Here I am again, laying on the couch, distracting myself with Friends and M&Ms while trying to ignore the cramps in my stomach and lower back that remind me that another baby may not be in the cards for us.
Infertility is a special kind of emptiness that is incredibly hard to explain to someone who has never been through it. It's a loss, but of something that was never actually there. It's not a tangible loss, not one that other people know how to deal with. It's the loss of the dream of something, the hope of something. An infertility diagnosis feels like something invisible being taken from your heart.
It was about 5 years ago when we were told by two doctors we had an incredibly small chance of having children. The doctors told us our test results and simply said "I'm so sorry." Those are words you never want to hear from a doctor. Not being candidates for invitro-fertilization, we were told we could try hormones but to not expect results and to consider adoption.
We were preparing for my husband's deployment to Afghanistan when we decided to go on Chlomid and try anyway. Pills, schedules, fights. There is nothing romantic about trying to have a baby in the midst of knowing you probably can't. Being told when to do it, how to do it, laying still with your pelvis tilted up for 20 minutes after. The Chlomid caused me to have mood swings and hot flashes. Then the waiting. Month after month of heartbreak. I eventually resented the pregnancy and ovulation tests because I felt like I was "failing" them. Meanwhile, everyone was having babies or trying to be helpful. You want to be happy for your friends and their new babies, and you know your friends are trying to help.
When a friend announced she was pregnant, I had to try not to resent her. Being around pregnant women sucked terribly. Each baby shower, I found myself in tears on the way there and again on the way home. Usually while I was there I busied myself passing out cake or keeping the list of gifts. I remember spending birthday parties and family events finding somewhere quiet to go hold one of my friends babies and holding back my tears. Eventually I had to avoid social media to get away from the babies everywhere.
After being married for several years, people were asking questions. When would we have kids? What were we waiting for? What was wrong? Things that are none of anyone's damn business. The people who did know what we were dealing with tried to say the right thing. Most often, we were told stories of other people who faced infertility, to "trust God's perfect timing," or to "just relax." People loved us, and wanted to help. You simply cannot stop trying. It's impossible. The people who stopped trying didn't do it to relax, they did it because they gave up, there's a difference. That's the only way to really stop trying, to just be done and ready to move on with your lives.
That's what happened, we gave up. Then, we found out we were pregnant. We were lucky, very very lucky. Not because we finally did the right thing to get pregnant. Somehow it just happened. Many, many people out there have to wait for years and never get a baby. Somehow we won the fertility lottery. We were able to get pregnant within two years and have a baby with no complications. She's amazing, and we are grateful for her.
What I didn't expect was going through this again in a different way. Now all our friends are on their second baby, or third. We get questions living in a new town, "is she your only one?" and "do you want to have another?" We have to remind people we know what we went through to get her. Since we had one baby, we should be able to have another, right? We had a very small chance of getting pregnant, and no one wins the lottery twice. Some people who struggle with infertility get pregnant quickly with the second one. This won't be the case for us.
We are facing the choice of going down this road again, deciding if we want to go through the treatments, the schedules, the heartache. Last time, we ached for the dream of a child. This time, we know exactly what it means to be pregnant, to welcome a new life, to hold our tiny baby. We also know about the sleepless nights, days of worry, the toddler years. It's not just a question of if we want to go through the baby part again, it's the if we want to go through the pain it takes to get there knowing what we know now.
If you are in the midst of this struggle, you aren't alone. Thousands of us know the emptiness and heartache. Infertility is the thing no one talks about because no one knows how. It's a grief many of us go through alone because it's incredibly private, yet everyone feels like it's their business. You may be feeling broken, hating your friends when you don't want to, avoiding family events, dreading the holidays with the babies, the questions. All I can tell you is that this is really, really hard. Hold on to your partner and leave Christmas dinner early if you have to. Skip the baby shower and mail a card, it's okay. I deeply wish I had other words for you, but please, do what you need to do to take care of yourself. Talk to loved ones, find a therapist (I did that, too), whatever it takes to have people who love you and get it in your corner.
If you love someone struggling, then you have no idea what the hell to say. If you are saying a lot of things, stop it right now. What was the most helpful was the friends who offered no advice, but who held my hand, who let me hold their babies without comment, and who helped me put my make up back on after crying at yet another baby shower. They didn't ask questions but were always there and saw me, drank wine with me, and stood by me.
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