The past few days have been rough. I am struggling.
Through this blog, I try and document my journey with infertility so that I can look back and have each moment captured in time. I don’t even know if I will ever choose to make it available to others. I try to articulate the rollercoaster of emotions that we have experienced on this journey, however, there truly are no words that can convey the amount of pain that we have experienced.
I feel frustrated with my body.
I feel frustrated with my inability to remain faithful in God.
I feel frustrated with my inability to communicate with others about what we are experiencing. I don’t even think that the two therapists that I sought out were even close to understanding how my heart is breaking. The majority of the sessions were spent explaining the process of IVF rather than what it has done to me and what I can do to move beyond my anger and sadness towards acceptance. How can I accept this when we continue to have glimpses of hope that are shattered into a million pieces, each time worse than the one before.
I can only equate it to grief: the kind of grief that offers no closure. There is no funeral of finality, no wake of condolences to show support, and no autopsy of answers. There is only constant daily grief of the dreams of a family that we once had planned with intermittent glimpses of hope that are quickly diminished with every lost pregnancy, every halted embryo, every failed transfer, every moment of waiting.
Even my strongest moments can bring me crumbling to my knees with every pregnancy announcement, baby shower, first birthday, Mother’s Day, pregnant belly, or text or social media post about challenges and complaints of motherhood.
Each birthday or holiday or anniversary that I used to celebrate now serves as a painful reminder of the length of time that has passed that we have been fighting this uphill battle to grow our family.
“Would have been” due dates linger in my mind and destroy the promises of brighter days in the upcoming new year.
*Honeymoon Baby would have been due in May
*First Transfer would have been due March 17
*Second Transfer would have been due June 5
*Third transfer would have been due August 7
Some mornings it takes all my energy to get out of bed that I have nothing leftover to face the day, let alone paint a smile on my face and pretend to be ok through small talk.
“Hey how are you” is such a loaded question, especially when the person who is asking out of kindness has no clue what is really behind my answer of “im fine”.
There is CONSTANT grief over an invisible disease that no one can see, some can empathize with, and only the very few can understand.
Relationships have suffered due to infertility. I am not my best self and I struggle every day with this. I am desperately trying to be a better wife, better daughter, and a better friend but I am limited in my ability to do so.
Unfortunately, there are friends and family members who inadvertently cause pain by offering up opinions and comments (although well-intended).
“Wow! Your car is so clean, you can tell you don’t have any kids”
“Must be nice to travel so much without kids”
“They have a lot of kids, did you ask them if you can have one of theirs?”
“You can always adopt”
“It will be your turn soon”
“Your so lucky you can nap”
“My kids drive me crazy, you can have mine”
“If it’s meant to be it will be” (that’s always a favorite of mine- so the crack whore with 5 kids is meant to be a mom but I am not?!)
Or sometimes ignoring my situation and trying to have small talk about the weather is equally as painful. How can I possibly think or talk about anything else other than this? Yes, it is just one facet of my life…but the outcome will determine the rest of my life. People post all the time about how their kids are their whole world- well trying to have kids is mine so ignoring the grief is not helpful.
I have to pull away in order to save myself from heartache and put my needs first. Some days I feel let down by some friends that I thought would have been more empathetic or supportive. I don’t wish infertility on anyone, yet I yearn for them to try and understand.
Other days I am amazed at the friends who I never would have expected that have become my greatest support system. They acknowledge that they don’t know how I feel. They don’t just say “I am here for you”, they show that they are. They check on me often via text or card or in person. They have sent me inspirational quotes to help me give me the strength to keep going, especially on the days that I don’t think I can. They have sent me flowers, wiped my tears, prayed with me, showed up at my house just to cry with me on the couch, given me shots, and texted me on mothers day to let me know that they are thinking of me (because even though I may not be a mom yet, I am fighting like hell to become one).
These ladies are my tribe and I love them.
I am also fortunate enough to have an online community of women who are on the same path. Women who just get it and say “I’m sorry”, “this sucks”, or my personal favorite “it doesn’t get easier, you just get stronger”. I am blessed beyond measure to find an outlet that allows me to unapologetically speak my truth and express my heartache without judgement or shame. They really do know how it feels and I am grateful for that level of empathy.
There are no answers nor will there ever be, as to why this is our path. While most days I want to scream from the rooftops “you don’t know how it feels”, I did find a website article that offers up a comparison that I feel comes close to explaining infertility.
Also, a woman names Katelynn Albrecht posted an open 𝗹𝗲𝘁𝘁𝗲𝗿 𝘁𝗼 𝘁𝗵𝗼𝘀𝗲 𝘄𝗵𝗼 𝗵𝗮𝘃𝗲 𝗻𝗲𝘃𝗲𝗿 𝘀𝘁𝗿𝘂𝗴𝗴𝗹𝗲𝗱 𝘄𝗶𝘁𝗵 𝗶𝗻𝗳𝗲𝗿𝘁𝗶𝗹𝗶𝘁𝘆…. And describes 𝗪𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝗶𝗻𝗳𝗲𝗿𝘁𝗶𝗹𝗶𝘁𝘆 𝗳𝗲𝗲𝗹𝘀 𝗹𝗶𝗸𝗲…in ways far better than I ever could:
“At times it’s paralyzing. At times it’s debilitatingly painful. It’s feeling so out of touch with reality because you’re completely consumed with your own thoughts and grief that you simply can’t muster up the energy to focus on anything else. It’s setting boundaries for yourself and walking away from conversations when people start talking about their pregnancies/babies/kids.
It’s feeling like it’s a chore to actually spend time with people because you’re forced to put on a fake brave and semi-happy face for the world while feeling completely shattered and devastated and heartbroken inside. It’s then forcing yourself and trying your hardest to make it through X, Y, Z events without completely breaking down. Oftentimes it’s wanting to apologize to those people in your circle that you’ve completely disappeared from but can’t bring yourself to share your grief and pain with them because the vulnerability in itself is too painful to talk about. Yet at times, it’s not wanting to have to apologize for what you’re going through and all you really want from people is some compassion and grace. Furthermore, you know you can’t be there for them in ways that they probably need you to be right now because you’re suffering from your own intense grief and misery. How do you pour yourself into other people’s cups when you don’t even have the energy to fill up your own? At times it’s completely avoiding people who are pregnant or not attending certain events where you know there are potential triggers. It’s saying “no” to your friend’s baby shower or kiddo’s birthday party if you don’t think you can handle it, only to feel like a bad friend for not being there. It’s threatening to ruin family relationships, friendships and marriages. It’s being on the brink of tears at any given moment. It’s self-preservation at the expense of 𝘢𝘭𝘭 of your relationships. It’s feeling like you want to completely isolate yourself so that you’re not hit with yet more pregnancy news and baby announcements. It’s feeling like you no longer have anything in common with your friends because all they seemingly want to talk about is their kids. It’s realizing that you can’t relate to them and they certainly can’t relate to you. It’s at times feeling so depressed and lonely and isolated that you contemplate what the alternative would be. It’s being put on antidepressants because you just can’t seem to pull yourself out of your funk. It’s going to therapy due to suffering from PTSD and depression due to all of the loss and trauma. It destroys your soul and your mental health and your self-esteem. It’s wondering how in the world you could possibly endure another year of this hell, let alone without the one person who has been through it all with you because he may be gone for military obligations; the one person that has been to every heartbreaking appointment with you, seen every tear shed, heard every prayer and plead with God and heard every cry. It’s questioning why God would give you such a strong desire to be a mom and then wondering why He’s not following through on His promise. It’s wondering if He’s forgotten about you. It’s wondering what you did to deserve so much heartache and pain.
It’s unfollowing certain people on social media or completely getting rid of your social media accounts altogether.
It’s knowing most people have the best of intentions, but also unintentionally taking some things personally because you just can’t understand how someone could possibly be so insensitive, especially when they are well aware of what you’ve been, and are still, going through.
It’s choosing to ignore texts or messages from people that don’t serve your well-being. It’s also avoiding those people that can’t help but constantly tell you about other people’s babies/pregnancies/kids.
It’s watching everyone around you get pregnant and start their families while you’re stuck watching and waiting and trying to feel happy for them, yet feeling incredibly sad and heartbroken for yourself.
It’s being mad as hell at God for allowing the pain and suffering to continue.
It’s surgery after surgery; it’s constant blood-draws, and endless doctor’s appointments and ultrasounds and poking and prodding and extreme emotional lows. It’s constant crying and feeling unstable. It’s depression. It’s anxiety. It’s feeling hopeless and worthless and full of shame. It’s feeling completely betrayed by your own body. It’s receiving unfavorable diagnosis after unfavorable diagnosis. It’s feeling like a failure. It’s desperately wanting something so badly that you’re willing to try all sorts of weird vitamins and supplements, and acupuncture, and chiropractic care and massage to de-stress, and spending thousands of wasted dollars. It’s diet changes, and cutting out caffeine and alcohol, and trying reiki, and going to therapy. It’s doing round after round of IUI and taking oral medications that make you feel like an emotional lunatic and doing abdominal injections that leave bruises on your body. It’s trying every trick in the book to make it happen, all to have your soul crushed and your dreams squashed every month when aunt flow shows up. It’s ending up with scars on your body and all over your heart, and still having no baby.
It is 𝙎𝙊. 𝙈𝙐𝘾𝙃. 𝙇𝙊𝙎𝙎.
It’s the loss of hopes and dreams and joy and happiness and the anticipation of starting a family the old-fashioned way. It’s the loss of surprising your partner with joyous news. It’s the loss of surprising your friends and family because everything has become so premeditated. It’s the loss of feeling happy and excited about a potential pregnancy because there is hurdle after hurdle to jump through to achieve success. It’s the loss of feeling happy/excited even if pregnancy is achieved because the fear of miscarriage is so real. It’s a complete loss of control. It’s the loss of self. It’s the loss of a future you saw so vividly. It’s the loss of a pregnancy. It’s sadness and feeling loss over a “should’ve been” due date/Birthday/holiday celebration that never happened. It’s the loss of so many more things not included here.
It’s all-consuming stress and fear and anxiety over the possibility of never becoming a parent to a biological child.
It’s having panic attacks wondering if you’d ever be okay with being 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 a dog momma. Or wondering if you should adopt. Or if you would be okay with using donor eggs or donor sperm or embryo adoption, etc.
It’s feeling like simply existing is exhausting.
It’s the perpetual feeling of fatigue from the mental, emotional, physical and financial burdens that we carry from infertility.
It’s the added stress of getting a part-time job on top of your full-time job to help cover the insane cost of fertility treatment because your insurance covers nothing.
It’s feeling like you are no longer yourself but a shattered and broken shell of the old you.
It’s feeling completely numb.
It’s feeling helpless and hopeless and that nothing excites you anymore.
It’s not giving a crap about your Birthday or Christmas or any other Holidays because the one and only thing you actually care about is having a baby, and they’re just another painful reminder of what you don’t have that your heart so desperately wants.
It’s going on another vacation, it’s getting another dog, it’s quitting your stressful job with no back-up plan, it’s doing the seemingly most bizarre and irrational things to the rest of the world in order to find some small glimmer of fleeting happiness. It’s doing whatever the hell you have to do to survive.
It’s day after day, month after month, year after year of the agonizing “wait”.
It’s completely missing out on life at times.
It’s exhaustion from so many nights of not sleeping because it’s all you can think about. Other nights you cry yourself to sleep and wake up with a headache that lasts all day.
𝙄𝙣𝙛𝙚𝙧𝙩𝙞𝙡𝙞𝙩𝙮 𝙛𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙠𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙒𝙀𝘼𝙍𝙎. 𝙔𝙊𝙐. 𝙊𝙐𝙏.
It is 𝙨𝙤 many hard and ugly and painful things and it’s not fair that some people have to endure this pain and suffering while most others don’t.
It is arguably the most painful thing a woman can experience (aside from losing an actual living & breathing child)…”
“But let me get to the point, let’s roll another joint
And turn the radio loud, I’m too alone to be proud
You don’t know how it feels
You don’t know how it feels to be me”
You Don’t Know How it Feels by Tom Petty
breakdown and rally 