Hmmm...

I think this post may rub some of you the wrong way. But I feel very strongly about this subject, and I need to get my thoughts “out there.”

Pamela Jeanne recently wrote an interesting post about receiving an unexpected pregnancy (twins) announcement in an e-mail from a work colleague. She is asking her readers to help her decide whether to tell her colleague about her blog and/or book-in-progress. Some readers responded that she was “blindsided” by this announcement—and at work, too!

I take issue with that response. There is no earthly way for every single person to tiptoe around the feelings of every single other person. I think we infertiles sometimes forget that many, if not most, of us have already “crossed the finish line” of a goal many people hope to achieve—we have found our life partner. When you announced your engagement, did you gingerly approach all your single friends? You might have. But how about those friends who were secretly in a troubled marriage, wishing to God they were still in the happy phase of young love and feeling sucker-punched with every new engagement announcement? If you didn’t know about their problems, how would you have known to step gingerly? Is the solution to be cautious and timid about every happy thing that is going on in your life? Of course not!

The main point of Pamela Jeanne’s post, I think, was that she was trying to decide whether this was an appropriate time to share her struggle with infertility. Unless the situation feels extremely awkward (like, for example, when we told M’s cousin about our pregnancy while he was in the presence of his 22-year-old buddies last weekend), I say go for it. The more open we are about our infertility, the more sensitive society will be to our needs.

Close encounters of the IF kind

On Friday night, we invited our new next-door neighbors and their almost-three-year-old daughter over for dinner. Though I’m not officially “out” with a large number of people yet, the conversation was going in such a direction that I was uncomfortable keeping my current condition a secret. So, I told. And I couldn’t help adding, “It was after a battle with infertility.” The woman, B, started asking some more detailed questions, and, of course, I was happy to share (I’ve never been a particularly private person). At one point, when I was explaining something, I added, “I don’t know if you’ve ever known anyone who’s gone through IF, but…” and she interrupted and told me they had. Their daughter is adopted.

Whoa. The things you learn when you share. I learned that B had had two, possibly three miscarriages, and couldn’t get pregnant after that. They never went through IUI or IVF. They started caring for the Munchkin when she was 8 weeks old; C’s cousin (the birth mother) had had lots and lots of problems and the child needed a foster. After a lot of time and a court battle, B and C were eventually able to adopt the Munchkin.

After dinner, while M was showing C the fish tank (boys!), I sat down with B and we started talking about our IF histories. In detail. It was strange for me to be discussing this with a relative stranger, but it was a very bonding experience. I shared my continual fear of miscarriage, and she talked about how she and C are considering fostering again, but she couldn’t go through the emotional trauma she did when she thought she might lose the Munchkin.

When I asked whether they would pursue more treatments, she said no. She’s almost 40 (she looks so much younger!) and doesn’t want to go through the emotional rollercoaster of IVF if there’s only a slim chance it will work. And then she said something that really hit me hard: She’s truly “over” infertility. Of course, much of that is probably because she has a child in her arms. But still, adoption or giving birth only cures childlessness; it doesn’t cure infertility. And even though she’d like another child, she’s not bitter anymore that her body didn’t do what she wanted it to do.

I really hope that all of us can reach that place some day.

Can you measure suffering in tears?

My good friend K has had a hard life so far. Part of it has been her own doing, part of it has been because of her struggle with depression, part of it has been being part of a sorta-dysfunctional family, and part of it has been simply circumstance. Though she went to a top college, she was a film major, and has never found (or even pursued very diligently) a job in her field. Instead, she is 29 and has worked at one of a couple of mall stores for most of her post-college life. She lives with her mom, who is about to lose their house because of money problems. She would like to live on her own, but can’t afford it. Her parents recently got divorced, and her dad lost his job several months ago. She has had two serious relationships, both of which ended badly. She still keeps messages from her ex-boyfriends on her cell phone because she can’t bear to delete them. She has struggled with weight. She is constantly feeling bad about herself because she has never measured up to what she or other people hoped she would become. I consider her to be a beautiful woman with a natural gift for making others feel good about themselves and a genuinely kind heart, but she has a hard time believing that.

When I look at myself through K’s eyes (which isn’t hard to do, because she is constantly tossing warm fuzzies my way), I see a woman who has just about everything—a supportive, stable family; a modest but comfortable house; a loving husband; a good job in my field; a strong faith in God; the motivation to get things done when they need to be done and enough money in the bank to cover us when shit happens.

K doesn’t wish me any ill, and she doesn’t resent me for how my life has turned out. I’m not being arrogant when I say that I think K wishes she could be a little more like me (she’s told me as much). Consequently, she’s often the first person I call when I’m feeling down, because I feel like I need to prove to her that my life is not all sunshine and roses.

If I were K (and to clarify, she would never say this; she’s too good of a friend), I would say that it’s about time I had to deal with some real heartache.

This is all a long way of saying that I fear we haven’t suffered nearly enough in our quest for a baby. That getting a BFP next week is just too much to ask for. Pregnancy on our first cycle of Femara (albeit after three excruciating cycles of Clomid)? Come on, are you joking?

I have had what I consider to be dark spots in my life: When I was flatly rejected by the sorority that had accepted all my friends (I thought it confirmed I was an unlovable person who would have a miserable social life in college). When the man whom I thought I was going to marry broke up with me the fall after I graduated from college (I had no idea how I was going to handle being a “swingin’ single” in her 20s). When I spent eight unemployed months desperately searching for a job after I married M and moved to Wisconsin.

But I’m not sure I have ever really suffered. I haven’t yet had to deal with the death of a close loved one, and I’ve never wondered how I can possibly live another day. If I were K, I would say that 15 months TTC is not enough, and that perhaps I need to feel what it’s like to wait years for what I want.

Then again, suffering is not necessarily measured in time. As I have said before, I’ve known for a long time that I would be infertile. So I guess, in a way, I’ve suffered for a decade or more. While other couples have had joyful anticipation at the beginning of TTC, we never did. It was all dread from the moment we got married.

So, have I met my suffering quota? I hope so. I’m not sure if I necessarily “deserve” to get pregnant right now, but when has God restricted blessings to those who deserve it? Aren’t we all undeserving in the end?