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Well, hell. I’ve arrived. My first blog-fight… there are other corners of blogland that have regular scuffles (Heir to Blair comes to mind), but this is my first.

Before I write anything else, I want to thank my bloggy cheerleaders… your “rah, rah, rah’s” (past & present) are incredibly appreciated. And thank you for your protective and supportive comments on the previous post — wow, you girls really know how to make someone (that would be me) feel loved! :)

I’ve been thinking a lot since reading (another)sarah’s words — words that I truly believe were carefully chosen and were not intended to be disrespectful or anything other than helpful. (Another) is right — I did put myself out here publicly to solicit support, feedback, & help. Without fail, that’s what I’ve received; sometimes that support has been the tenuous thread holding me in place. I don’t have a ton of readers, and that’s ok. What I DO have is a network of girls who I’ve come to value & count as friends, people whom I hope to meet in real life someday. (Another), thank you for taking the time to subscribe to & read my words, and the time & effort spent composing your thoughts.

I think it’s clear that (another)’s words were not received in the way that she intended. My immediate reaction was hurt, anger, & defensiveness, which I think is the same reactions some of my other readers had. To put it mildly, she hit a sore spot with us touchy infertiles. Those of us who have been unable to have a family & who want one have been met with the “just be happy with what you have” argument more times than we can count. That’s like telling the single person who yearns for a companion to suck it up, be happy, and stay single. Can they have a productive, joyful life? Yes. But will they ever feel completely fulfilled and content? Not while the yearning continues. And telling yourself to stop yearning doesn’t work. Trust me, I’ve tried.

The desire for a child is difficult, if not impossible, to explain. There’s a longing to “mother” something beyond yourself, to give of yourself, to let it be someone else’s turn. Bobby and I have never wavered in our desire for children — and yes, it’s me AND Bobby, not just me. We’ve had the “what if” discussion — what if we’re not meant to have kids? What if we’re not good parents? What if we’re never able to have a family? For me personally, the thought of not having children is in the same category as not believing in life after death. There’s no hard evidence that it’s the right or correct thing, but the alternative is just too hopeless. I have to believe that my mother’s spirit still exists. I have to believe that Bobby and I have a child in our future. There has to be life beyond what I can see.

So, that said, I respectfully reject the idea that my body’s inability to carry a baby is a sign that I’m “not ready” or “not meant” to have children, just as I would reject the idea that a diabetic’s inability to produce insulin is a sign that he/she isn’t meant to live healthily.

In this written forum, I am wrapped up in me-me-me. After all, isn’t a blog itself inherently selfish and narcissistic? You write with the assumption that someone’s going to care, even if it’s only one or two IRL friends who humor you & become pity-readers. But Bobby does have a say, does have an opinion, does have an input. And I could keep positing that, but instead I’m going to let him speak for himself.

Excerpt from Bobby’s blog:

I am not sure how to begin other than it is a rainy day outside and it feels rainy inside.

Today, August 12, 2009 Sarah and I experienced our third miscarriage. WOW…is it even fair to say “we” experienced another miscarriage? She is experiencing the physical pain accompanied by the emotional loss. I am sitting on the sidelines, hoping to help my hurting wife.

I am not the one who woke up this morning to experience the physical loss of an unborn child. I am not the one who feels the inability to carry a pregnancy to term. I am not a mother or a woman. I cannot comprehend the depth of emptiness knowing that the little person growing inside of you just could not hold on little while longer, instead of going to live with their other two siblings. How do we cope as males with the loss of a child that we have not seen, felt, touched, experienced. The only knowledge we have of a pregnancy is that little test that says “Positive” or the first time we see a little blob on a screen that turns into a little beating heart.

How do we stay strong? How do we see the light at the end of the tunnel. We promise that we could be great parents. And yes, we would like to know what it is like to wake up in the middle of the night to a crying child, or clean-up the puke on the brand new carpet, or the muddy hands on the wall, or…. just to know what it is like to feel life shine through the eyes of a miracle.

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