Hopeless at Easter.

We had a low key Easter over here.  My parents had to go out of town, and we had no set plans.  It was lovely.  The weather was perfect, and it was just a wonderful day for a happy Easter celebration.  I went to church.  We grilled burgers for lunch, and then watched the Little Guy run around the yard.  He had a great time pushing his new dump truck around.

Easter is about hope.  It is about being saved at the last minute when you think the world will end.  It happens in the spring, which is the perfect time to celebrate life. 

I used to love Easter.  It is such a happy and joyous holiday.  It usually fell somewhere around my birthday, so I was usually happy to have the excuse to continue a celebration just a little longer.

And then I had the infertility diagnosis.  After a few years of nothing, hope was hard to come by.  I did not want to celebrate life.  There was no hope for us, or so it seemed.  Many churches focus on children during their celebrations.  That was hard for someone who was unable to have children.  I stopped going to church on Easter.  I was to hard to be surrounded by all those children, knowing I would likely never have one of my own.

Then we got to do IVF, and I got pregnant.  Maybe it was kismet that my retrieval and transfer occurred in April.  Right before Easter, and its celebration of life.  I did not celebrate Easter that year, either.  I was busy trying to reconcile the fact that I was actually pregnant.  I had given up hope that it would ever happen, and then there it is.

The next year, I was too busy with the baby to really give Easter much thought other than the fact that it was the baby’s first Easter.  We got dressed up and went to church, but I do not think I registered very much.  Little Guy was only 3 months old at the time.  Sleep deprivation will do that to you.

This year, I actually sort of celebrated.  I went to church, we did an Easter basket for the Little Guy.  (Well, Easter dump truck, anyway.)  I actually had time to think about how I felt.

It does not feel the same. 

 It does not hurt as it did when I was in the throes of infertility.  I can tolerate the children, as I have one myself.  And I can get into the spirit of the joyfulness of the occasion.

But I remember.  All the talk about hope and being saved at the last minute by a miracle fell sort of flat to me. 

Hope is such a double edged sword.  You need it to get through the dark times, but it can cause so much pain.  Especially when you keep hoping and no one comes to save you, or help you.  Hope can hurt, and it can cut deep.  So many of us going through infertility have lost hope, or know that there is no hope. 

Usually we hope that we are part of the small percentage of people who a particular procedure works for.  When we did our IUIs, our chances of success were between 5-15%.  That was higher than what it was when we were on our own, but still not very high.  I stopped hoping with the IUIs.  There was no way that we would be the lucky ones.  We never are.  So what is the point of hoping?  It was better for me to plan on a negative outcome and protect my heart.  IVF was the only way we would ever be on the same playing field as fertile people.  That at least gave us around a 50% chance of working.  I would hope with that.  50% seems like a better gamble to me.

So given my history, and how long I had to deal with infertility and lost hope, all the talk about hoping for a miracle did not resonate for me.  I always had to make my own damn miracle, and I just know that there is no one coming to save me, so I have to do it myself.  Hope can come back when we are doing our FETs for the next little one.  Until then, I know that there will be nothing.

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