The Truth About Infertility No One Talks About
I’ve written and re-written this story a bunch of times and debated sharing my story with you about 1,000 times. Will I be looked at with those damn sympathetic eyes, and told the classic, “There, there,” or the, “Keep your chin up,” or even better, “At least you know you can get pregnant”? For the sake that this might touch at least one person who needs it, I’ve decided to be brave.
Here’s the thing they don’t teach you in school — when you’re trying to have a baby, for some people it’s really hard. Not hard like taking a test that you didn’t study for hard, but hard like your heart is being ripped into a million pieces incessantly and that there will never be a light at the end of the tunnel for you.
A little about me, in 2017, after getting pregnant almost immediately, I found out I was having an ectopic pregnancy. Fast forward two surgeries, male-factor issues, an endometriosis diagnosis, 200+ shots, three egg retrievals, two IVF clinics, more vaginal ultrasounds than I care to count, countless bruises from the shots, another miscarriage, and three failed IVF cycles later, my womb is still empty and my heart is still broken.
What they don’t tell you about infertility is how much it absolutely consumes your day-to-day, how you’ll see some pregnant people and be unphased and then when you learn that your childhood crush is expecting their first child, it sends you into a tailspin. They don’t tell you about the friendships you’ll lose because you can’t bring yourself to go to their baby showers, or the countless times you’ll avoid parties where the only thing the parents will talk about is how much their kid sleeps, eats, and shits. They don’t tell you about how you’ll question your “womanhood” or blame your body, your partner, your past, or the Universe. Or how every minute of every day you’ll think about what your baby would have looked like, sounded like, or been like. They don’t tell you about the support groups you’ll join only to see other women leave to have happy pregnancies of their own and for some reason, it will feel like this great betrayal even though you’re actually happy they are out of this nightmare themselves.
They don’t tell you how completely isolating the process is even when you have a team of doctors and nurses around you. How it feels like everyone in your world is able to get pregnant, except for you.
They don’t tell you about the grief process. How you simultaneously want to abandon all thought about what you’ve gone through yet also yearn to be seen, to be heard. Or how as soon as you start talking, you instantly want to be around strangers who don’t see your scars, your pain — and then as soon as you’re there you can’t stand the thought of being alone.
Why don’t we talk about this? Why does infertility still feel like this scarlet letter I have to wear around? Infertility affects both men and women. In the US, about one in six couples struggle to get pregnant. And secondary infertility comprises 30% of infertility as a whole.
It’s National Infertility Awareness Week and quite frankly, getting vulnerable like this is really scary. I have a lump in my throat and want to retreat back to my own little world where no one knows what I’m going through. But maybe there’s a chance you’re reading this and you’re struggling, and you, too, rallied in the cries of our collective pain with the chant, “Me too, me too, me too.”
Or maybe you’re not struggling to get pregnant, you never want to get pregnant, or you’re the friend of someone who is trying to get pregnant. Maybe you’ve tried to offer them that silver lining and make them “feel better” about what they’re going through. Please, Stop it. You won’t be able to silver line your friend so that she feels better. In fact, you should refrain from ever saying the following:
Unintentionally, all of these minimize their pain, cast blame that implies this is somehow her fault, and are filled with sympathy when all your friend truly needs is someone to sit with her and let her feel. She’s already putting a ton of pressure on herself, so instead ask her things like, “This must really suck, how are you?” or “What do you need from me?” Hold space for your friend so that she’ll feel comfortable sharing with you in this impossibly tough journey.
As for me, I’m still in the thick of it. As Dr. Brené Brown says, I’m still “face down in the arena” — Some days I feel strong and I have the fight in me, and some days I’m ready to throw in the towel. I’ve cried in the shower for what felt like hours, I’ve screamed, I’ve broken glass, and I’ve felt sorry for myself. I’ve pretended to be strong even though I was crumbling. I’ve muted people on Facebook so I’m not subjected to belly pictures and I’ve ended friendships. And I’ve also journaled, hiked, and painted pictures to work through the grief — the grief of the old me, of what could have been. These are the things they don’t tell you about infertility, so I thought I’d share them with you.
Even though there’s nothing I could say that will magically take away the frustration, confusion, and hurt about this process, our collective pain can be a source of light through what feels like endless darkness.
If you’re in the dark, too, I see you. I see how hard you are fighting and investing and how much you’re putting your body through for the chance to be Mom. I see how much you’ve sacrificed and how much you’ve hoped and prayed to rock that little one in your arms. I see your pain, your coat of armor, and I want you to know I’m fighting alongside you.
National Infertility Awareness Week® is April 21–27. It is hosted by RESOLVE, an organization in the US working to bring access to family building options to all families.
The Truth About Infertility No One Talks About
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