Between Hope and Heartbreak
Share
My heart dropped as the cramping intensified. I’d spent two weeks convincing myself this was finally it; the month for those two magical lines to appear.
That twinge in my abdomen? I convinced myself it had to be implantation cramps - those mysterious pains some women describe when the embryo attaches itself.
That bout of nausea? Surely it meant pregnancy, perhaps even going so far as to imagine the baby’s hair somehow already causing it, just like the midwives' tales say.
Sore breasts? Obviously, I imagined my body was already starting to make milk, as if symptoms could appear that quickly just because I wanted them to.
And that ice cream I grabbed at the supermarket? I labeled it as a CRAVING, a classic pregnancy sign in my mind, even though it probably had more to do with Dairyland’s persuasive advertising.
But here I am again, just like every month. Same scene, sitting on that toilet bowl, waiting for double lines and getting only one. The cycle repeats, each time no less difficult than the last. The two-week wait was brutal, and maybe I’d even manifested some of the symptoms this time.
Denial came first, as it always does - maybe I tested too early, I told myself, clinging to tiny sparks of hope. Every twitch, every cramp, every flutter kept whispering that maybe, just maybe, something was happening this month.
And still, I held onto faith. After all, I’d done everything. I dressed my miracle, visualizing and preparing for a baby. I stayed up late for all 25 days of the Hallelujah Challenge. Even Pastor Nathaniel had declared we’d conceive. Surely, that counted for something. I prayed, I trusted, I believed. I even raised my legs for 30 minutes to give the swimmers a fighting chance.
A few days later, reality crept in. I woke with heavy abdominal pressure. Maybe my uterus was expanding, making room for the new resident? Each step to the bathroom made it clear: it wasn’t that. It was happening again. The wetness confirmed it before my eyes did. My heart raced as disbelief blurred into heartbreak.
This can’t be happening. Not again.
I sat there, my trusted toilet bowl ally, assessing the damage. A spot of blood. Maybe implantation bleeding, I whispered, scrolling through my Flo app for stories to match my hope. But the cramps were louder than any comfort I could find.
I finally ripped the band-aid off. It wasn’t implantation bleeding, it was the start of another cycle, another round of disappointment.
I jumped into the shower, and everything came pouring out. Not just water, but my tears, pain, and disappointment. The water mingled with the silence and my sobs. There’s something strangely freeing about letting go of heartbreak and feeling that emotional release, even if it hurts.
It’s been four years of this cycle. Some months hurt more. The truth? Few understand this pain. So I sit with it quietly. For the few I tell, the unsolicited advice is unbearable. The doctor visits blur together, colder each time. Someday, I’ll tell the full story of the misdiagnoses, indifferences, and the cost of hearing "you’re still young." (P.S. I’m almost in my mid-thirties, so docs, please stop.)
For now, I’m just here, sharing what it’s like to live between hope and heartbreak, month after month. Stick around as I take you through these last four years... the ups, downs, meds, faith, laughter, and lessons. Maybe even what’s ahead: IVF, adoption, or something else.
It’s going to be raw. Honest. Sometimes painful, often funny, but always real - because that’s the only way I know how to tell this story.
Until next time, au revoir.