The word "barren" seems really inappropriate when one of you is fertile, but the other not. It feels unbalanced. Perhaps referring to this situation as "unfairly lacking in sufficient sperm product", but this doesn't roll off the tongue in any way other than clumsily. Also, people don't care to hear the word "sperm". They way the look at you is like you'd exposed your private parts to them while smiling.
Ping ponging between feeling desperate to fill the empty wasteland of my weeping womb, and arguing with my spouse about whether or not another child is in our families dynamic is as well balanced at the tides that come in and out of the shores. I spend countless hours remembering what it was like to hold my now-5 year old kindergarten aged son in my arms as a caterwauling infant and chiding myself that I wasn't more appreciative of his newness, his baby smell, the privilege that I might never have again to feel him at my breast. All the mundane things I took for granted as I didn't worship and revere them as they happened.
The mind takes you places you don't realize it will when a desperation sets in. As my ovaries cast out a new ovum with every passing month, I feel a new surge or urgency in myself that comes with each of these passing moons, and in that brief and fleeting window I indulge in the darkest of fantasies on begetting a baby. I languish in these ideas, and I cringe at what the definition of them really and actually turns out to be. The weight of the hard fact bears down in my mind only after the curtain of ecstasy subsides.
I have spun myself many webs of possibility in search of this magnum opus, and learned that despite the passion to pursue them, the oceans of children already born into this world will have no love of a mother to call their own, and to sew the seeds within them that blossom into that unconditional bond. I cannot give a child the warmth and kindness, gentle touches and togetherness. It is a damning hatred that grows in you when you see how the politics of countries punish the innocent and blameless to lives grown with the starvation of love, and to be cared for by strangers.
Confined in a windowed prison of waiting, I am watching each week and month go by, passing beside me, as with each moment I am closer to failing at this endeavor. It is a malignancy that comes with a bitterness that I have no care for. The complacency and acceptance feels like I have resigned myself to yet another shortcoming in my life, the last in a very long list.
To use the phrase "between a rock and a hard place" would be like putting a band aid over a bullet wound.