Understanding Infertility: the Shock of Pregnancy

Aunt Flo has been an unwelcome guest in my home once again. I'm horribly frustrated right now, especially because almost every good friend I have is currently expecting. Even friends who said it was my turn next. I guess they're starting to realize that I really can't control the fact that I am not getting pregnant. On the day that my "time of the month" began, I had two very good friends announce pregnancies to me within twenty four hours, and I won't lie--I didn't handle it well. I know I try to be positive on this page, and generally in life, but I'm going to be real today and discuss the raw emotions that come with infertility and how to deal with them. Because I honestly feel like the only thing worse than struggling with infertility is not understanding the struggle behind it.

When you announce to your infertile friends that you are expecting, there is a whirlwind of emotion that you bring. The first thing that pops into my head is complete shock. I know that pregnancy is typically more shocking for the people experiencing it, but I am always caught off guard about the whole pregnancy thing, especially when it's people who say they haven't been trying. Maybe I'll get used to it, but maybe not. It's always completely surprising when I hear the news, and I always have a few milliseconds of panicked shock.

Being caught off guard is really difficult because then I have to deal with all of my emotions that follow very quickly in order to stay friends. I go through the stages of grief because this child (and month) is not mine, and I only have about three seconds to do it: denialangerbargainingdepressionacceptanceCONGRATULATIONS! That's it. That's the time I have. If I am not congratulating and hugging and happy immediately, it's awkward. Because that's the expected response, and even though I am an anomaly, I still need to outwardly maintain my normal. And I really am happy for you. Kind of. But when I disappear for a few days (or weeks or months) don't take it personally. I just need time to deal with your happy news later, on my own terms.

Let's be real now. What happens when I am alone later? I usually cry. I hate talking about this, but your news makes me sad. I will never tell you how much I struggle with your news. How many hours I spend contemplating my own life and my own plans. How much self-assessment I perform in hopes of coming up with a solution to this awful, empty feeling inside my chest. I feel like there must be something I'm doing wrong. There must be something I haven't tried. My body cannot do what yours does so (seemingly) effortlessly. I feel forgotten because God is not allowing me to fulfill this righteous desire. Motherhood happens in all species, all over the world. It is the most natural thing there is. And I can't make it happen for me. I feel like a failure for being unable to achieve this most natural state. And that anger goes in all directions. Even towards me for making you feel guilty about your happiness. I know that you don't want to tell me. I know that you dread it. And even though it's difficult for me to hear, I'm always so glad when you do tell me.

This is kind of how the other night went for us. I'd just heard the second pregnancy announcement, and we'd quickly made our exit. We got in the car and drove for about a half hour in silence. Josh is in an awkward position because he wants to comfort me, but he's also dealing with his own grief, which I will never completely understand either. We are in the same boat, but we are both completely alone. We tried making small talk in the beginning of the drive, but I was in too much shock still. I felt numb and empty. I wanted to be home by myself. I didn't want to talk or see anyone or even think. I just wanted to be alone.

Josh turned on the radio to a station we don't listen to often, and song after song I knew. So I started singing. Imagine Dragons. The White Stripes. Anything and everything to get out this empty, aching sadness that was starting to consume me. My life feels like a giant cycle of grief. Month after month. Pregnancy after pregnancy. The always negative test, announcing "not pregnant" as loud and painful as a blow horn. But I am still so full of hope for next time. Maybe next time will work. Maybe at the next appointment they'll figure out what's really wrong with me. My existence is made up of a string of maybes. And, suddenly, we are at my sister's house, pulling behind her SUV in  her driveway. Her own badge of the children she shuttles back and forth from school to the store and home again. And, just as suddenly, I can't go inside. Through her front window, I see her husband watching TV, and I don't want to talk to anyone. Josh asks if I just want to come home with him, but I can't. I know that there's nothing better for me there than endless hours of meaningless TV and solitude. He asks me how I'm feeling, and I tell him I need to quit. I can't do this anymore. Month after month of heartache is too hard. I tell him I feel lost. I am so lost. I am forgotten and insignificant and lost. God doesn't see me. He doesn't hear me. My happy ending is not coming. I want to disappear. I want to go for a walk and never come back. I want to get lost and leave my phone and all of the worries and cares of the world and just disappear. I understand why people fake their deaths. I want to fly to Hawaii and live on the beach with the meth heads. I think that at some point I even said that I would go and be a meth head. I just have to get out of here. I have to get away from all of these people who want me to be happy and hopeful when I just can't. I just want to sing at the top of my lungs and run faster than I can and make my body hurt as much as my heart does right now at this moment. I used to cut myself when I was in high school and wanted to make my body hurt. I used to have a gym membership in college for when I needed to make my body hurt. And right then, at that moment, I didn't have an outlet for all of the hurt. I needed to hurt so I wouldn't cry. But I did anyway. And Josh cried with me. And we re-re-re-reassessed our options for the millionth time. Of course I didn't want to quit. I want to be a mother more than anything in the world. He told me I could go to Hawaii if I needed to. He said he could figure everything out for us. I think he's scared he's losing me. I think I'm scared of losing me. Eventually that anger turned into "we need to be more aggressive with this," which turned into talk about money. So many couples get pregnant for free. Why should it be so freaking expensive for the rest of us? We've already spent hundreds of dollars, and we still don't have any answers. I still don't feel any closer to figuring all of this out. I guess I need to make money in order to make this happen. I felt resolved with the new determination to be more aggressive with our fertility options, and I went inside.

More or less, this same conversation happens every few months. There are often hours of body-wracking sobs and feeling like a total boob for needing my husband to hold and comfort me while I cry. We often get into arguments that last hours or even days. I'm sad and hurt and feel so much guilt over the years I spent trying not to get pregnant. I feel guilty for the depression that ensues, because I know that nobody is trying to hurt me. I know that if they knew the deep-rooted sadness that consumes me, they would feel guilty and bad about their pregnancy (and probably towards me), and I really believe that every baby is a happy miracle that should be celebrated.

Friends, family, I love you. I love your children. I love that your lives are progressing and that you're having babies and families. And if it can't happen to me right now, I'm so glad it can happen for you. If you give me a few days, I'll be in a better mood and won't have to force my enthusiasm for you because I'll be genuinely excited for you. Because, under these ugly feelings I have right now, I really am so so happy for you.

Every cycle, I have a couple of days when I feel completely hopeless, and then I start right back up to being hopeful again. I'm starting my Clomid today, and maybe that will fix my body this month. Who knows? I'm reserving some skeptical hope for this month and next month and the next. If Clomid doesn't work, we'll move to IUI or IVF. We will keep trying. I always wanted a summer baby, and maybe I'll still get my wish. Because here I am, a couple of days later, feeling kind of better again. I feel hope, and I feel almost worthwhile. I don't feel forgotten the way I did. I know God is still there. I hope he helps me out this month, but I know better than to feel entitled to blessings right now. I'm even excited and happy for my friends. Infertility sucks, but I hope you understand it a little bit better now. I know I don't.