Just Keep Going Until You Can't

Crossing the finish line at the 2016 Philadelphia Marathon. Feels more empowering and symbolic now than it did then.

In a recent therapy session, I asked my therapist, “How can one person keep going?”

I was asking for a friend. Okay, no. I was asking for me. How could I keep moving forward when it seemed like everything that surrounded me was trauma, tragedy, and disappointment?

She answered, “You just keep going until you can’t.”

What the hell? I thought. What kind of answer is that? Okay, well, I can’t then. I can’t do this anymore.

I can’t keep grieving my mom and I can’t keep waking up every morning knowing I will never have her back, nor have any hope that I’ll be a mother myself. I can’t keep going to the appointments every week, sometimes every other day, and experience the panic attacks that come with the PTSD from being taken back to the day I was alone in an office with a new doctor who told me that my twin babies no longer had a heartbeat. I can’t keep getting stabbed in my veins multiple times a week, alternating arms, to have bloodwork done. I can’t keep taking medications that truly make me feel crazy and more depressed than ever. I can’t keep swallowing 15 vitamins a day with the hopes that it will help my chances. I can’t keep taking pregnancy tests only to find out another treatment cycle has failed and remembering the time we celebrated a positive pregnancy test. I can’t keep going into the clinic to learn that a treatment cycle was cancelled. I can’t keep getting the surgeries and the painful procedures done. I can’t keep putting a smile on my face when I see friends, family, and coworkers and tell them I am fine. I can’t see a pregnant person or an announcement without my chest tightening and tears rolling down my cheeks. I can’t watch television when it has to do with pregnancy or family because it’s all too triggering.

I can’t, but yet I can. Because I am doing it. If I stop, what’s the alternative?

“I can’t but yet I can. Because I am doing it. If I stop, what’s the alternative? ”

I can’t stop grieving my mom because grief is the extension of love and I loved (love) my mom so much it hurts, and I miss her so much it hurts. Her life deserves to be celebrated. My greatest fear is that people will forget her so I will continue to honor her legacy.

I can’t stop going to the ultrasounds, getting stabbed with needles, and taking the medication and supplements, because those appointments, those blood draws, those procedures, and those medications are putting me one step closer to the child we pray for.

I am not at the point where I can stop yet, but for the women who have decided to stop this process, that’s okay too. You are not less than for walking away from this hellish journey, or for anything else for that matter.

I used to be the person who had to keep doing and reaching in order to feel validated, whether that be a new challenge (let’s run a marathon!), a new endeavor (let’s write a book!), a new education level (let’s get my master’s), or a new job. But, since my mom died, I became very still. I stopped moving, literally and figuratively. I became quiet. I stopped caring what other people thought. I stopped reaching. I stopped going out. And, while I do believe it helped with the healing process, I feel like I got lost in the stillness, in the quietness.

I will never be the same person I was before my mom died. I will never be the same person I was before I miscarried my twins. Hell, I will never be the same person after this infertility journey. But I am learning that that is okay and, while I am on this hamster wheel of infertility, grief, and life, I am vowing to search for that spark again. Because even though every part of my being wants to give up sometimes, I know there is more to this journey than I can understand right now.

I can and I will.

Mom, one of your favorite one-liners to me was “mind over matter” and I’ve thought about that a lot when I am faced with doing something I truly do not think I can do (like running a marathon or getting an ultrasound after the miscarriage). I am grateful for the years I had with you and for remembering the many snippets of wisdom you shed on me throughout my life. I wasn’t always listening but I heard you, even if it was years, sometimes decades later.

I love you, infinity.

Love,

Your Sweetheart.

xoxoxo