Goyito Gets a Bike, and the Stages of Infertility

We made an exciting purchase in the Zollinger family recently. No, not a puppy (although I've thought about it). Not another car. We bought ourselves a bike.

I have a church assignment that requires me to be in Orlando one day a week. It's a bit of a drive, and since we still are a one-car family, we needed some way to be able to get Greg to and from work. The solution was exciting for Greg because it's something that he's thought about before: a commuter bike.

Greg did his research and got himself a cheaper model, a single-speed fixie. (Yeah, I know what a fixie is now. I'm cool, too.)

Needless to say, he's had himself a whole lotta fun lately.

Even Heather took a ride. Remember that feeling of riding a bike with no shoes on? Makes me feel like I'm nine years old. 

I know, I know. A new bike. Try to contain your excitement. 

In all seriousness, this really is the most exciting thing going on for us lately. I read Foucault and "The Paranoid Style in American Politics" for school and Greg goes to work and that's pretty much it. That might attest to the sparseness of the blog lately, my friends. 

If I was going to be completely honest, I'd probably acknowledge that there are other reasons the blog has been neglected. This blog really began as a way for Greg and I to discuss trying to add children to our family. This is still a battle we fight day by day (and day after day after day after day...) Later this blog became one of my outlets to discuss coping with the loss of our little boys. I'll always be grateful for the ways that documenting our survival was one of the most powerful tools Heavenly Father gave us in helping us to survive. 

But things have changed. I don't know what it is. I can't put my finger on it. First, I realized that the things I write could potentially be difficult to read for someone who is undergoing infertility challenges, but is struggling with things that are even more difficult than what Greg and I are going through. I know that might sound like a silly fear to someone who hasn't gone through infertility, and maybe even to a lot of you who have. I just didn't want to be involved in anything that was hurting anybody. 

But it's more than that, too. I've just changed. I just feel like now I need a little privacy. There are many reasons for this, which I don't really feel a need to go into. One day, maybe I will. 

There is one thing I should make clear, though. Our silence is by no means an indication that we have given up. We are still motivated by faith, and our knowledge that God is aware of us and things will work out. At the same time, I feel like lately I've just been wrapped up by this whole other identity. Instead of being the woman who is trying to have kids, somewhere along the line I've just become the woman who doesn't have any. I know, of course, that I do have children, so this identity is based on a lie. And maybe this is really what it is. Because of our experience with Austin and Daniel, I have trouble picturing myself with a healthy baby in my home. It's just been so long, I don't know how to be anybody else. 

We still have a strong faith and a knowledge that things will work out. But the strength I've gained has sort of come at a price. I'm strong, but I'm also tough. Thick-skinned. So thick-skinned, in fact, that I'm dismissive of the people in my life and I've maybe even forgotten what it is that I've wanted all along. 

I've told you before what I want. I've told you before that things aren't fair. I've told you before that I'm heart-broken. I've told you before that I'm strong enough to handle it, that God makes us all capable of handling it. I've told you before that good things will come, and I still believe that good things will come.

What I didn't know how to tell you is that I'm struggling to care. The funny thing about apathy and infertility: the desire doesn't actually go away. The pain doesn't go away. You just wake up one day and realize that it's the only thing you know, the only backdrop to life that you remember, and after healing from the same wound over and over again, you begin to worry that maybe you are incapable of feeling anything at all anymore. 

Here's a confession: I wasn't going to post this. I was afraid that I wasn't clearly defining how I felt, the weird juxtaposition between continuing to have hope and letting go of it all. But Greg has read the post. "Finish it," he said. "People need to know."

Yeah, people need to know. You keep fighting. You keep believing. And you keep crying in the moments when you least expect it. But this is the reality of infertility. 

Somewhere along the line, you just accept it. I can't fix this as easily as I thought I could. This is who I am. 

This is my life.