My best friend is 13 weeks pregnant. You heard me right, she’s pregnant. The girl I’ve known since I was in 3rd grade, is having a baby. The person I assumed would never procreate, or at least not until I had at least 7 children, has done the unthinkable. She’s pregnant. Here is the thing…. I’ve processed this, right? It’s been 13 weeks. I’m done feeling angry? I mean…. I’m done feeling angry. Honestly.
Right. That’s what I keep telling myself.
Infertility sucks. There is no question about it. When the people closest to you get pregnant when their significant other sneezes on them, while you contemplate the prospect of laying in stirrups upside down for 30 minutes to get pregnant, things no longer seem so cut and dry. Happy, not happy, whatever… it’s all the same emotion. Rolled into one. I know that the emotions that I’m feeling are normal. I’m allowed to feel my own grief, my own sadness, my own anger, but I’m also allowed to find some sort of joy in all of this. Life is nothing to be taken lightly, and that is something that I revel in. Regardless of who is bringing this baby into the world, I have enough love in my heart to let myself be sad and still be happy for her and this baby.
I’ve talked about the theory of ‘fake it ’til you make it’ and honestly, that has been the one sliver of hope that I’m holding onto at this point. I tell myself that it’s ok to indulge in my vices and cope however I need to cope, while still believing wholeheartedly that I will get my baby, however it has to be done. I will be happy for my best friend, I will love this baby with everything I have. Is it going to be hard? Uh, yes. Do I think about the fact that she is passing all of the milestones that I should be passing? Of course. But I can’t sit and wallow in the sadness that goes along with that. I can’t watch her grow and be hateful, I have to watch her grow and be grateful that her baby is growing and she is growing as a person too, and in turn… I am growing.
This is the circle of life, and it can be beautiful and sickening at the same time. That’s what I’m learning. Every single day. That life is not all good or all bad, its a fucking gin and tonic. Disgusting, but it still gets you drunk. It’s like eating healthy and going to the gym, it fucking blows, but its good for you. In the end you are grateful, even when you want to light the treadmill on fire and slit your wrists with a sharp carrot. Ok, maybe I’m being dramatic. But seriously, this life is not meant to be easy. If it was always easy it would be boring. Like my favorite artist says, “Sunny days wouldn’t be special, if it wasn’t for rain. Joy wouldn’t feel so good, if it wasn’t for pain”- 50 cent.
So all cliché’s aside, I’m doing alright. The rain keeps pouring over my head, like Eyeyore, and I’m pretty sure I’ve lost my tail. But fuck it. I’m gonna keep trying to build that little tent out of sticks and sleep inside of it, even if it keeps falling on me. Wait.. that was another cliché, but still. It’s the truth.
I look back on my life, and it’s filled with so much joy. Especially with my best friend. The other night, I went to her apartment, we were laying in bed laughing about everything and watching weird youtube videos. As I was getting ready to leave, I put my face to her belly and told her baby the first story I could think of. We were in 6th grade, spending the night at her house, when out of nowhere her crazy neighbor Tom decided to shoot fireworks out of his AK47 in the middle of the night. BFFL jumped out of bed and, like a fucking PTSD soldier told us to get under the bed, with vigor. We hid from the gunfire and her dad ran outside in the foggy night to tell Tom to quit being such a fucking psycho. This is the girl that I grew up with.
She’s the one who held my hand through crazy nights and hard times. She helped nurse my family back to sanity when my dad first got cancer. She has endured countless phone calls from me, assuring me that I’m not dying.
She is the first, and only, person I did mushrooms with. We lay in her room surrounded by Christmas lights in the darkness, staring into each others eyes. Her skin was transparent and I was a fairy. We barfed in the same bathroom, staring at each other, while it looked like our skin was melting off. She is the same girl who singed her bangs off while lighting a potato filled with weed.
She’s the same girl who held my hand when bullies decided it would be ok to spray me in the hallways with “anti-holly spray” the moment I walked in. She’s the same girl who engaged in the only night neither of us will ever speak of, and still we forged on into the darkness, and awkwardness, to continue our life long adventure.
We are still soul mates, we are still best friends. So, she’s pregnant and I’m not. That’s ok. Because we are still the same people, even though we are headed down different paths. I refuse to let my frustration over my own infertility overtake the love I have for her. We started our periods in the same underwear, there is no doubt in my mind that we are meant to be together forever.