If you asked me a year ago how I envisioned today, I would have told you, without a doubt, it would be me and my husband, our two cats and a new baby celebrating Christmas. Instead it’s just us and the cats.
A small part of me still held out hope that I’d get a Big Fat Positive for Christmas. I imagined wrapping up the onesie hiding in the back of my sock drawer and putting it among the gifts to surprise my husband this morning. Everything was perfect for that. My cycle even lined up properly, making today the day I could conceivably test and expect a positive. I sat in the bathroom this morning while my husband was still sleeping, watching the dye slowly move up the test. Wishing with all my heart that there would be two lines. That after all these failed cycles and my infertility diagnosis we would get a Christmas miracle.
Five minutes later I was staring at a stark white test. No baby for me today. It wasn’t as bad as I was expecting. It was still early, my period isn’t due until tomorrow, I could get my BFP a day later. Even though it wouldn’t be on time for Christmas, I’d still be ecstatic.
All hopes were dashed less than an hour later when I got confirmation that I’m not pregnant. Another failed cycle. A Christmas morning spent sobbing on the bathroom floor.
A change has happened recently for my husband and I. We don’t talk about it, but we both notice it. We no longer talk about “when” we have a baby. Now we talk about “if”. “If we ever have kids we’ll do this” “If we ever have kids we’ll do that”. We’re slowly giving up hope of this ever happening for us. There is a hole in our life and we may never be able to fill it. My heart breaks when I look at my husband and think about what a great dad he would be, and how I may never be able to make him one. I know next Christmas it will be me and my husband and the cats. I’m losing hope that there will be a baby, our baby, there too.