Blog 5 of 6: Reprieve
/She was Brave
And Strong
And Broken
All at Once
I needed to keep my mind off babies. Over the years, I had gotten so worked up about what I was missing out on (motherhood) that I couldn’t enjoy the life my husband and I had built. It’s hard to recognize the good when you’re so focused on the bad. Infertility had broken us down to our very foundation, and now we were rebuilding. For me, a big part of that meant stepping out of my comfort zone and saying yes to new opportunities. I forced myself back out into the world. I volunteered, I made time for self-care, and I finished editing my first book. Then I wrote two more. Writing has always been therapeutic to me, and it saved me in a lot of ways. Inventing a different world was an escape I desperately needed at the time.
2018 was the beginning of my healing, but every single month I hoped for pregnancy even though I had very little hope we could get pregnant on our own. I kept talking myself into a miracle. I still tracked cycles and was conscious of ovulation. Every single twinge of pain in my stomach terrified me. The endometriosis spreading was a constant worry, and starting my period still brought me to tears. I was still hoping and grieving every month. I didn’t know how to turn off that pesky bastard called hope.
“I was still hoping and grieving every month. I didn’t know how to turn off that pesky bastard called hope.”
Experiencing the excitement of deciding to have a baby and falling pregnant soon after was a dream that I still clung to with desperation. I wanted the chance to watch the joy and complete surprise of our loved ones when we announced our pregnancy. I hated that our friends and families felt the need to walk on eggshells around us or hide their own triumphs and celebrations. Knowing people filtered their words around us was painful, but so was no filter at all. I didn’t want to feel the stab of jealousy when an announcement showed up in my feed. But each one reminded me of all the dreaded testing, waiting, appointments, examinations, labs, and heartbreak involved in our journey. I wanted to feel excitement, not the sense of “What is wrong with me? Why won’t my body do what everyone else’s seems to do? Why do we have to go through this? Why again? Just why?”
My sister wrote me a note to tell me she was expecting her fourth child. I was happy for her, and at the same time, I cried at the good news. I cried because my sister was worried about me, and the rest of my family would worry about me too. My sister wished it was me who was pregnant, and I cried because I wished we could both be pregnant. I cried because everyone’s life moved forward while I seemed to chase my tail faster than ever before.
In October 2018, my favorite gynecologist put me on continuous birth control. I brought up that we were thinking of possible embryo adoption in the future, and she was pumped for us. She gave me the name of a different reproductive specialist if we needed someone in the future. I feel empowered every single time I leave my gynecologist. I’m telling you, there are some great doctors out there.
I started continuous birth control, and that was the end of my periods. I have not missed them one bit. The fluctuation of hormones can cause endometriosis to spread, so going on a low dose of hormones can keep my levels steady to prevent the endo from returning. (It doesn’t work for everyone, but it worked for me.) It put my mind at ease. I felt like a person again. It was a relief to know I couldn’t get pregnant. It brought the rollercoaster of 47 failed cycles to a halt. I exited the ride and walked around for a bit. I enjoyed the freedom. I needed the reprieve. I felt the weight lift from my shoulders, and I could breathe easier. It set me free of the chains that tethered me to uncertainty for the last four years. I could eat what I wanted, drink what I wanted, take Excedrin and all those other medications you can’t take when you’re pregnant (or think you’re pregnant).
Without children, my husband and I had the freedom to do what we wanted when we wanted. I could read a book start to finish or binge-watch a show. I could write for hours, mostly uninterrupted. All these things felt selfish, but it’s the tradeoff. Sure, the house felt awfully quiet sometimes, but I lived with my best friend! I love living with my best friend. Our fight with infertility tore our marriage apart only to bring us closer. We found a new balance and learned how to heal together.
We choose pieces of our lives while the other parts are handed to us for better or worse. We have to decide how to deal with the hand we’re dealt.
I no longer hate hope. I no longer felt all the bitter anger eating at me from the inside out. I heard moms on Facebook complaining about their crazy lives, and I didn’t get filled with rage. I felt relief. I felt blessed to have the life I had. I felt lucky to have the house and husband and puppies and the job and freedom I had.
My sister had my youngest niece in November 2018, and I was happy for her. It was a stark contrast from how I felt two years prior when she gave birth to my other niece. I was happy for her two years ago, but I was also hurting so much that holding my sister’s baby was a terrible reminder of what we didn’t have. With my sister’s newest baby, I got my baby fix. I was stronger than I ever thought or knew I could be. Life was not easy, but I could see outside of my pain. It didn’t feel so fresh. The heartache was still there at times, but I was experiencing joy that overshadowed the sorrow.
There were many ups and downs in 2019, but very little of it had anything to do with babies. I published my first books, lost two women who were very important to me, and incorporated some of my infertility story into a book called Pink F*cking Moscato. It was a cathartic experience to write about what had caused me so much pain. It was the first time I put any of my infertility journey out into the world, and I was terrified! My good friend and mentor was dying of cancer at the time, and something about losing someone I loved so deeply made me a little more fearless. I guess it put things into perspective.
I published the book and since have received dozens of messages from women who felt it on a personal level. All of these women had struggled or were still struggling with secret infertility. It made me want to do more. I wanted to speak out. I needed to encourage the women doubled over in pain at work because of their endometriosis or because they got another negative pregnancy test. I wanted to wrap up all the women feeling all those things I had felt and give them all a big hug. Knowing I could impact other women—that I could make them feel seen—made me desperate to do more.
And it turns out it wasn’t just women like me that I wanted to help. In my time off from trying to get pregnant, I had a woman confide in me she was thinking about getting an abortion. I don’t know why she confided in me, but as she spoke, it felt like a corkscrew twisting into my heart. I had to get my bearings because I didn’t want to make it about my pain. I wasn’t going to ask God one more time why is it so easy for others and so hard for me. I listened to her. She was hurting and clearly needed someone to listen. She already had several children at home, and she was in an abusive relationship though she tried to deny it. My heart hurt for her and her children. I desperately wanted a baby, but I would never want to be in her shoes. I also knew I couldn’t save her. Encouraging her and empowering her is one thing, but I can’t save anyone. She had to do that herself.
Speaking to her that day made it clear to me that we all have pain, and it only damages us to try and compare our pain with another’s, especially since we can’t see all that they’re going through. I tried my best to be empowering. No one should have to suffer through domestic abuse, and I could tell she wanted her baby, but she was scared to bring another kid into a bad situation. She already felt like she was messing up her other kids.
It would’ve been easy for me to say, “Well, just leave him.” But that’s like someone telling me to, “Just stop worrying, and you’ll get pregnant.” Those blanket statements are bullshit. They are a massive oversimplification. Judging her for staying or belittling her difficulties wasn’t going to help her. It would just reiterate all the reasons she couldn’t “just leave.”
It might sound ridiculous or make me look bad, but this was a big moment for me because it’s the first time I could look outside my infertility pain to recognize the extent of someone suffering from an unwanted pregnancy.
She decided to keep her baby, and she got out of that relationship eventually, but it was not easy, and she’s still fighting her battle. She has a long road ahead, but she hasn’t given up, and I’m hoping it’s getting easier for her.
I’m glad I could be an ally for her. I’d like to be an ally for all women.