This has happened before—in various ways, shapes and forms—but I’ve never written about it. In the wee morning hours of the morning I had a dream that hubs and I had a very chubby baby boy. We decided to name him Samuel and to call him “Sam,” for short. (Which is exactly the kind of one syllable nickname I think I’d love to shout during a soccer game.) I picked him up and hugged him and felt like my heart might burst with love.
Do you know how the dream ended? I was getting out my phone to text my friend in NYC, my one and only friend who knows all about our IF stuff, to tell her it finally happened. We finally had a baby. I was literally TEXTING her the news, and as I typed the words I woke up.
At first I thought it really happened—that we had a beautiful baby named Sam. For maybe 20 seconds I was in bed enjoying this blissful feeling of relief and joy and love and excitement. And then I turned over and saw the rain pounding against the bedroom window and I remembered: We don’t have a baby. We aren’t pregnant. I don’t ovulate. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. The IUI didn’t work. I’m on BCPs. (Seriously, you can think all of that stuff in an instant.)
What I am: perhaps slightly-tearfully-semi-depressed. Kinda struggling to deal with myself or work or normal life stuff. Going crazy on the bench. Aching for a little Sam, yet so very very very far away.