This is my therapy

First up: a comment I received from anonymous 1. I know I am not alone, never said in the post that I was the only one feeling pain from infertility. But thanks, from a fellow IFer, for telling me not to feel so sorry for myself. I'm cured! I know that a lot of people have gone through what I have, and worse. And although you couched your comment with "I am not trying to be harsh" it felt a little harsh. We've been through a lot. Five failed cycles, 80K in medical expenses, and I've dealt with a lot of other issues lately that made this holiday particularly difficult. So yeah, I'm going to write about what hurts.

As for anonymous 2: Undue hostilityand hatred towards our little brother? You're misreading that. Seven years of love love love is what we gave through some pretty crappy stuff, and we still care about him. I don't know many others who have mentored a kid/stayed that committed that long. We poured our hearts and souls into him and unfortunately it wasn't enough to keep him from making some very poor life choices. When we ended the relationship it was for many reasons, but mostly because he had kind of outgrown the relationship and we couldn't support the choices he was making. And yes, he knows about our situation (not specifics of IVF because that wouldn't have been appropriate and obviously not the last two because of the timing, but he knows that we've tried very hard and long to have children) because we've always been open and honest with him. Does he have the capacity to know that his text would be hurtful? Probably not, as he's just a teenager. But guess what? It still hurt and I'm going to write that it did. But please, do not criticize my seven years of volunteering to help this kid. It's a personal failure that really hurts--the fact that everything we did (the very aim of the program) couldn't help him avoid teenage parenthood twice. The criticism-- that really stings.
EDITED TO ADD: Teenage parenthood isn't the worst thing--but right now it's the thing that hurts the most. R went on to be involved in drugs, crime, etc. etc. Things are better now, but you can bet that hurt us a lot too. And we're not even his parents!

And now on to what I originally wanted to post about (which will probably draw some criticism in some way from someone as well...sigh).

I post a lot when I am in emotional pain.

My blog is dark right now and I would do anything in my power to make it light again.

This post is dedicated to my father.

While we were home this weekend, we brought my Dad home to the house for the day. It was nice, but there's no getting around the profound changes that have occurred. My mother is mourning the loss of her spouse, I am mourning the loss of my father. He is alive, yes. He is alive. I am grateful. But it is horrific to see him the way he is. He is slipping cognitively. His response time is so long we wonder if he hears us at all. I cannot even believe that it was just a couple of months ago that he sang gospel songs while Mr. LC played on the guitar. I read the words he had my mom transcribe into my birthday card in August and cannot fathom him coming up with those words today. I do not know what lies ahead.

While at the nursing home, carolers came by. My Dad looked so small and helpless in his bed. He is down to 140 pounds or so. As the carolers came in and sang "Silent Night" in harmony, I started to cry. It was just a few years ago that my Dad sang in those groups, singing in that very nursing home. He had probably sung in that very room before.

We stayed in my parents' bedroom at my mother's insistence. I don't think she really likes to sleep in there alone.

It was dark outside and our last night at home. Mr. LC was outside packing the car. My mom was up at the nursing home with my Dad. My job was to check and make sure we hadn't left anything behind.

I walked up to the doorway of their bedroom, which was dark. Light from the living room cast light on the carpet.

Exactly the way it would have looked just over six months ago when my Mom found him there in the early morning darkness.

I immediately had the urge to lay on the carpet, and I did.

I positioned myself as my mom described finding my dad, crumpled on the floor.

I sobbed into the carpet. I wondered how long he had laid there, if he had been frightened, if he tried to call out and could not find his voice, if he had tried to move, if he knew what was happening to him.

I felt connected to him in some strange way in that moment.

I sobbed into that carpet for all that he has lost, for the unfairness of it all.

AND PS: IF YOU'RE GOING TO COMMENT, PLEASE REFRAIN FROM USING IDENTIFYING NAMES. THIS IS SOMETHING I ASKED FOR POLITELY WHEN I STARTED THE BLOG.