16.5.11

Musings of an infertile woman

There is one massive burden that infertility brings to you that nobody realizes until you have the misfortune of experiencing it: The way time passes is immensely different than how it feels to everyone else.

I live tied to a regular cycle that requires my absolute devotion of time and effort. A cycle where I know beforehand that my heart will be broken month after month, like a postmodern Sisyphus.

This month I’ve already been to the doctor eight times. I’ve had invasive check-ups, blood drawn and broken expectations and it's not even done yet.

It’s incredibly hard to keep my face straight and make jokes when I’m asked how things are going. Whenever you ask me if I’ll be attending this event or that one my mind is racing figuring out where I will be in my treatments, wondering if I can make it out of town, and most times I know I don’t want to sacrifice one of my last precious chances, even when I know it’s bound to end in heartache.

Old ladies ask me how many kids I have and I can’t mention my loss, they ask when I’m having my next, or if I’m pregnant or why I have waited this long. It hurts each time but I have to accommodate everybody else because they don’t know.

The people that know often say things like: “You just need to relax”, “Stop trying” or “The same thing happened to me and now I have three kids”. It hurts when you brush it off, it’s not going to happen if I relax (and I don’t know how I possibly can with all the stuff I need to do each month), and your experience is definitely not the same if it hasn’t been years, you haven’t required invasive medical assistance and spent large amounts of money. I cannot get pregnant naturally and I don’t even know if I can carry to term after my loss.

I’m a big gambler, you see?, I need to be, knowing that I have much to lose and very little to win, but I won’t get a shot at winning if I give up.

Please don’t say: “You’re young”. I am, only 32 but going into early menopause. So this goes way beyond my ability to reproduce. I have to accept a reality regarding my body that is coming too much early. This affects my day-to-day life, the things I can and cannot do and even my relationship with my husband.

I’m blessed with one child, one that I didn’t have to struggle to conceive. I know how lucky I am, I know many of my infertile sisters don’t have this fortune. It doesn’t mean that I’m not infertile, it means that my infertility is secondary and that it set, thankfully, after a wonderful non-planned, but very desired pregnancy.

I’ve had the misfortune to belong to two very sad clubs: infertility and pregnancy loss. Both are devastating, but combined are far more terrible than anything I've ever experienced. Losing the promise of a child is hard, but losing one that came after so much hardship (and one I haven’t been able to repeat) is earthshattering. So please don’t say that “It was for the best” I know my baby didn’t have a chance, I know it wasn’t my fault and I know there was nothing in this world or the next that could have changed it. But it still hurts like a m... f...

So far I’ve said all the things you shouldn’t say, but I’ll tell you what you can: ask me about it, let me talk, acknowledge that this is real and not a frivolous fancy. I assure you that I am happy, I have a beautiful family, I feel experienced and successful in my career but this is still important to me.

I can laugh and joke about going through IVF and being on the stirrups way too often for my comfort (but the life of an infertile is not known for its comfort) . I have plenty of funny stories about infertility that will make you laugh, I promise. So laugh, it’s not wrong to do it. When I laugh about it I feel better, I know this is not something for which to be embarrassed and I don’t need to hide the fact that I suffer infertility. I have secondary infertility, early onset diminished ovarian reserves and a really crappy lining. But I also have a very witty mind, a strong voice, plenty of dreams and a somewhat strong and tested faith.

Please don’t treat me as if I were a time bomb. There are times I’ll need to cry and curse. I’m entitled to my dark days as you are. If I share what something felt and how I was hurt don’t shy away from the topic, and don’t tell me I need to move on or that I think or feel too much. I promise to give the same importance to whatever hell burdens you as well. Because you know, we all have our own despair to carry.

I’m writing this because I’m not ashamed to say I’m an infertile. I may not succeed in having another child, I’m realistic enough to accept it, but I won’t give up without a fight. You may be my family or my friend and I care deeply about you, or you may be a stranger who undoubtedly has someone like me very close to your heart.

So my friend, hold my hand and laugh with me at the cards I've been dealt. 

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