Stop all the clocksIt's one of those days where time moves slowly inside my protective bubble and speeds up outside it to compensate. This uneven space time continuum lets me analyse the situation, contemplate the implications and prepare myself to re-enter reality, which is now as unfamiliar to me as Jupiter.
Unlike on TV, there is no once-off diagnosis of sterility; the doctor doesn't call you into his office and say "I've looked at the scan and I'm sorry, you can't have children", and then you are free to come to terms with the diagnosis and reshape your life accordingly.
If only it was that easy.
Instead, you face the drip, drip, drip of infertility. Month after month, year after year of hopes dashed, slowly fading, until one day you get to the point where an outsider would deem it time to close the book. The chances of a baby are so slim and the costs so high that nobody would consider it a sane bet.
But there is a flaw in the argument. That outsider never wanted a baby so much that he or she would saw off their own right arm to be able to have one. That outsider never had to make the choice to give up everything they had ever worked towards, all they had ever hoped and dreamed of. This is not a rehearsal, this is the rest of our lives, right here and right now. We don't have much time left and once it is gone, we will never get it back. It is not about a cost-benefit analysis. If there is a 1% chance, then it could be us. If we do get to the end unrewarded and I look back at the career, the home, the financial security I gave up in the pursuit of the babies I could never hold, then I will have no regrets. Because I will know that we will have done everything we could possibly have done. What more can you ask of yourself?
But we are not there yet, despite how it looks, no matter what others think.