I ran this morning. It was my first run in a few weeks, and since the half marathon I haven’t been running consistently at all. At first i was injured and couldn’t walk down the stairs, and then we were cycling and I won’t run during the TWW (I know that there are plenty of people who think that running during the full cycle is fine, I just can’t bring myself to be one of them). The few times I did run, my knee would act up. So two weeks ago I broke down and bought new shoes.
And ran in them once.
Then I just couldn’t find the head space to get there. I’d lay in bed on a Saturday morning and think “I should get up and just go run” and still just lay there. Then it was too hot to run, or we had to get ready for a baseball game, or any number of lame excuses why I didn’t do it.
We’re on a rest cycle this month, due to cysts, and I was due for cycle day 1 on Friday, and there’s no sign of my period’s impending arrival. Which means, I’m going go have to take progesterone again for a few days to kick start things. And here’s the deal – we’ve got about 2 cycles left in us financially.
Losing faith in my body (again) and in our ability to bankroll this endeavor has left me rather dejected about all of this. And despite knowing running would help, I couldn’t find the spark to get out the door.
When I got up this morning, N was the only other person up in the house. He’s content to play x-box for awhile so I knew I wouldn’t have to worry. I’d probably be home before J even woke up. I’d resigned myself to starting from scratch again – using the Couch to 5k app to get my feet back under me for a bit. After making sure I had all my settings right on my phone, I set off.
Immediately my mind started to race. My feet were going and my body was reacting to the audible cues for walking and running but my brain was on an entirely different thought process. It hit me early on. Setting a plan for running and actually going through with it right now meant admitting that I didn’t think either of these last two tries was going to work.
I realize it may be a bit of a stretch, especially for those who believe there’s no harm in running while trying or while pregnant for that matter. But for me, running is representative of my “after TTC”. I started running last year to take back my body. To prove I could do something other than fail at getting or staying pregnant. Committing to running feels like committing to giving up.
I hit the halfway point and I turned around. As I made my way back, I tried to clear my head and just run – just feel my feet under me but I couldn’t shake the feeling that by running I was setting myself up to have something to fall back on. A year ago I was in a similar place – having to let go of TTC and needing something to feel in control again.
And it worked.
A few months after I started running, someone I know who had embryos they were no longer going to use essentially opened the door by starting a discussion about H and I “adopting” her embryos. Every scab that running created was ripped back, revealing fresh wounds that I couldn’t ignore. H and I talked, and I looked into the legalities, the costs, the logistics, only to have this person tell me that she and her husband had decided that they wanted to find a family who would have more than one child with the embryos that were left, despite the fact that they couldn’t guarantee that someone could feasibly do multiple cycles with the (8) embryos and never end up pregnant or carry to term. I never blogged about it here because it felt like it wasn’t entirely my story to tell, but I also can’t deny that I wouldn’t be back where I am, on the precipice of starting the letting go process all over again, if not for this, and honestly there’s a lot of feelings over it still.
Wounds open and now directionless, I went back to my RE to redo my cycle day 3 tests, because I needed to know if there was a chance I could maybe get pregnant on my own. Things had improved since the prior tests, and we made the decision to try.
Yet, here we are again, on the edge of repeating history, and while I know there are hopefully two tries in front of me, I find myself feeling like that scene in Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone, where in Harry’s first quidditch match he goes into a full on nose dive to try and catch the snitch (apologies to anyone who hasn’t read or seen the series). He’s literally on the verge of going full force into the ground when at the very last second, he pulls himself right and makes the clumsy catch, winning the match. Only, I don’t know what “winning the match” looks like once I right myself.
I’ve spent a lot of my “rest month” feeling sorry for myself. Work is pretty awful, and it’s not the escape from infertility I need it to be. The twins have 8 days left of first grade, and I’m struggling with the prospect of being away from them for more than one multi day event this summer. The treadmill key got lost in the move, and I haven’t ordered a replacement. I need to snap out of it, and I couldn’t figure out why I couldn’t drag myself out the door. As soon as I did, the answer was staring me in the face.
I don’t know what the next few months looks like, but I do know that things are going to change. Either one of these last two cycles is going to be successful, or I’ll be starting from scratch again. At least this time I know what works. And I’m already registered for a half marathon in October. Maybe I knew all along this was a hail Mary. Whatever the miles ahead bring, the best I can hope for is peace.