What infertility is like after six years. Maybe this will help someone.

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.