I'm Moving On

I'm moving on and life is beginning to have a routine again.  I appear to be moving through life as normal once again, but I'm not.  It's like I'm moving through some sort of mist.   I know I have to go buy groceries, but I don't even remember what I get half the time.  I clean house and I go through the motions, but at the end of the day when I'm laying in bed with a heating bad I can't seem to remember anything from the day and have no idea why I'm in so much pain.

I go out with my friends, but the friends I have around all have kids.  Even these moments are surrounded by a fog.  I'm acting the part of a friend, I'm listening, I'm chatting, and I'm interacting with the children, but it's an act.  It's an act to appear complete and whole.  An act to be normal and an act to tell everybody that I'm okay and I'm moving on.  It's just an act though.  I'm broken.  I'm hurting and I have no idea how to really move on.  I hear all the time how "strong" I am, but I don't understand why people think this zombie of a human is considered strong.  I'm strong because I'm able to act fine?  I'm strong because I have no idea how to breath again.  How does that make me strong?

How am I suppose to move on?   How am I suppose to be okay with being the mother of dead babies only?  How am I suppose to hang out with friends and their young children, that only serve to remind me at how much I've failed?

I wish I knew what the next step was.  I wish the options didn't hurt so much.  If we try again and we lose another, I'm not sure I'll even be able to act normal.  If we give up and never have a biological child I'm not sure I can ever get over that sadness.  I wish I could have peace in the fact that adoption would be enough for this aching heart.  I worry my husband, as well, will always have the same sadness of never having a biological child.  I watch him interact with children and my heart breaks all over again.  I want to give him one.  I would love to have those 9 months of bonding, and the time of breast feeding, but most of all I want to give my husband a child.  I want to see him be a father, a father of a child he helped create.

He's gone through so many test and he's all good to go. We know medically and physically our problem is with me.  We've only managed our miracles because of him.  I know I shouldn't feel this way, but knowing the problem is within me, it makes it so hard not to worry.  I worry daily he's going to wake up and realize he choose a dud of a wife.  He choose a loser.  I worry that one day he'll walk away because he realizes I can't get better.  I can't satisfy his desire to father, and so much more.  I don't doubt his love, I just doubt the dream.

My husband always knows when these doubts take over and he is so patient and so kind.  He always tells me that when it comes to our infertility, it is ours, not mine.  It is our hardship to handle together, it isn't mine to travel alone.  I know he'll always be by my side and I know he'll always tackle this, not as my failure, but as our journey to parenthood. I know all this, and I don't doubt it.  Yet, I can't help but have those moments where I feel like a failure of a wife and I wonder when love will not be enough to hide my failure.