Moving On…Or Not

This past week, I’d been feeling like I was moving on to the acceptance phase of this whole yucky process.

Not just accepting that our most recent attempt at adoption failed, but also accepting where we are in this journey – that despite our best efforts, dozens of needles, tens of thousands of dollars and an unquantifiable amount of heartbreak, we’re still not parents. And we may never be. I can even type that without dissolving into a puddle of tears.

It’s not that we’re giving up, because we’re not. But rather than fighting against infertility, railing against the unfairness of it all and feeling like I was trapped in someone else’s nightmare rather than my own life, I think I’ve finally started to accept that this is who I am and this really is my life, for worse – and in some ways, for better. And that while this is a huge part of my life, it’s not the only part.

I need to start living my life again, to find pleasure and joy in aspects of it that have nothing to do with children and parenthood. To find enjoyment in my career again, to travel to all the places I want to see. To set goals for myself – attainable goals, instead of the “create life” one that seems to be always just beyond reach.

Then I was watching the Olympics tonight. The women’s skeleton races were on. Skeleton, in case you aren’t familiar with it, is a sport in which the competitors push a sled in a running start, jump onto said sled stomach down, and go flying head first along a winding, icy course at oh, say, 90 miles per hour.

German racer Diana Sartor, age 35, was about to make her second run when I tuned in. The sportscaster was gushing about Ms. Sartor’s performance during her first run. Then the sportscaster mentioned an announcement that Ms. Sartor made during the Games yesterday: she’s nine weeks pregnant.

As I was struggling to make my brain rewind what I thought my ears just heard, Ms. Sartor slammed her stomach onto her sled and went barreling headlong down the course to do her second run.

It’s nice to see that not every pregnant woman worries that their pregnancy will come to an untimely end, even if their normal routine involves doing belly flops onto heavy metal objects several times a day.

My time in the Land of Acceptance was a brief one. I’ve taken a detour onto the Barren and Bitter About It Path, which apparently circles back to another trip through the Angry with the Universe phase of the grieving process.