It’s that time again. Another month, another failure. 

I used to cry when I saw blood for the first time that month. Now I don’t have the energy. It feels like I’ve run out of tears. All I can do is drop my head, close my eyes and sigh. I knew it was coming. In the beginning of the two week wait this time around, I was optimistic. I had hope. I kept analyzing every twinge in my body – ‘maybe that’s a sign! Maybe that’s implantation!’ But I was just kidding myself. Clinging to any ounce of hope, before I had it confirmed – congratulations, you are once again without child. Barren. Empty. Failing. 

And on top of my emotional struggle, it means that if I want physical comfort, even just to have a hug from my husband, or need someone to lean on, I have to go to the mikveh. Again. I don’t like going there. It’s a monthly reminder of my heartache. Like I’m being mocked. ‘Oh, what’s that? You want a hug from your husband while you deal with negative news? He’s the only other person in your household because you still don’t have kids, and just when you need a supportive touch more than anything, we have to take that away from you? Yeah…sucks to be you.’ 

Ok. So, I swallow my pain and anger, and I go. I get myself ready. I stare at myself in the mirror, unable to turn away. I’m focused on what I hate, the body that refuses to do its job and yield what it’s meant to. I want to cry, but again, my body just won’t give me what I want.

And then I take a deep breath. I give myself a pep talk. Being here represents the failure of last month, but on the other hand it’s also giving me a new chance. This is a new month, a new opportunity. Maybe this time it will work. Maybe this will be the last time I’m here until I have a healthy baby. Maybe this will finally be the month where God says ‘yes. You can do it, you will do it, here’s your chance’. I don’t know how likely that is, but it’s possible. With God, anything is possible, though not necessarily probable. Just be positive. Don’t lose hope. Breathe. 

I put on the towel, steel myself, and push the bell. I hear the balanit coming, and a knock on the other side of the door. I walk out, and she smiles at me. She asks me what my minhag is for dipping, and if I’ve made sure to check over everything. Once I answer her questions, it’s time. She turns away, walks to her spot, and averts her gaze, giving me some privacy while I enter the water. Thank God for good balaniot. I hang the towel on the railing and move slowly. The water is warm and comfortable and makes me feel safe. 

And now it’s time. I’m shaking, but focused.

Dunk

Rise up, breathe. 

Say the bracha. 

And now I want to say everything else. I want to yell until my throat is raw. I want to cry until I fill up the pool myself. I want to beg and plead. I want to ask and understand WHY?! Why me? Why everything that’s happened? Do I have to be perfect before being granted a child? Why am I not good enough? I want to sink below the surface and never come back up. 

My brain is numb. All I feel is a pounding of emotion in my head, that I can’t confine to words. I can’t daven, I can just say “God, you know what I’ve been through, what I can’t go through again, what I want. Please. Please. Please.”

I think about my dream. In spite of everything, it brings a smile to my face. Just the thought of holding my child’s hand, of singing them to sleep, comforting them when they cry, helping them with homework, watching them play with friends…the thought of a smile, a laugh…it’s all I can think about. It’s what I want more than anything in the world. It’s what I’m working so hard to achieve.

I am determined. I am not giving up. I want the chance to do this, above all else. God, give me that chance. I’m angry, I’m hopeful, I’m sad, I’m happy, I’m excited, I’m a bundle of contradictions. I’m going to give this all I have. 

All of this goes through my head in about 5 seconds, and I can’t focus properly on any of it.

Dunk 

Rise up, breathe.

Dunk

Rise up, breathe.

If only Hashem would breathe life into a child for me.

As I walk away from the building that not-so-secretly houses the mikveh, all I can do is pray that I won’t be back anytime soon, and for all the right reasons. Here’s hoping.