The day dreams died

Four years ago yesterday we found out we'd never have children.

I remember that day like it was yesterday.  Hubs and I drove separately.  I was planning to go back to work after the appointment.  I remember squeezing my car into a tiny spot in the underground parking garage.  I remember meeting hubs in the lobby.  I remember the elevator ride to the 12th floor, complete with stops on the NICU floor, the labor floor, and the postpartum floor before we got where we were going.  I remember anxiously sitting in the waiting room while two young children being "supervised" by what appeared to be their mother and grandmother played loudly (as an aside, there is nothing that anyone can say that makes a valid case for children being in the waiting room of a reproductive endocrinologist's office).  I remember being shuffled back to the doctor's office.  I remember the atta boy he gave hubs for his stellar test results.  And I remember the complete lack of compassion that he delivered my abysmal test results with.  I remember sitting there but not feeling like I was in my own body.  I could see his mouth moving but I didn't hear anything.  I knew exactly what he was saying and how bad it was.  I remember being shuffled from his office to the office of the financial guy and listening to his pitch because we didn't have the energy to tell him that it was useless information for us.  I remember being shuffled to the IVF nurse's office and pretending to listen to her because, even after we told her we wouldn't be doing IVF, she insisted we'd change our minds, and we didn't have the energy to fight her.  I remember sitting on a bench in the hallway crying to myself and texting a friend while hubs used the restroom. I remember taking the elevator down to the parking garage, paying for my parking, and making it to the car before breaking down.  I remember that by the time I made it to the exit, my 15 minutes between paying and exiting the garage had already passed, and I couldn't get out.  I remember the parking attendant coming to the gate, seeing the look of me, him saying "aww, sweetie, it'll get better" and then scanning me out with his employee badge.  It's not lost on me that the only ounce of compassion I got that day (other than from my husband) was from the parking attendant. 

I don't know why this crappy anniversary hit me so hard this year.  Or even why I remember every moment of that day.  Generally speaking, things get less hard with the passage of time, but not this day this year.

In about an hour we'll head out to see my family, celebrate the birthdays of all of my nieces and nephews, and meet the new baby.  The trip was planned before I realized that yesterday was going to be so hard on me.

I know I've neglected this space lately, but today, on a day where I'm feeling not being able to have children viscerally, I'm glad I have it.