Heather asked me yesterday if I thought we were going to have a baby.
“I don’t know anymore,” I said. “I felt confident before, but the AMH test has me doubting it.”
“Yeah,” she said. “I feel kind of the same way.”
Months ago, after another unsuccessful effort at ICI, I remember sitting forward on the couch with my head in my hands, crying. Heather started to cry, too, and told me to stop—that I was supposed to be her rock and she needed my support. “I feel like it’s my fault because it’s my body, and you’re making me feel shitty.”
This time, she seemed to be at peace, though. Not pissed, not grieved, not bitter.
“At least it’s a reason. What was pissing me off was that there was no explanation for why I wasn’t getting pregnant. If it turns out I just don’t have enough eggs, or they’re not in good shape, then at least we know. If it doesn’t work out, at least I can say I did everything I possibly could to get pregnant. I’ve always wanted a baby, but maybe it’s not meant to be one that I carried. Maybe it’ll be one that you carry. Listen: if it’s meant to be, it’ll happen.”
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