A one night stand

Yep, that's how my best friend got pregnant. I had to tell myself over and over again that it was a complete and cruel joke. After the call in which she proceeded to announced that she was pregnant by a guy much younger than her, after a drunken one night stand, I stood there almost speechless. I hoped she was joking, but knowing her, I knew she was telling the truth.

What was I supposed to do? Say congratulations? Good for you? Of course that's exactly what I did, before finishing the call, and crying at my job. Luckily no one saw.

The following months were super difficult between us. I couldn't stand the fact that it was so easy for her. After all, this was her third pregnancy. The other two ended in abortions. I don't pass judgment on that decision. It was a personal matter and that was that. I believe that every woman has the right to choose what's best for them. But when something comes so easy for someone and they see it as matter of fact, there will be no way in hell that they are going to be able to understand the sacrifice that some people have to go trough just to have the opportunity to be standing just where they are.  

Why was life so unfair? Ironic would have been a better word. Yes, I threw a pity party for myself. Yes, I did the whole woe is me dance.

We stopped talking. It was as if we stopped having stuff in common. Just like that, we couldn't relate to each other anymore. A relationship can't be defined by just one thing, but when is something so deep rooted and visceral as the desire to be a mom, and the inability to become one at that, self composure and rationality disappear. We were on completely opposite ends. I was madly chasing what she so thoughtlessly took for granted.

I resented her because she didn't take the time to ask me how I was doing with the treatments or wanted to know more about it. I resented her because she couldn't stop herself from making stupid comments about infertility. She resented me because honestly some days I really, really didn't want to hear all about how awful the nausea was, or how many kicks the baby did. It wasn't pretty at all. Some may call it selfishness... I call it life. It wasn't a proud moment for us, but we recognized it and acted accordingly.

We took a much needed time apart. There was not much else to do. We had each said our parts.

After the baby was born we sort of reconnected. The encounter was weird and we didn't have very much to say to each other apart from oohing and aahing at the baby. Sometime after that our friendship got a reboot. But there was this unspeakable rift already between us. There was no way we could see eye to eye on so many things that defined us as women and individuals. She found that her identity was being a new mom, devoting each waking moment and thought to her daughter. I felt that my identity was based so much on my infertility. I devoted a lot of time on forums, blogs, research and treatments. Two situations a world and a half apart.

I asked myself a lot of times if infertility was ruining my relationship with my best friend. I cried so many times over this. How could two people with experiences so profoundly different from one another ever have a functional relationship? We had become strangers to each other. We had each took a step back and retrieved into our own little worlds. But it felt as if we were slowly coming out from them.

Still the most important question remained.: Could we ever be how we were before?

After my last cycle at the RE, in which I miraculously became pregnant, I had my doubts about telling her. I knew it was early but I was excited, she knew that I was undergoing treatments again, so I told her. Suddenly it was like I had become a member of the imaginary mommy club, just like that. Yes, this club exists. That elusive group that you secretly loathe but would desperately love to be a part of. She started giving me tips on pregnancy and motherhood and I listened intently, open-eyed. So this is how this felt. It was easy. I was hoping like a mad woman for the pregnancy to be OK. Just this chance was all I asked for. For the moment, I was happily on shaky ground.

One week after that, I learned that the pregnancy was not viable. I was going to miscarry. My world shattered and the rift began opening once again. I was metaphorically kicked out of the mommy club. She said all the wrong things at the wrong time. She kept asking me what had happened, how could this be happening... over and over again. Wasn't I in some kind of magical treatment which prevented things like this from happening? She couldn't wrap her mind around the reality of miscarriage, truthfully neither could I, but I knew it was a possibility. 

See... for her, getting pregnant and having a healthy baby were such a given. For her, a pregnancy meant a sure baby nine months after. She had no idea. No idea about the fears of not being able to get pregnant and worrying to death about every little minuscule detail, scared, praying every night for everything to be alright. No idea about how infertility drags you down into the pits of uncertainty and pain. How losing what you wanted more than anything in life can leave you wounded forever. I don't blame her, though. That is how life works most of the time. I was an outsider, looking in. She was the rule... I was the exception.

It has taken some time, but we have remained in contact. We talk about random stuff, laugh, go out to eat occasionally. But there is the ever so present elephant in the room. We don't go into the deep parts of our journeys. We don't bare our souls to each other anymore. There is too much fear. So many buttons to push. I guess that doesn't make us text book best friends anymore.

So the answer is no.... we could never be how we were before. We have an unspoken agreement that our relationship has changed, that we are not as close as before. But strangely enough there is a level of caring and love for each other that will always be there. And that is enough for us... at least for now.