About a year ago, I attended my first session of an infertility support group. I went several times after that first session, but that is the one that really stands out to me. It made the greatest impression on me, most likely because it was my first to attend, but also because I remember the facilitator's final question:
"What is something that someone has said to you during this time of infertility that has been helpful?"
I immediately knew what it was and who had known the most comforting words I needed to hear. My friend Kathleen said to me (repeatedly and in every circumstance),
"You're doing such a good job. I'm so proud of you. You're so strong."
If I could reach every, single woman trying to become a mother and tell her ONE thing, it would be that.
"You're doing such a good job. I'm so proud of you. You're so strong."
If I could, I would say this to the woman who is in the middle of a miscarriage (unbeknownst to many, they are not a one day and done type of phenomenon), the one who just met with her infertility specialist for the first time, the girl who was told she will only get pregnant through an egg donor, a friend whose marriage is rocked by the struggle, the lady inspecting her bruised stomach and bottom where injections have gone, the woman who is newly pregnant and terrified out of her mind, the girl in her very first cycle of trying and also to the one who is on her sixth.
"You're doing such a good job. I'm so proud of you. You're so strong."
I would say this to every woman in every infertility situation because the truth is this;
With infertility, we cannot compare. We can only have empathy.
Throughout my struggle to become pregnant, I learned that we all have war stories. I could tell you my journey from beginning to end (There is an end, I promise. I'm 33 weeks pregnant with a baby boy), and it might terrify you (or give you a great amount of hope). However, I know with certainty that there is someone who has had a more challenging story.
From the minute a woman realizes that her negative pregnancy tests are not just a disappointing trend, to the day she sits across the desk from her ob or infertility specialist, to the very first needle she pushes into her soft flesh, she is strong, she is doing a good job, and she is bad ass.
We cannot compare journeys or put one woman's struggle above another's because as females desiring to become mothers, we are all on an equal level. The minute you decide that you are ready to have a baby of your own, that feeling is ingrained in you, it is innate, it is unstoppable. When you realize that your body is not cooperating with your brain, there is a let down so great that the only thread of hope you have to cling to is the story of your best friend's-neighbor's-daughter's-niece who saw Dr. So-and-so and he was a miracle worker and, "don't worry at all because he will do the same for you."
Here is the problem; this miracle worker doctor or acupuncturist or hypnotist or yoga teacher or whoever it is that promises they will be the one to gift you with your greatest desire has to first understand your body's own personal failings that are vastly different from the woman before you. You know that, and all you can do is pray that your body's (which you hate at the moment) inadequacies will be easily "fixable".
In some cases, they are. In others, they are not. However simple or challenging your diagnosis is, you have to live with the pain of the unknown, the fear of what might happen, the waiting and hoping, and the way in which you feel different from every other stroller-pushing, swollen bellied, crabby with her kids in the grocery store, Facebook family-picture sharing mother.
Several weeks ago, I had dinner with a new friend. When I asked her how her school year was going, and what her plans were for next year, she happily announced that the following year would look different for her because she was pregnant, her attempt at IVF had worked.
Miraculously, this was her first attempt at IVF and she had many many more embryos frozen and waiting for her should she desire more children. Her experience with infertility treatment is vastly different from mine. We are both pregnant, but how we got there could not have been more different. However, I did not feel bitter or jealous or ask myself, "Why was this so much easier for her?"
Why not? This girl across from me was so excited about the new life she was bringing into the world. I know she had a big box filled with ice packs, drugs, needles and a Sharps container delivered to her doorstep in preparation for her one cycle. I know her husband had to give her injections, she was probably on supplements, her blood had been drawn several times, and she had been through more scans than most women see in a lifetime. All of that is hard. Whether you do it one time, or eight, it is brutal.
I will never forget my very first cycle, three and a half years ago. It was a stimulated cycle in an attempt to get a few extra strong eggs that would work with only an IUI. In my heart, I knew that was not going to be the time I got pregnant. As women, we have very strong intuition and that didn't feel right. It was a very simple approach and a starting block doctors use for so many women. It didn't feel right and my diagnosis and treatments became a heck of a lot more complicated and it took several attempts and two different specialists to finally figure it out. I didn't always feel strong, and I certainly wasn't always proud of myself. I hated my body and how it was failing me. However, I did always believe that there would eventually be a cycle that worked, which is why I never gave up. I had to believe.
When you don't feel so strong, or tough, or like you are doing a good job, just believe.
I hate that cliche saying that so many people tell women in fertility treatment, "It will all be worth it in the end." It minimizes the struggle in the midst of pain and fear and the unknown. It's not that it will all be worth it in the end, but I can promise you this:
When you are at the end of your journey, no matter how you have gotten there, you are NO LONGER a fertility patient. You are still so strong, you are still doing such a good job, and I am still so proud of you. BUT, now you are a mother.
Know in your heart that this sad label you have given yourself and this suit of armor you have created to push through this war zone will all fall away and none of it will matter and you will only think of yourself as a mother. I promise.
And when you are ready, you can tell another woman, "You're doing such a a good job. I'm so proud of you. You're so strong."
From the minute a woman realizes that her negative pregnancy tests are not just a disappointing trend, to the day she sits across the desk from her ob or infertility specialist, to the very first needle she pushes into her soft flesh, she is strong, she is doing a good job, and she is bad ass.
We cannot compare journeys or put one woman's struggle above another's because as females desiring to become mothers, we are all on an equal level. The minute you decide that you are ready to have a baby of your own, that feeling is ingrained in you, it is innate, it is unstoppable. When you realize that your body is not cooperating with your brain, there is a let down so great that the only thread of hope you have to cling to is the story of your best friend's-neighbor's-daughter's-niece who saw Dr. So-and-so and he was a miracle worker and, "don't worry at all because he will do the same for you."
Here is the problem; this miracle worker doctor or acupuncturist or hypnotist or yoga teacher or whoever it is that promises they will be the one to gift you with your greatest desire has to first understand your body's own personal failings that are vastly different from the woman before you. You know that, and all you can do is pray that your body's (which you hate at the moment) inadequacies will be easily "fixable".
In some cases, they are. In others, they are not. However simple or challenging your diagnosis is, you have to live with the pain of the unknown, the fear of what might happen, the waiting and hoping, and the way in which you feel different from every other stroller-pushing, swollen bellied, crabby with her kids in the grocery store, Facebook family-picture sharing mother.
Several weeks ago, I had dinner with a new friend. When I asked her how her school year was going, and what her plans were for next year, she happily announced that the following year would look different for her because she was pregnant, her attempt at IVF had worked.
Miraculously, this was her first attempt at IVF and she had many many more embryos frozen and waiting for her should she desire more children. Her experience with infertility treatment is vastly different from mine. We are both pregnant, but how we got there could not have been more different. However, I did not feel bitter or jealous or ask myself, "Why was this so much easier for her?"
Why not? This girl across from me was so excited about the new life she was bringing into the world. I know she had a big box filled with ice packs, drugs, needles and a Sharps container delivered to her doorstep in preparation for her one cycle. I know her husband had to give her injections, she was probably on supplements, her blood had been drawn several times, and she had been through more scans than most women see in a lifetime. All of that is hard. Whether you do it one time, or eight, it is brutal.
I will never forget my very first cycle, three and a half years ago. It was a stimulated cycle in an attempt to get a few extra strong eggs that would work with only an IUI. In my heart, I knew that was not going to be the time I got pregnant. As women, we have very strong intuition and that didn't feel right. It was a very simple approach and a starting block doctors use for so many women. It didn't feel right and my diagnosis and treatments became a heck of a lot more complicated and it took several attempts and two different specialists to finally figure it out. I didn't always feel strong, and I certainly wasn't always proud of myself. I hated my body and how it was failing me. However, I did always believe that there would eventually be a cycle that worked, which is why I never gave up. I had to believe.
When you don't feel so strong, or tough, or like you are doing a good job, just believe.
I hate that cliche saying that so many people tell women in fertility treatment, "It will all be worth it in the end." It minimizes the struggle in the midst of pain and fear and the unknown. It's not that it will all be worth it in the end, but I can promise you this:
When you are at the end of your journey, no matter how you have gotten there, you are NO LONGER a fertility patient. You are still so strong, you are still doing such a good job, and I am still so proud of you. BUT, now you are a mother.
Know in your heart that this sad label you have given yourself and this suit of armor you have created to push through this war zone will all fall away and none of it will matter and you will only think of yourself as a mother. I promise.
And when you are ready, you can tell another woman, "You're doing such a a good job. I'm so proud of you. You're so strong."
She will need you.
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