Our second baby would have been two on Sunday. I didn’t remember until yesterday. I forgot our third baby’s first birthday, and our fourth and fifth babies’ miscarriage day, in March. I would have to work out the due dates and miscarriage dates of babies six, seven and eight – I have never committed them to memory.
It’s not that they don’t matter any more, now that I have a live baby inside me – I still visit the grave of baby number three and cry over what might have been, had any of them survived. It’s just that it is all part of the big pit of infertility and no more or less painful than any other failed cycle or treatment or kick in the guts.
Other people mark their baby’s short life by planting a tree or creating a memory box. Some people say that not a day goes by that they don’t think about their lost baby. I spend most of my time thinking about the baby inside me and looking forward to the life I wasn’t sure I’d ever have.
Contrary to what some people have said to me, it didn’t get easier each time. My hardest miscarriage, my blackest moment was last summer, miscarriage number six. When that baby died, after a promising start, I knew there was very little hope left. I didn’t really mourn the baby that I’d lost, just the one I thought I would never have. It was all part of the same ordeal.
Now I feel like a champion. I don’t feel like I have anything to mourn. I did it. I’m going to have a baby. I will always be an infertile – not a day goes by that I don’t think about infertility, how it has changed me, how so many others are still suffering and how it will be with me forever. But I am one of the lucky ones and right now that has more significance than anything else.