Bittersweet

I haven’t talked much here about the relationships (if you can call them that) with some of the men I’ve been involved with in the last 25 years, and how it is that here I am, on my own, having a family. I did joke about it at the start of this blog, and much of that was tongue in cheek, but true nevertheless. I’ve had three major relationships in that time, two with hopeless, self-centered narcissists, and the one I actually married (that was almost 20 years ago), who truly would have been a great father, except for the fact that he was/is a meth addict, and was/is unable to get or keep a job. It really pisses me off that I did everything in my power to make these men happy, but all they did was wallow in the mess they’d made of their own lives. Two years ago I made the decision to go forward on my own, and the strange thing is that when was in my 20’s I always had the unsettling feeling that I would be doing this alone.

I’ve always taken pride in the fact that I’m fairly intelligent, but when it comes to love I have an idiot’s heart. For some strange reason I think that some fool on a barstool is going to be the love of my life. The one I almost married, I was with for eight years. He will, from this point forward, be known as Jagoff, or J.O. for short.

I was 32 when I met J.O. and hadn’t been sober for about two years. Needless to say my judgment was a little off. We spent a couple of tumultuous years, then I ended it, for the sixteenth thousandth time, only to find myself pregnant at 35. We got back together, and three days later, the morning he screamed at me when I asked him to go to the doctor with me, (he had/has a little temper issue, as we will explore) I miscarried baby #1.

Now, up until that point I had not used any birth control with JO. We had been together for three years, and done a lot of drinking in that time. I realized that I needed to quit drinking and get back to school, and had been sober, by the time I became pregnant, for nine months. I guess the universe or God decided if I could do it for nine months, then I was allowed to get pregnant. I wasn’t trying. But I wasn’t using any birth control either. I often wondered if there were something wrong, but lack of health insurance, plus the consistent assurance from EVERY woman I knew that I had “plenty of time to have children, even well into your forties” made me feel that I did not have anything to worry about.

So this pregnancy, and loss, led to my staying with this freakshow for five more years, trying for a baby. By the time I finished college and got myself a nice job with great health insurance benefits, I was 38. The first three RE’s I saw all said, “you have ovulation problems, low progesterone, and oh, by the way, you’re getting too old to have any good quality eggs. You should have been in here 10 years ago.” Huh? I was told I could have kids until I was, like, 49-50! This event in my life has led me to never take advice from anyone, check it out for yourself before you base major life decisions on someone’s opinion who has no idea what they are talking about. Now I know plenty of women who get pregnant and have healthy kids well into their forties. But I’m convinced that my eggs aged prematurely, and there is no question in my mind that this fact is directly related to years of heavy smoking and drinking. I just never made the connection that the health of my eggs was at stake.

So then the temperature taking, the sex timing, the ovulation kits, the message boards, and Clomid. Ah, loved the Clomid. And got pregnant again. But didn’t KNOW I was pregnant, assumed I was not after negative hpt’s, until I helped T move. And in the midst of moving heavy furniture, had stabbing pain in my gut and passed the hugest clots I’ve ever seen. The next morning went to the RE’s and got a beta, which confirmed I had indeed, been pregnant. So miscarriage #2. Also JO’s.

By this time I was beginning to realize that not only was there a pretty big possibility that I may never have children, but that the entity (not sure I can really call him a person) I was sharing my life with was completely devoid of any sympathy toward me regarding this realization. It was almost as if he was afraid to talk about it. He did want kids, that I was sure of. Being nine years older than me, loved children, and despite his horrible temper, was actually a pretty great guy most of the time. But when it came to supporting me through my infertility struggle, he was a piece of shit. Now I realize he just didn’t know what to do or say. But the message boards and blogs are what eventually killed it for me. It was awful to read about all these women who were struggling with infertility too, but had loving, kind, sympathetic husbands who were there for them when they got a negative beta, when the doctor had yet more bad news about their reproductive system, when they had a loss. My partner got pissed off because he couldn’t have sex every day so he could keep his sperm count up. He took it personally when my breasts were sore from medication. And the mood swings, forget it. I had to pretend and do the Pollyanna dance to keep his temper at bay. And cried myself to sleep alone for a thousand nights, because he just didn’t care. All for his child.

The final final was pretty much about donor eggs. He simply refused to discuss it. By this time we were engaged, and doing injections and inseminations. For him, the horror of having to produce a sample was the end of all tortures. He simply did not have what it takes to get through an IVF, and then add to it the donor issues I am now facing. He was much too weak for that. So that was the end for me. Shortly after my 40^th birthday it was over and I knew I would never take him back. That was two years ago, and here I am.

I’m still getting over the bitterness and the sorrow of not having a loving man to share this joy and excitement with, and having to raise these kids on my own. It hurts sometimes when feel lonely. But I thank God every day that my kids are not his. I never want them to hurt like I did and to have to live with a maniac like him. And although I’ve forgiven him, simply for my own spiritual peace, I do feel a sense of sweet reward now that I am going to be a mother after all.

My message to him is this: it doesn’t matter what you’ve done with your life, whether you are happy or not, whether you have love in your life or not. It does not matter to me at all. Because I’ve got mine. And nothing can change that now.

Comments

[gigi]

As I was reading this I was thinking about the irony that you weren't able to sustain a pregnancy until you were in a safe and healthy place for both yourself and your babies. Maybe there is some cosmic all that knows more about timing than we do?

I was in a relationship for ten years with an alcoholic who had a failure to communicate (or save money, or pay bills, or hold a job....). Towards the end of our sentence together we decided that we would start our family (finally). And then one morning, right before the family starting was to begin, I woke up and decided to leave him. And it was the best decision I ever made. Now here I am, 2 years later, married to my ex's complete opposite and we have our first baby on the way. Timing....