This weekend we officially moved into our new condo. It feels like it’s been a long time coming, and taken a lot of blood, sweat and tears. J’s parents came on Saturday to help us start moving things from our previous home, on the second floor, to our new home on the fourth, and top, floor. You’d think it’d be a pretty easy move, only 2 floors up, but you still have to pack all of your things to get them from point A to point B. We didn’t need a lot of help, since our tenants don’t take possession of our old unit until Nov. 15, but we did need some assistance with larger items, and some of the cleaning.
We went appliance shopping Saturday morning, and J’s mom had already arrived just before we headed out. She was going to help finish cleaning our new unit so it was ready to bring all of our belongings up. We left for a few hours, and while we were out J’s dad and brother arrived as well and sent J a text to ask what they could start moving. I told J I’d really prefer if they waited for us to come home before they started moving anything, as I’d rather be there to supervise since the majority of our house was not packed and I didn’t really want them just chucking stuff in boxes.
When we got home they were just hanging out waiting for us, and wanted to get going as soon as we walked in the door. So, we immediately started disassembling things, packing items away and loading already packed boxes onto a cart to be taken upstairs. There were 5 of us all together, including J and myself, and I felt overwhelmed with the magnitude of the task at hand. Boxes started leaving, most of the contents of our spare room was quickly whisked upstairs. Our mattress was moved upstairs, so I began the task of taking apart our bed so the pieces could be moved. I saw my father in law leave with an armload of coats from our spare room closet, things I hadn’t yet packed were being thrown into boxes and moved upstairs.
Anxiety was creeping up my neck as I noticed an empty front closet, a cartload of a mishmash of items. J came in from having just taken our massive couch upstairs, to ask me where my keys were, when he saw me just standing in chaos with a screwdriver in my hand, looking lost. He asked me what was wrong, and it all became too much. I was freaking out, I told him, I didn’t know where my keys were because I didn’t know where my coat was. Things were just getting out of hand. I felt bad that I wanted everyone to stop moving things, because I knew they were just trying to help, but I needed to sort through my own things, pack them the way I wanted, so I knew what was what, and not be rushed. I told J that I appreciated everyone helping, but I would prefer they help with the big things and leave the smaller stuff to us.
J went off to tell his dad to slow down, to let us pack things before they got taken upstairs, and the flurry of motion slowed down. Later, J’s dad and I rode the elevator up with a load of things, and he apologized for getting ahead of himself but I felt as though he thought I was being a little unreasonable, and he just trying to be helpful. J’s family helped move the rest of our large items, and then J’s dad asked if they were needed any further. We told them no, thank you, but we should be able to manage the rest and they excused themselves to leave.
J and I spent the rest of the evening carefully and orderly packing, and unpacking things. We organized the kitchen to our liking, spent time deciding what should go where. Cleaning things as we went along and making decisions on the layout of our new home. It felt good, just him and I working together.
Earlier in the day when I saw J’s dad moving a load of coats out of our spare room, I also spied a little bib in the pile. A bib that I bought in May of 2012, just before we started trying for a baby. At the time that I bought it, I was buying other items for my best friend who was about to have her first child. I saw the bib which said “Daddy’s Little Monster” and I had to get it. J calls our dogs his little monsters, and it just felt fitting, and exciting for the new chapter of our lives that we were about to begin. After so much time has passed, it just hurts seeing that bib hanging in the closet. The closet in the room that was meant to be for our baby, instead filled with old coats, luggage and other odds and ends we haven’t had to find another home for.
I have fertility related products strewn all throughout our house. Estrogen, antibiotics and prenatals in the spare bathroom; a multitude of vitamins and minerals in the cupboard above the stove, ovulation predictor sticks under the sink; and a pregnancy book in my night stand. I hastily tucked items away as J’s parents were pulling open closets and drawers.
It felt like an invasion of privacy all over again. Infertility has taken so much. I can’t bear to look at the bib in my spare room closet, I want to throw out the pregnancy book in my nightstand (yet can’t for the hope that I may need it). I want to quit with the meds, I don’t want to have multiple doctors probe me multiple times, to be able to impregnate me without my husband even being present.
When first trying to conceive, you feel as though it is on your terms. You decide when to throw out the birth control, because a spring baby would suit you, you finally paid off the student loans, you bought the big house, you scored the big promotion. And so you try, with excitement each month, until the excitement starts to wane, frustration takes its place and frustration gives way to worry.
As I am about to start the meds this week for my second attempt at an FET, I have hope that some of it may still be on my own terms. Let the meds do their job, and let us please get to transfer before Christmas.