Dear Body,

Note: To clarify, this post was written several months ago when we were about to start a round of IVF. As I mentioned in a different post, that round was unsuccessful.

We have had a rocky relationship, at best. It started out ok. When I was a little girl, I was pretty unaware of you. I mean, I knew I could run and jump and be tickled. I knew what it felt like to swim in our cold, cold creek and come back up to the house and put warm, dry clothes on. I remember things like watermelon running sticky down my chin. I remember when my parents bought a new car and picked us up from my aunt and uncle’s house. It was late and I was in pj’s and my feet were bare. I remember running them back and forth over the soft upholstery of the car. My attitude toward you was neutral at worst.

I remember when that changed.

I overheard two people who loved me very much talking to one another. “Casey’s getting fat.” I didn’t know. I hadn’t noticed how my body was getting rounder, my lines softer. I could still run and jump and it seemed fine to me. Until then. To this day, when I hear someone refer to themselves or someone else as fat, I feel like I’ve been punched in the gut. It feels violent that we would talk about our own body or someone else’s that way.

I didn’t know what to do about it, but I knew it wasn’t ok. Not much changed in how I treated you after that, not right away, but how I thought of you shifted tremendously. I was ashamed of you. That makes me so sad now to say that. But it’s true. Not too long after that I started cheerleading. I loved it so much and you were pretty amazing. I remember running back and forth across the yard, teaching myself to do roundoffs, practicing cheers and jumps. Cheering is hard work and I was here for all of it. I wasn’t trying to lose weight, just doing something I loved. But I did. And people noticed. And that felt good. Another overheard conversation: “Casey used to be kinda chubby like, but she’s slimmed down.” Relief.

As kids, we all believe the world is watching. We believe we’re in the spotlight. And overhearing conversations like these, reinforced that belief. Body, I believed you were a topic of conversation, because you were. People were looking at you and forming opinions about you. So, I decided to do whatever I could to keep you in check.

I remember getting weighed in gym class freshman year. We stepped on the scale and the teacher called out the number. I was 101 lbs. That number scared me. I thought I was fat. So, most days I skipped lunch that year.

We were fine, for the most part, until about 10 years ago. I started getting migraines, struggled with feeling nauseous most of the time, and was chronically fatigued. I went to the doctor a number of times, asking for tests. There were no answers. I felt betrayed. What was wrong with you? Why couldn’t you get it together? I’d been healthy for so much of my life, hadn’t gone to a doctor at all for over a decade. and now this? I went to a practice that took a more “wholistic” approach and they took me off food and put me on supplements. No dairy, gluten, corn, eggs, soy, low carb. You were not ok through that process and the detox. It got worse before it got better. Maybe you needed that. Maybe you did. I was so mad at you. It felt like a betrayal. I realize now you were just trying to tell me that you weren’t ok. I still don’t understand why. What happened?

I was a surprise baby, so I expected pregnancy to come easily. When it didn’t, I blamed you. It’s such a helpless feeling to be trying to get pregnant and not be able to. No one could give us answers. And then it happened. And then the biggest betrayal of all: we lost the baby. I was so mad at you. How could you do that? People get and stay pregnant all the time. Why couldn’t you?? Part of me knows that it’s not your fault. But it’s so much easier to blame you than to let there be mystery.

When we got pregnant again almost immediately, I called a truce with you. I was still angry. But I didn’t want to do anything to mess that pregnancy up, so I was kind to you. You are a wonder. The way you grew and held and protected and nourished that perfect baby boy. I remember exactly what his little feet felt like pressing into my ribs. I remember what it felt like to be kicked in the bladder. Because you carried him. We still don’t really understand why my water broke when it did. He hadn’t dropped, it was two and a half weeks early. Labor progressed so slowly. Over 30 hrs of labor, 2 1/2 hrs of pushing and a c-section later, and he was here. You and I had some things to work through. Why did that end in a c-section? Why couldn’t you deliver him? Breast feeding went ok, but you didn’t produce a ton of milk and he weaned himself at seven months.

I was having back problems after he was delivered and you were in chronic pain. That may have something to do with your struggle to produce milk. Just getting through the day was really hard on you. I had been working 12 hr days, even the day that I went into labor. Maybe it was too much to ask of you. I can be so hard on you, I ask you to carry so much. I think maybe I’ve been unkind to you.

We have put you through a lot the last few years. Five rounds of IUI. You’ve probably given up quarts of blood for all the blood work. You’ve been poked and prodded everywhere imaginable. You’ve been ramped up with hormones and carried the pressure of all of our expectations. You’ve lost three more babies and I’ve expected you to carry the grief of that, all the while blaming you for it. And to add insult to injury, I’ve been so mad at you for not being the size that I’d prefer. When I write all this out, that seems so ludicrous!

I’m sorry. I’m sorry for being so hard on you and blaming you for so much. You have been so strong. You are healthy. You lift up that beautiful boy and carry him with your strong arms. You are soft when he snuggles in. You are able to run and jump and feel pleasure and let me know when I need a break or I’m pushing myself too hard. You have been so good to me and my family and I’ve been so hard on you.

I have to ask more of you. Tomorrow we start stimulation for IVF. You’re going to get injections and pills every day. I’m going to throw you all out of wack. I’m going to work hard to take care of you through all of this. And I hope so dearly that this leads to a baby. Truly I do. But I won’t blame you if it doesn’t. And this is it. After this, you can have a break. You can do this. I know you can. Because you are a wonder.