I have a million things to do today but every inch of me wants nothing more than to curl up in my bed and go to sleep. Lately I've been passing out around eight o' clock every night while putting CC to bed, then sleeping like the dead for a good ten or eleven hours. I'll wake with a burst of energy, but by the afternoon it is spent and I find myself slogging along until bedtime.
I was hoping that this abundance of sleepiness was due to pregnancy, but this morning's test disproved the theory. Our OIT failed, which means I am in for another round of treatments if I want to keep trying.
I do, but guys, I'm so tired. I'm bone tired. Soul tired. Every little joint and muscle sore tired.
I haven't talked to the fertility specialist yet, but I'm wondering if they'll increase my Femara dosage on the next round. More eggs would mean more chances, and this past month my body only made one that measured up. Of course, that would also increase the risk for multiples - an idea that used to thrill me, but now seems super scary, given the additional layers of risk carrying twins would produce.
So the chemistry is one factor. Another, of course, is stress. I don't know how to reduce it at this point, but I am sure that all my mixed up emotions aren't helping me get pregnant. I find myself defending my mental health more aggressively these days. When someone makes my heart race I am quicker than I used to be in shutting them down or walking away. But no matter how good I get at fending off outside aggressors, it's the battle within my own heart that takes the largest toll.
Sometimes it feels like the emotional aspect of all this has been numbed - like my circuits were so overloaded with grief and worry and stress that I'm no longer able to process or release any of it. It just sits there on my chest, pushing me back into bed and muddling my everyday thoughts.
My escape is work, and I have a tendency to load up my tray like a compulsive over-eater set loose at The Golden Corral. Just point me toward that chocolate fountain, y'all.
My body inevitably gives out on me while I am working to accomplish all that I've taken on. The ambient stress of juggling multiple jobs, numerous projects, and hovering deadlines is probably hurting more than helping. But without work to do, I'm in danger of focusing on the things that really shake me up. I guess I'm worried that if I ever slow down the grief will catch me.
Meanwhile, my house is eternally messy. The dishes permanently live in the sink instead of the cabinets. Laundry piles up in mountain ranges. Our puppy gets wilder by the day, and I wonder how anybody keeps up with the domestic side of things while holding down a job of any kind. I forever have too much to do.
It's in these kinds of moments that I doubt this endeavor the most. Maybe the voice of doubt is right, and I couldn't handle another baby anyway. Maybe I need to stop being greedy and just accept the one beautiful child I've been given and throw in the towel for number two.
But then I look at CC and realize how quickly he is growing up, and I feel a pain deep in my guts telling me that I'm just not ready for this chapter of my life, the one where I am Mama to tiny little people, to be over yet.
How can I explain to anyone that despite everything bad that has happened in the past two years, the three years I've had with CC are the best of my entire life? Is it so wrong that I want it to last a little longer? That I want to be Mama again and again and fill my house with loud, messy, exhausting children who need my attentions twenty four hours a day?
No chocolate fountain could every replace that. No book deal. No brand sponsorship. No amount of page views or IG followers, or contributor assignment could ever compare with the joy of waking up to a smiling baby.
So we'll keep going. For now.
