To the sad woman in the OB/Gyn waiting room,
I see you.
I know why you’re here.
Don’t worry, I won’t tell the others.
I get you. I know how hard it is to sit in this room. They should make a separate waiting room for we women who are about to burst into tears. I know how hard it is to sit with all these beautiful women with their adorable bellies, toddlers in tow. Their spouses stare at them with loving eyes—so excited for the blessing that is safely held in their wives’ bellies. They don’t know your situation. They don’t understand your situation. Many of them couldn’t even imagine what you’re going through. If they knew, they would try to be more sensitive.
I know you’ve gone another month of trying to convince with no success. I know you’ve tracked everything, taken your temperature every day, peed on more sticks than you can count. I know you’ve taken prenatal vitamins for well over a year, hoping some day you’ll be taking them for a reason. I know how hard it is when you’re cycle starts, and your hope for that month is crushed. And how hard it is to control those emotions the second time, when you have to tell your spouse and see his disappointment, too.
I know you buy ovulation kits and pregnancy tests in bulk, because after a few months, the fancy ones get pretty expensive. I know you’ve been poked and prodded like crazy. Sometimes those pokes and prods come with happy results and sometimes sad. And sometimes they are both. Those rollercoaster emotions are OK. I have them, too.
I know when you started trying you bought the “mom car”—the one made to perfectly fit the car seat you hoped to soon be needing. I know it hurts every day to look in that empty back seat.
I know you have the whole nursery designed in your head and on a secret Pinterest board. You’ve held off decorating an empty room as long as you possibly can. People are starting to wonder. I know it’s hard to walk by that door every day.
I know how hard it is to have the extended family ask you where the babies are. They jokingly say “get on it” or “hurry up”. I know how hard it is to fake that smile when you say “we’re working on it”. Because omitting the truth isn’t entirely lying and that’s a way easier conversation than the tearful truth.
I know the judgmental eyes you get when other women ask if you have kids. They never considered that’s not by choice. If they only knew you’d give anything to be a part of their club, as they complain about temper tantrums and soccer matches.
I know how painful it is to watch your best friends get pregnant and have beautiful babies. I know how much you wish you could be experiencing these firsts with them. But at the end of the day, it would hurt more to be left out of their experience, so you cater to every pregnancy craving and listen to the morning sickness complaints.
I can’t promise you it’s going to work out. I can’t promise you that you’ll someday have a baby. All I can say is I’m not ready to give up, and I hope you aren’t either.
I know how unfair it is that we aren’t supposed to talk about this. That struggling to get pregnant is a faux pas. That you’re supposed to just suffer in silence. You feel alone.
I promise, you’re not alone.
I see you, I hear you, I get you. And it’s OK to be jealous and sad as you sit in this waiting room.
I am, too.
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