I’ve felt led to write this for a while now. It’s not very
eloquently written because it’s four in the morning, I’m tired, and my emotions
are all over the place right now. But maybe it will help someone.
Here’s the thing about infertility: you don’t expect it. I’m
sure it’s the same with any serious health problem; it just kinda hits you out
of the blue. One day, you and your spouse are discussing whether you should
start a family. You assume it’s your decision, of course (doesn’t everyone?).
For the first time, you both seem to be open to the idea. Then you realize that
you’re both actually excited about having a baby. And all of sudden, things
seem very real. You’re going to have a baby! It’s time to throw away the birth
control and get ready for a family. And, wow, but don’t you feel like an adult
now? Marriage was one thing, but now you’re an actual adult, and you can decide
to do huge things like start a family. The giddiness sets in (with a little bit
of anxiety, of course), and you get all excited about starting this next stage
of your life. You start wondering if it’s too early to buy baby clothes, but
then you sneak a little onesie into your shopping cart and think, “Who’s it
gonna hurt?”
But here’s the other thing about infertility: it also creeps
up on you. You make tiny little decisions like purchasing a onesie, but you
don’t realize that your body is absolutely refusing to commit to your dream.
The months go by, then the years go by, and you finally give away all the
onesies and the diapers to people who are actually pregnant. And it hurts, but
it’s not their fault that they got pregnant so easily. And you have to go to
the baby showers, and you have to smile and act like everything is great. Babies
are a joy, after all. No one cries at a baby shower. So you go to the bathroom,
and you cry a little cry as you stare at yourself in the mirror thinking how
ridiculously melodramatic this whole thing is. But the weird thing is, you
actually are happy for your friend. You’d just be a whole lot happier if you
weren’t so jealous, too.
Some people don’t want to tell anyone about their fertility
problems. Other people (like myself) tell pretty much anyone who brings the
subject up. I don’t mention it to acquaintances, of course, but all my close
friends and family members are aware. They mostly don’t talk about it, though.
No one knows what to say. I don’t know what to say. But I tell people because
it helps. It’s therapeutic for me, and it (sometimes) stops all the “when are
you getting pregnant?” comments.
I’ve had this problem for six years now. It was six years
and two months ago that my husband and I had the excited little chat about
starting our family. I remember looking online for ideas about things I could
do to get pregnant quickly. I found a ton of stuff about ovulation kits and
stuff, but I figured all of that was too “technical.” This was supposed to be
spontaneous and fun! I wanted the excitement of wondering if I was, and I
wanted the fun of telling my husband in some uniquely creative way. I did
commit to using a cycle tracker, though, because it was always useful to know
when my period was on its way. And I loved to calculate my “due date” based on
what month it was. For several months, every time a new cycle started, I’d go
to BabyCenter and figure out when my baby’s birthday would be. There was one
month where I could just tell this was it. I got really excited for absolutely
no reason except for “symptoms,” and I had a name picked out, and I even made
the stupid mistake of joining that month’s birth group (a group of women who
were all due in the same month). I started tracking my “pregnancy,” and the
updates appeared in my inbox every day. But, I wasn’t pregnant. I found out a
few days later. But the emails kept coming, and I started crying every day as I
saw them. You know what’s crazy? I still know how old that baby would have been
today. I think, “If I’d gotten pregnant when a normal person would’ve gotten
pregnant, my baby would be five.” I can’t help it. I have a great memory, which
can really be awful when it comes to my infertility.
The hardest part of this, though, has been the
embarrassment. (Well, the hardest part other than the overwhelming desire to
start a family for the past six years.) I’m so incredibly embarrassed about all
of it, and then I get mad because there’s really no reason to be embarrassed,
but then I just feel more embarrassed. Why can’t I have a baby? Why does
everyone hush and look at me like a leper if I bring up women’s health issues
with friends? Why is infertility such a taboo subject? It’s not because it’s a
private matter. Numerous friends, and even acquaintances, have brought up other
aspects of fertility, and they talk about things much more personal or graphic.
You can’t tell me about your mucus plug and then act shocked when I mention my
progesterone shots. That’s just hypocritical.
And then there are all the prying questions and stupid
responses. The questions used to come more often, but sometimes I still get
them. “When are you starting a family?” Followed by coments like, “I don’t
understand infertility. I’m just a Fertile Myrtle!” “My husband just looks at
me, and I get pregnant.” “Want kids? Take one of mine! They’re driving me
crazy!”
Why do people think it’s okay to ask about your plans to
reproduce, but they act shocked and appalled when you simply say, “I can’t have
children.” It’s like they’re saying, “How dare you bring up such a private
subject! Hush about your latest ultrasound, and let me tell you all about my
labor and delivery story, hour by hour. Do you know what placenta actually looks like?” And then I want to spit on
them, but I usually hold back.
And what’s with the “I don’t understand. Pregnancy is just a
breeze for me! Ha ha!” type of comments? If you were speaking to someone, and
they told you they just found out they have cancer, would you say, “I don’t
know what that’s like. My blood cells are so healthy that I never even get a
cold! Ha ha!” No. You’d be the rudest, cruelest person alive. So why do people
think it’s okay to treat other sensitive issues this way?
Oh, and all the needles that come with fertility treatments.
Don’t even get me started on the needles. There’s nothing like going through a
whole cycle of stabbing yourself every day with a needle (while crying, usually),
then going through the awfulness that is all the doctor’s appointments (there
are approximately 500 within a month). Finally, you get to lie on a table
mostly naked (they cover up the parts you wouldn’t mind leaving exposed and
expose all the parts you’d like covered) in front of a doctor, two nurses, and
an intern (Yes, there is always an intern. They ask your permission for the
intern to be there, but you’re already naked, and they’re already there, so why
not?) Your poor husband does his part, the doctor does his part, and you’re
wondering what purpose you even serve, really. You’re pretty much just a
science experiment at this point. It’s like they’re saying, “Well, we’ve got
all the ingredients. Let’s put it in there and see if this thing works! (Spoiler
alert: it doesn’t.)
And then, you’re already a wreck because you’ve gone through
two week’s worth of hormone injections that were finished off with the most
embarrassing doctor’s appointment ever and a huge shot of HcG (that’s the
pregnancy hormone, in case you’re wondering.) You literally go from having the
lowest level of hormones you’ll ever have to having the hormones of a 4-month
pregnant woman—all in the span of about 7 days. Oh, but there’s no baby, and
you’re an emotional basket case anyway. You’re just beginning to feel normal
again as you lie on your couch after the procedure. You make the stupid
decision to check Facebook (all those hormones go straight to your brain, I
swear. Pregnancy brain? Try IUI brain.) Then your self-absorbed friend posts
some crap about how women don’t really love their husbands until their husbands
become daddies. That’s absolute crap, of course, especially when your husband
just learned how to give you a intramuscular injection with a 3-inch needle
this morning. Now THAT’S love. (You both nearly threw up after that experience,
but you decided to just cry instead.)
You consider deleting your Facebook, then decide to just
delete that friend and place a curse upon their family. Finally, you realize
that you were once completely naïve about the whole infertility thing, too, so
you settle for eating a whole bag of Kit-Kats as you cry a little and hope this
cycle actually worked.
But see, here’s the thing—I can’t speak for everyone, of
course, but that stage of infertility only lasted for about two years. Then it
got a lot better, even though I still don’t have a baby. I don’t know what
happened, exactly, but I think I went through the “grieving process,” as they
call it. Now, don’t get me wrong—I still don’t love Mother’s Day, and I’ve shed
a tear or two as I write this. But I no longer avoid the Mother’s Day church
service like the plague. A few years ago, I spent that particular holiday
crying in the car as I traveled from one location to the next to thank all of
the mothers and grandmothers in my life for being awesome. At the end of the
day, I just sobbed and sobbed. Don’t get me wrong—I wanted to thank all the
women in my life. But it’s incredibly difficult to watch everyone praise other women
for being mothers when you’ve worked harder than any of them to live that
dream, and it just hasn’t happened for you yet. No one thinks to send you well
wishes when you’ve simply been trying
to become a mother. But Mother’s Day does get easier. And so does Christmas.
And so does every other day.
I used to cry about infertility a few times every single
day. You think I’m exaggerating? Ask anyone else with infertility. I almost guarantee
you they’ll say the same thing. If I went a full day without crying about it, all
the tears I’d saved would catch up with me by bedtime. It’s almost
debilitating. So, what’s it like after six years? Well, now I think about it
every day, but it’s sort of a detached feeling. It’s more like, “Oh, yeah.
Gotta do something about that infertility.” Or I might start to buy a candle
and then remember how awful those toxins are supposed to be for your fertility.
Four years ago, I’d put the candle back on the shelf, then I’d buy all the
organic crap in the store, and throw all my regularly scented products when I
got home. Nowadays, I just think, “Meh.” And the candle goes in my cart.
I don’t plan my life around my infertility anymore. I live
my life, and if a pregnancy happens to come my way, I will joyfully embrace it.
But I don’t feel like a failure anymore, and I don’t feel like there’s no
purpose for my life. (Yes, those are both extremely common thoughts for
infertility sufferers, apparently. I asked, because they’re pretty scary.)
I feel like I’m finally on the other side of the fertility
struggles, even without a baby. Life is fun again. I’m an aunt to lots of
awesome nieces and nephews, and there really are some perks to being childless.
My husband and I can go anywhere we want, whenever we want. If we want to
borrow someone else’s child for a bit, they’re always happy to oblige. We also
have plans to adopt and/or foster in the future. It’s really not as
cost-prohibitive as some people like to think, but we’re waiting till I’m
through with school and we have a few other things in order.
Do I still want a baby? Of course. But it’s not an
all-consuming thought anymore. I used to plan vacations around my cycle and
possible pregnancies. I’m much more laidback now. I’ve always been a rather
“Type A” person, and I think that perhaps God is trying to teach me to loosen
up and be a little less anxious. It’s definitely working, and I can honestly
say that I’m a different person now than I was before. These struggles have
softened my spirit in a way that nothing else ever could. I find myself being
incredibly empathetic now, to pretty much everything, not just infertility. When
I hear upsetting stories now, I don’t just think, “Well, that sucks for them.”
I actually feel a bit of what it must be like for them, and my prayers have
become more fervent and heartfelt because of it.
I don’t blame others
for not understanding what I’m going through, though. You really can’t understand
until you’ve lived it. I hope you don’t ever have to live through it; I really
do. But if you ever find yourself depressed and angry because of your
infertility, I’m always ready to talk.
