I have landed in physical therapy many times, from various injuries.   Most have been textbook type of things that anybody would guess an overweight woman might suffer, like back injuries, or knee issues or whatever.  But I have had a few that were odd.  Once I pulled my quadratus muscle, which is an obscure rib-bone-connected-to-the-hip-bone kind of thing (sorry if I’m getting too technical here).  The physical therapist didn’t figure out  that’s what it was until he employed the usual PT detective work which is <poke> “does that hurt? <poke> how about that?” until I scream.  Come to think of it, the dentist does that too with the cold-air thing, trying to find the tooth that makes me cry every time I eat ice cream (and do I stop? nooooo)

Lately I have been poking myself.  Trying to see what condition my condition is in.  People pregnant here and there, and all that.  Even though I’m probably expected to slide back into the emotional inflammation so typical after an infertility loss – the punch in the gut when I hear so-and-so is pregnant – I haven’t.


I certainly don’t begrudge anyone that particular thing.  It’s just part of the deal, worse for some than others.  Some women puke when they’re pregnant; some get cankles.  What are you gonna do.  Some of us felt worthless and picked on by God, some of us had evil fertile cousins, some of us had wonderful attitudes all the way through.

I have written before about how some of my crappiest life experiences have woven themselves into the fabric of who I am.  I am not a person to whom this or that heartbreak happened; I am a person, and that heartbreak is a part of me, just like some other undeserved gift also is a part of me.  Obviously having a child, and the child that we got, really turns down the volume on the heartbreaks that came before.

And I am thankful/sorry/grateful/sad that even as I have the occasional friend pregnancy to remind me of what we lost, I also have baby loss, and miscarriage, among my friends and relations.  To remind me of what we have.

So I’ve been poking, at my heart.   Friends having babies.  The Time article on only children, which has been suggested and recommended to me more than once.  <does that hurt?>  The bags of baby stuff, and the hesitant way my husband and I try to discuss a future that may or may not have another baby in it.   That was a baby we used to feel sure of, and now we don’t.  <poke>

I seem to be fine.  Still recovering from losing the embryos; still peeling back the layers of anger and numbness and sadness and fear.  But I’m pretty sure that the jealous, bitter, cheated part of me dissolved somewhere along the way.  I continue to believe that letting that little tumor be what it is, until its work is done, is a healthy thing for me.  Trying to pretty up infertility and not feel the blackest parts usually just made it even worse, so I was messy and jealous and … you know.  Let’s just say I rode all the rides.

I wish I could show my face (in the way that I never wanted to before) when good news strikes, and let the friends who get it know: it doesn’t hurt anymore.   Really.  Poke away.