Today is the 7th anniversary of my one successful IUI. It was a Tuesday. We were in New York for the weekend (including Monday) and we got home around 2 in the morning. The calendar entry for that date reads very simply:
9:30 AM [Husband’s name] collection
10:30 AM IUI
How could I know then it would be the day everything changed.
Now is it both a blessing to be reminded of and a reminder that this is all I will ever have. That the memories must be savored, because they are all that is left. Creating the experience of a new pregnancy is beyond me, so I cling pathetically to what was. It seems to me that most people look at their conception day (or the other pregnancy milestones they capture) with unmitigated joy, knowing what is coming. I’m not devoid of gratitude or joy or relief in reliving these moments, but I continually feel the pain of having wanted more of them.
For people who have multiple children, they have so many special moments to relieve in each of the lives of their children. I have this one moment in time, not a romantic fade-to-black moment with my husband and me giggling over our wonderful sex life, but a sterile moment in a clinic, while I try not to flinch and afterwards cover myself with a blanket because after IUI, my body goes into a light state of shock and I get super cold. A blanket that I brought special after the first IUI (which resulted in a miscarriage, probably not because I didn’t bring the blanket.) that my grandmother made for me as a present when I graduated high school. A moment when Paula, our nurse, injects me with the sperm, one of whom graduated to become my beautiful child, to the bright lights and relaxing background music that I brought in because it helped me endure the IUIs.
It was unquestionably worth it, and I would do it again in a heartbeat, if I could. But I still wish for a better memory. For many better memories. That I’ll never have.