The hardest part about secondary infertility is not what you are missing out on, but what your only child is missing out on. My husband has 3 brothers and a sister. I have 2 sisters. Never in a million years did I ever think we’d only have one child. That was never, ever in the plans. I still dream about what kind of big brother Nick would be, I imagine the pictures I would take of him and his baby sister or brother. Fuck, I wouldn’t care if it was a baby monkey at this point.
We can convince ourselves of all the benefits of having just one. We can try to convince the world that we think one is enough, that we planned this all along. But we’re not fooling anyone. Even when Nick wakes us up in the middle of the night and we are zombies the next day, we laugh about how hard it would be to go back to sleep deprivation. But I know that deep down, we’d both go back there in a heart beat, if it was that easy.
I try so hard to be grateful for what we do have – a healthy, happy, awesome son. But it is hard to see pregnant women and to see babies. And it physically makes my heart
break shatter to see siblings. To see big brothers and sisters with their little brothers and sisters. Cuddling them, holding their hands as they learn to walk, helping them, even just sitting next to them. And I can’t help but immediately be reduced to that person who only thinks about what she doesn’t have.
I started working out and trying to lose weight because it was the only control I had over my body. I couldn’t make it get pregnant, no matter what we tried. So I decided if I couldn’t be pregnant then goddamnit I’d be skinny*. Losing weight feels good. But losing weight doesn’t even come close to the same feeling of adding another person to your family. And while I mourn for what I don’t have, I’m absolutely destroyed about what my son doesn’t have. A sibling.