very often. About anything. Most of the time I get angry rather than sad. It felt pretty good to cry for a change. I think DH was shocked.

Anyway, it became very apparent that I need to get a serious handle on my grief before I can rationally make any decisions about how to proceed. I called around and was actually able to find a therapist in town that I don't know (I'm a social worker in a small town, so there are only a handful of practitioners that I don't know or have ever worked with in some capacity or another) who can see me tomorrow. So I'm going. DH wants to come, but he's not sure he can get off work in time, but I'm going regardless. I feel good about it. I am pretty comfortable with talk therapy and have done it a few times times in the past and it was helpful, so here's hoping...

In closing, I am reminded of the story Welcome to Holland. I think it's mostly used in relation to parents finding out their child or baby has a disability, but I also find it relevant to pretty much any situation where things just don't go as planned. My mom, who worked in the disability advocacy field, had it on a poster hanging in her office for many years. I've always really liked it, but lately it has even more meaning...

Welcome to Holland
Stoy by Emily Perl Kingsley

When you’re going to have a baby, it’s like planning a fabulous vacation trip - to Italy. You buy a bunch of guide books and make your wonderful plans. The Coliseum. The Michelangelo David. The gondolas in Venice. You may learn some handy phrases in Italian. It’s all very exciting.

After months of eager anticipation, the day finally arrives. You pack your bags and off you go. Several hours later, the plane lands. The stewardess comes in and says, “Welcome to Holland.”

“Holland?!?” you say. “What do you mean Holland?? I signed up for Italy! I’m supposed to be in Italy. All my life I’ve dreamed of going to Italy.”

But there’s been a change in the flight plan. They’ve landed in Holland and there you must stay.

The important thing is that they haven’t taken you to a horrible, disgusting, filthy place, full of pestilence, famine and disease. It’s just a different place.

So you must go out and buy new guide books. And you must learn a whole new language. And you will meet a whole new group of people you would never have met.

It’s just a different place. It’s slower-paced than Italy, less flashy than Italy. But after you’ve been there for a while and you catch your breath, you look around.... and you begin to notice that Holland has windmills....and Holland has tulips. Holland even has Rembrandts.

But everyone you know is busy coming and going from Italy... and they’re all bragging about what a wonderful time they had there. And for the rest of your life, you will say “Yes, that’s where I was supposed to go. That’s what I had planned.”

And the pain of that will never, ever, ever, ever go away... because the loss of that dream is a very very significant loss.

But... if you spend your life mourning the fact that you didn’t get to Italy, you may never be free to enjoy the very special, the very lovely things... about Holland.

c1987 by Emily Pen Kingsley. All rights reserved

My Holland includes the best friends I could ever ask for, a great job, a supportive community, a wonderfully loving husband and the sweetest, smartest, most gorgeous little girl who loves me more than anyone in the whole world.