The Eternal Guest Room

Infertility kinda sucks.

support, expected and unexpected

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Wow – I was kind of shocked when I found out that I made it onto Mel’s Friday Blog Roundup at stirrup-queens.com. It’s always so amazing and comforting to me to hear that people identify so closely with the thoughts that I write about – and the great irony is that I nearly deleted that post when I woke up the next morning. But I think that’s how it goes, a lot of the time; the things we write that are the most honest are often the things that we wonder “should I have even written/said that?” and they are so often also the things that other people can most closely relate to.

I had a fabulous English professor in college who once said something brilliant; something along the lines of “people always talk about how different we all are, but that’s BS – we are all the same.”

And that stuck with me, because it’s so true. We may not talk about the deep, dark things very often, but when we do, we find that we’re not alone.

I spent most of last year in therapy, and at one appointment, she said something that changed my life. I told her that D didn’t really understand what I was going through, didn’t know the right things to say and do, and wasn’t supportive enough, even though I knew he tried. And she said:

“You can’t find your support in him. He’ll never completely understand what you’re going through. Guys are not the same as girls. You need to seek your support in other women.”

And she was right.

It was a hard thing to let go of – the idea that my husband could be everything I needed, that he could give me all the comfort I required, that he would be the one person that understood how hard it all was – but once I did, my life changed. I sought support on online forums and in real-life support groups and in fellow bloggers, and I found women that really, truly, completely, totally got it. I can speak freely to them, and they won’t judge me. They won’t give me trite catch-phrases that “everything will be ok, it will happen when it’s meant to, you just need to relax and it will happen.” They get it. Totally. Completely.

Of course, I treasure and value the people that are not on this road, the people in my “real life,” that try their hardest to offer support and words of encouragement. They may not always say the “right” thing, but they say the things that mean the world, that they are there for us, that they are thinking of us, even that they are praying for us, even though I haven’t prayed for us in a long, long time. These people and the things that they say mean more to me than I can even begin to express.

But I’ve also found this support network that understands, and that I can talk to. When I get bad news or good news or just feel crummy, I go to them first, because I know they understand. Little things, whereas before I’d be like “who would actually want to know this?” I now know who to tell, and they know what to say. When I first found out my sister had gone into labor, my heart ached, and I thought “who can I talk to? who would understand the way I feel, and not judge me for these feelings?” and the answer came to me: the women who were going through the same thing. And I told them, and they wrote back amazing, supportive things, and it changed my day and warmed my heart. After I picked my heart off of the floor, I posted here, and after that, I went on with life. But first, I went to my support group. And it made all the difference in the world.

I don’t actually know most of the women that I “talk” to. But I know they’re there, and I know they care, and I know they understand.

And that makes all the difference in the world.

thinking late at night, never a good thing

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I can’t sleep. I know that it’s mostly because of the migraine medicine I took several hours ago (which has tons of caffeine in it) but it’s also because I have so many jumbled thoughts scrambling around in my mind.

I feel like people must be tired of listening to me by now. I’m even kind of tired of listening to me at this point. I feel like I talk about it less and less, because I’ve already said it all, again and again, and it’s so old and tiresome.

Even though we’ve been trying unsuccessfully for nearly 4 years to have a child, for a long time I didn’t consider myself “infertile.” All my tests checked out fine and the only issue appeared to be with some less-than-perfect sperm. I honestly thought it would be a mater of time and a few rounds of fairly minor and not very invasive fertility treatments. I couldn’t totally relate to people who called themselves Infertiles, even though I could totally relate to what they were going through for the most part.

But now I feel that I’m really in that category and I feel that I must have some “blame” in this, even though blame really isn’t the right word.

I feel broken and I feel defective and I feel like I’m somehow not as good as other women. I know, rationally, that this is ridiculous, but I still feel this way. I can write about this inner strength that I had never realized I had, but I feel that I don’t measure up to the people who can accomplish this basic, simple human function. I feel like they matter more than me.

I know this is stupid but these feelings creep in and poke my heart and tell me there is something majorly wrong with me.

Other people have no way of understanding this. They’ll tell me that I’m wrong, and I’ll tell them that that’s true, because I know that. But I can’t help feeling like this.

We used to see a baby at the end of this long, dark tunnel. We used to have dreams and make plans. We talked about nursery plans and diapers and what it would be like. We even bought stuff. Cute baby stuff. It used to give me hope and happy thoughts. Now it just sits in closets and mocks me. Now we see surgeries and needles and doctors and operating rooms. We can dream about a positive blood test, but anything beyond that seems unrealistic and completely out of reach. Actually having a baby some day just seems like a carrot on a long, seemingly never ending stick. It seems like that will always be for other people.

Some days I don’t know what keeps me going on this path. The future is cloudy. Sometimes I wonder if it’s just because we’ve been on it so long, we don’t want to give up and let all four years be for absolutely nothing. I don’t know what our ending is and I don’t even know when it is anymore.

For now I’m left with rambling thoughts and trying to avoid the things that make me have them.

Though obviously I’m not doing a good job with that tonight.

counting

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Countdown to surgery: 2 weeks, 1 hour, 30 minutes.

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This morning I had to take my mom to the airport so she could visit the newest grandbaby. That was tough. Luckily the roads were covered in ice, so avoiding death was a nice distraction.

It’s still hard for me to believe that my younger sister has two children while I still have no idea if I’ll have any. Finding out she was pregnant with her second was expected but still hard. And, without setting specific goals, I thought to myself, “surely, by the time that kid gets here, I’ll have my own on the way.” Apparently even thinking that way is dangerous, but I was feeling hopeful about the most recent IUI at the time and really thought it could be nearly over.

Two weeks until my second surgery. Three months until IVF (possibly more, since you never know). And then, who knows.

Someone recently asked D: “Why don’t the doctors just start with the most ‘sure’ thing?” Meaning: “Why haven’t you just done IVF yet?” D just told him how much it costs, and I think that was explanation enough. But it’s more than that; IVF is a hard thing to go through, emotionally as well as financially.

It does bother me a little to know that there will always be people out there just thinking “Why don’t you just do IVF?” or “Why don’t you just adopt?”

There is no just. But unless people ask – and most probably won’t – they won’t know that.

These days are passing so slowly. I feel like January lasted several months.

I have more stuff to write about, but today my thoughts are scrambled. I’m tired from last night’s lack of sleep due to airport runs and I’m tired of it feeling like it’s 4 degrees outside and I’m tired of not being able to go to work because it’s closed, because it means I just lost a week of income that we needed.

For now I’m just counting down and trying to pass the time.

when it’s really hard

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Most days are ok. Life goes on, and I am a functioning participant. I live with the reality that maybe we will have kids, and maybe we won’t. It’s hard, but I manage.

But some days, it’s really hard. Sometimes for no reason, but there’s usually a reason, or a trigger.

In general I avoid talking about any of my family situations on this blog. Because family members and friends who know them read it. Because it’s weird to talk about certain things without that anonymity that a blog not read by family members has. Because I don’t want to risk making anyone feel bad, or uncomfortable, by talking about them. But sometimes I feel like I have to, because not doing so would leave major gaps in my story, and for other people to really understand what I’m going through and to really give myself a chance to express my thoughts and feelings, sometimes I have to share these things.

I have three younger sisters. All of them are married. All of them plan to have children. As the oldest, I expected to have the first. When that was taken from me, I was devastated. It’s no one’s fault, but quite honestly, it sucked for me. The news was a total shock, and I did not handle it well. I’ll leave it at that.

At that point I fully expected to have the second grandchild. I had no idea of the challenges and heartbreak that were ahead of us. No idea.

I love my niece. She is perfect and precious and more adorable than words can describe. I’ll never forget the first time I held her; I was floored by the amount of love that I felt. But I hate that I am an aunt before I was a mother.

Today my second niece will be born. I am sure I will love her just as much, but right now it just hurts so badly. That I am going through this a second time. That it is still not my turn. That, once again, I get someone else’s good news just after I get my own bad news. That my family is so excited and so full of joy, and all I feel is grief.

I grieve for my own children, that I thought I would have by now, but that I now know I may never have. I grieve the loss of not being the one to have the first grandchild or even the second, because being the oldest sucks and you should at least get that, and at this point I’ll probably be lucky just to have the fourth. I grieve that I cannot share in this joy, because my own pain is too great. I grieve the distance that this has put between my family members and myself, because it hurts too much to be with them sometimes when they can’t understand what I am going through. I grieve for all of the things that infertility has taken from me.

This is one of those days when it’s really hard.

again

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I had my hysteroscopy this afternoon. I was really nervous – to the point that I felt like I was going to throw up – that they were going to find something. And I was right.

I have another polyp. Smaller than the one from last year, but in the same place. I have to have surgery to have it removed. Again. Surgery again.

I had a feeling that something wasn’t right, and I was right.

It’s not like last year, when we said, “oh, now we know what the problem is; we’ll get it fixed, and be on our way, and everything will work out.”

We can’t really believe in it so simplistically this time.

I feel so defeated.

another year

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This was supposed to be the end.

The end of the year was supposed to be our cut-off date; we would either have what we wanted, or start to move on.

But we thought we would be a lot further along. I figured we’d be done with IUIs by the end of the summer. I thought that if we decided to move on to IVF, it would have happened by now. But the truth is that nothing is guaranteed to work out the way you plan, and this is no exception.

We are switching doctors. I’m having a lot of anxiety over this, because there are 2 doctors in our clinic and we are switching from one to the other. I’m afraid we’ll run into the “old” doctor and he’ll be mad at us, or something. The “new” doctor actually did our final IUI because ours wasn’t working that weekend, and we liked the “new” doctor better. He and his wife went through IVF to get their son and he is very understanding and compassionate and warm, all qualities that the “old” doctor pretty much lacked. Not that he was horrible or anything – we just liked the other doctor better. So we decided to switch.

We had talked about it for awhile, but the final decision to switch was kind of on an impulse, and then I started to get really worried that I did the wrong thing. Plus we had to wait for a “new patient” appointment and that isn’t until this coming Friday. If I hadn’t switched doctors, we would be talking with our doctor right now. Instead we start over at the end of this long week. My anxiety level is way, way up right now.

It’s hard to know what the “right” thing to do is sometimes.

age

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It’s my birthday today. Today I am 32. I am not super thrilled about that.

I write this knowing that there are women who would love to be in my shoes, and I’m sensitive to that. I know that there are lots of people closer to 40 who will just look at me and think I’m being ridiculous. I am thankful that I am facing these issues at 32 and not at 38. I really am.

But I’m not getting any younger. If we just started trying, my age wouldn’t bother me at all. But it’s been nearly 4 years, and every year that passes is another reminder and another lost year.

I hate when people say “you’re still young, you still have time.” While that may be true, it may not be true. My problems are going to get worse with every passing year, not better. If I had trouble at 28, why would it suddenly get better when I’m 32?

We went to Mexico for my 30th birthday because I was not pregnant and I wanted to be so badly. It seemed like such a milestone; after all, it’s easy to get pregnant in your 20s, but in your 30s, not so much – right? That’s not talk, that’s fact. Your body is really primed for pregnancy when you’re 19 or something ridiculous like that.

I know now how precious time is. I know how short it can be. I know how quickly it can pass. Every passing year is a reminder of what I don’t have. And one year closer to running out of hope.

strength

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I was going to post about something different, but I started thinking yesterday about something I don’t usually think about.

We’ve been fairly public about our infertility struggles for a few years, and a little over a year ago went very public about it – D posted a link to this blog on his facebook wall for all to see (I didn’t post the link on mine because I have clients on my list and it was before the days of selective sharing). We’ve been very, very fortunate in that people have either been understanding and supportive or haven’t said anything; we haven’t gotten the hurtful comments that some people get.

I was going to post about loss but yesterday I started thinking about strength.

Over the course of the past year or so, several people have made comments about me being strong. I generally don’t think of myself this way; the people who say I’m strong don’t see me at my worst, crying my eyes out or thinking I can’t get out of bed some days.

But when I really stop and think about it, they’re right. I have strength that I didn’t know could even exist in me. I’ve been through so much, and I’m still here. That’s got to count for something. Some people say that infertility makes them stronger, but I don’t feel that way. I feel like infertility has made me realize that I’m stronger than I think.

I get out of bed when I don’t think I can face another day. I have injections in my stomach while I’m in my house. I make phone calls to set up more doctor’s appointments immediately after finding out more devastating news. I somehow find the strength to keep enduring more treatments, even though I know they will probably fail. I visited my newborn niece at a time when my heart was completely broken. I’ve sent people baby gifts even though the thought of it made me feel like crawling into a hole. I have gone to family events that felt like the most unbearable things I could imagine. I manage to put a smile on my face even on the days when it feels like everything is crashing down around me.

I see unbelievable depths of strength in the ALI (Adoption/Loss/Infertility) community; these women are absolutely amazing. They endure pain that most people can’t even imagine, and they survive. Their strength constantly floors me. The blogs I read and the stories I hear are often heartbreaking – loss after loss, year after year, crushing disappointment after disappointment – and I wonder how people keep going. But they do, because they possess this unbelievable strength. Even though it doesn’t feel like it sometimes (or most times), it’s there.

Those of us enduring infertility often have a hard time feeling especially thankful during the holidays. Today is a day where people all around the country are sitting around tables with their families thinking about how thankful they are to have them, and some of us want nothing more than a family of 3 to be thankful for. And of course I’m thankful for my  husband, and my cats, and my house, and our families and friends and all of that.

But today I have another thing to be thankful for: these people who are walking down a similar road, facing things close to what I’m facing, and who are able to reach out past their own pain to offer support to others. Someone once told me that pregnancy and babies are not merit-based, and it’s so true – these women deserve babies more than anyone. When they do get their babies I rejoice for them.

I am thankful for their support, and I am thankful for their strength, and I am thankful for mine.

November ICLW

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Hello and welcome to everyone visiting from ICLW! This is my third time to sign up and every time I get better at leaving all my comments. I have high hopes for this one.

It’s hard at this point to sit and write about our “history” because it almost doesn’t seem to matter any more, but just to give you some background: Trying for over 3 1/2 years. Varicocele repair to fix low motility and 0% morphology (it’s gotten much better). Hysteroscopy to remove huge polyp. 3 canceled IUIs. 3 completed IUIs, all BFNs. (And can I just say here that I HATE that wordpress/whoever doesn’t recognize varicocele, hysteroscopy, or IUI as real words.) In all these years, the only hint of a second pink line I’ve ever seen was the months I tested out the trigger. Our official diagnosis now is mild male factor.

After 3 1/2 years it gets harder in some ways and easier in others. I don’t have that sense of devastation every month, because I don’t have that sense of hope. I can go on Evil Facebook these days without having an emotional breakdown (though that might be because everyone who is pregnant or has babies is hidden). I can go on with my daily life and, well, live. In the course of a normal day, I mostly do OK. I have breakdowns and hours of uncontrollable sobbing, but it’s not on a super regular basis.

I made a huge mistake last night though. I was invited to a gathering of people I didn’t know, and I went. One of the hostesses is a friend who I see on a limited basis and who I had somewhat bonded with over infertility issues (though hers were MUCH different than mine, and she has kids). I got there only to find out that every single other person there was a mom. One had just given birth weeks earlier.

And that was All. They. Talked. About.

Breastfeeding and parenting and craziness and lack of sleep and how your body sucks after pregnancy. And I wanted to hit them, or at least scream. The one with the newborn made some comment about something (can’t remember exactly what, since she made comments all night) and I almost, almost snapped at her and said something along the lines of “well at least you have kids – do you know how many people would kill to be in your shoes, to face the minor inconveniences to your current lifestyle, just to have what you have?” But I bit my tongue.

I felt empty and I felt broken and I felt barren, and I felt completely out of place. I had nothing to add to the conversation. I had no idea what their lives were like. I wanted to leave but I couldn’t find a way out for awhile. It made my heart hurt. I left in tears and came home sobbing. I regretted going 100%. I’m trying to regain my social life, but after nights like that I wasn’t sure if that was the best idea.

Mostly I’m ok. But some days, not so much. And some moments – or events – I can barely keep it together.

But I think that’s how these things go.

robbed

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Halloween has always been a big deal to me, and a special day for us. We had our first date on Halloween and got engaged 2 Halloweens later. It’s an anniversary.

I had a hard time giving up the “kid things” about Halloween. I went trick-or-treating every year until I went to college. I always made sure to carve a pumpkin and make caramel apples. Those things reminded me of my childhood, and being a kid, and the magic that went along with the holidays. And I fully, completely, 100%  intended to do all of these things with my own children someday.

Along with all the other holidays, Halloween lost something for me as the years went on. Doing the “kid stuff” was just a reminder of what I didn’t have. Last year especially, I was a wreck during Halloween weekend.

But this year I tried to move on. I got dressed up and went to a party. I bought caramel (but ran out of time to put in on the apples, so close). We even passed out some candy to trick-or-treaters, which I haven’t been able to do in past years. It was emotional, but I did it. We watched The Shining. Then we watched It’s the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown. And there was a line that really made me think.

As we all know, the Great Pumpkin that Linus tells Sally will be there doesn’t show up, and Sally is upset. She says:

“I was robbed! I spent the whole night waiting for the Great Pumpkin when I could have been out for tricks or treats! Halloween is over and I missed it!…What a fool I was.”

And I thought: “Yes. Exactly. That’s exactly how I feel.” I feel like I’ve spent the last several years and holidays waiting. Waiting for this amazing thing that people insisted I would have and that I truly believed I would have. And while I was waiting, life went on without me, and I missed it. I could have been out having fun and enjoying life and instead I was just sitting around waiting and feeling so depressed that I didn’t enjoy a thing.

I feel like I was robbed.

And that leads to the question – well, was I robbed, or did I rob myself? But then I think, “does it really matter?” I mean, what’s the difference?

That’s one of the most horrible things about infertility; it really robs you of so much. It robs you not only of your own children but also of joy, peace, naivety, innocence, happiness for people you care about who are able to get pregnant, the ability to enjoy what you have and the life you’ve been given. It takes away so much.

I worry that I will always regret these last 3 years. I feel like I’ve missed out on everything and haven’t accomplished anything. And I feel like I haven’t cared. The whole thing makes me feel bad, and kind of guilty.

I do feel like I was robbed. It isn’t fair what some of us have to go through. I could blame myself, but one thing I’ve learned though this is that you can’t and shouldn’t judge people, because no one knows how they will react to any situation. It is what it is.

I go in tomorrow morning for my baseline sonogram for our last IUI. The finality is weird. If this one doesn’t work, we either give up or move forward. I wish I hadn’t lost what I’ve lost, but the truth is that I already have. My hope is that as life moves forward, I’m able to move forward with it, or at least be an active participant in it. These days, my hopes are in the simple things.