"The only thing more painful than having a baby is not being able to have a baby," one poster pronounces. Amen sister, I think.
On the battered, green plastic chairs every type of person waits. There are couples of all descriptions, holding hands, nervous, quietly chatting or lost in their own silent world. There are far more women on their own, passing time on their phones, reading, or staring into space. Where are their minds wandering? Probably the same place as mine - we are all here fighting for the same thing. The treatments may all be different but I still feel a kindred spirit with the others who share this space with me. It is mercifully beach-ball-belly free, as only those who are struggling to conceive are invited inside.
Today, however, there is a woman with her daughter, who looks to be about 4 or 5. Without noticing it at first, I feel the anger and jealousy in me rising up; jealous of her child, and anger at her for flaunting something we all so desperately, deeply want. Then I take a deep breath and remind myself that secondary infertility is STILL infertility. That doesn't make me feel much better. Let it go, I tell myself. I look back down at my magazine and remind myself there is not a limited amount of babies allowed in the world.
The woman with her child is called from the waiting room and I find myself wondering what I will do if I have one child and then (like this time) I'm unable to get pregnant on my own and I need treatment. Would I bring my child in to the fertility clinic with me? Is it wrong to want a second child when we fight with everything we have just for the first one?
Now it's just women and couples again, all waiting to be called in. Most of us will receive bad news, some might receive good news, the majority of us will be back here later this week or month for another scan, another blood draw, another round of medications. The lengths we will go to to have a baby of our own knows no bounds. They call my name and it's my turn again. I cross my fingers and say a prayer and hope against hope that this time, something has gone right.
On the battered, green plastic chairs every type of person waits. There are couples of all descriptions, holding hands, nervous, quietly chatting or lost in their own silent world. There are far more women on their own, passing time on their phones, reading, or staring into space. Where are their minds wandering? Probably the same place as mine - we are all here fighting for the same thing. The treatments may all be different but I still feel a kindred spirit with the others who share this space with me. It is mercifully beach-ball-belly free, as only those who are struggling to conceive are invited inside.
Today, however, there is a woman with her daughter, who looks to be about 4 or 5. Without noticing it at first, I feel the anger and jealousy in me rising up; jealous of her child, and anger at her for flaunting something we all so desperately, deeply want. Then I take a deep breath and remind myself that secondary infertility is STILL infertility. That doesn't make me feel much better. Let it go, I tell myself. I look back down at my magazine and remind myself there is not a limited amount of babies allowed in the world.
The woman with her child is called from the waiting room and I find myself wondering what I will do if I have one child and then (like this time) I'm unable to get pregnant on my own and I need treatment. Would I bring my child in to the fertility clinic with me? Is it wrong to want a second child when we fight with everything we have just for the first one?
Now it's just women and couples again, all waiting to be called in. Most of us will receive bad news, some might receive good news, the majority of us will be back here later this week or month for another scan, another blood draw, another round of medications. The lengths we will go to to have a baby of our own knows no bounds. They call my name and it's my turn again. I cross my fingers and say a prayer and hope against hope that this time, something has gone right.
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