I've gotten used to measuring my life in increments of time based more on a painful experience than time itself. When Grandpa first died I began to unintentionally count everything: the first time I'd worn a specific shirt or listened to a specific song since he was alive, the first day I made it through without crying, the first holiday he wasn't at the dinner table with us, the first time I realized I had something to tell him that I would never get to say. And then it became the second and third times for everything. I stopped seeing months and seasons because I was stuck in the intense and incessant pain of loss.
Now I'm falling back into the routine all over again... but this time my life is measured by infertility. For months I've focused on moving forward with an RE, but for some reason I just can't bring myself to make the call. I am finding it difficult to take the next step because I don't want to have to take it. Once you know that you likely can't get pregnant on your own, there are only so many options left. Most of them are insanely expensive, many will likely involve physical and/or emotional pain and, worst of all, they could either carry on for several years... or fail entirely.
At church this past Sunday I told Amy that I was willing to do whatever it took, but that is far easier said than done. The truth is that I am stuck and that I have been for a long time. I don't know what I am doing or where I am going, and I certainly don't know how I'm going to get there. All I want is some clear direction and a way out of this rut. But instead I am just spinning my wheels and starting to believe that I'll be stuck here forever.
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