Don't.
Don't tell me you can't imagine what it's like to struggle with infertility because you're right, you don't understand. It's struggling while suffering at the same time. Can you imagine that?
Don't tell me you feel sorry for me. I don't need pity, I need strength.
Don't tell me I'm not getting pregnant because I'm stressed. Last time I checked you don't have much of a medical background.
Don't tell me I have options and to look into adoption. You're telling me to give up and I don't take that lightly.
Don't tell me to be thankful for what's going "right" in my life. I'm well aware of what's right and I thank God every day.
Don't tell me infertility is getting the best of me. Don't mistake these tears for weakness.
Don't tell me I'm still young and time is on my side. How many more years of heartache do you think I can handle?
Don't tell me I'll be ok after having a miscarriage. I just lost a soul that I fell in love with the moment I was told I was pregnant.
Don't tell me to be happy when people announce their pregnancy. It's not about being unhappy. It's the hope that I can experience the same thing.
Don't tell me about your morning sickness, weight gain or swollen feet. I would kill to be in your shoes.
Don't tell me you were up all night thanks to your crying baby. I dream of a baby crying for me.
Don't tell me God won't give me more than I can handle. Next time you speak with him, tell him I'm about to hit my limit.
Don't tell me "at least you have one child" when you yourself have multiple. I'd have to ask you which child of yours you can live without, and I'm not sure that's a question you're able to answer.
Don't tell me that my child doesn't need a sibling because she has cousins. A cousin isn't a sibling. I can't imagine life without one of my siblings. Is it so much to ask for my child to have the same thing in life?
Don't tell me that you understand. You don't.
Don't talk. Just listen.
Thursday, April 27, 2017
Tuesday, April 25, 2017
Most days I have it together
Growing up if I ever said things weren't fair my parents would quickly correct me. We were always reminded as children that others had it worse off than us. We were reminded of everything that was right in the world and to appreciate the little things.
After the reduction I remember laying in bed staring at my Dad who sat by my side. He told me it was ok to cry- one of the few times he's ever said this to me. I cried as calmly as I could, not to upset the baby I was trying so hard to hold on to. I looked at my Dad and quietly whispered "this isn't fair". He nodded his head and said, "your goddamn right it's not."
My brother once told me that maybe the reason why I suffer with infertility is because I am strong enough to take it. My strength has been tested time and time again. I question the strength I still have, if any. I always think it's a little funny when people reach out to me saying they admire my strength for being an open book. It's not strength though. I talk because that's what gets me through. When women reach out asking how I do it I always say, "I don't know. I guess I just have to". And that's the truth. There's no secret in trying to achieve your dream.
Last week I had a long sit down with my Neurologist. We spoke about my upcoming Mayo trip and I told her why it's so important to me that they figure this out. It's not just about wanting to feel better, but I feel like for the past two years my life has been put on hold. I want a baby! I've been patient and I'm getting closer to hitting a wall.
She looked at my chart and said, "you're still young! The guns not to your head yet."
"We started trying when my child was one. She's about to turn 5."
"Time is on your side. We have to get you healthy first."
"I have to have a baby. I have to. We have to get moving. I'm losing my patience."
"Don't you want to feel better?"
"I don't know what is worse some days. The heartache that comes with not being able to have a child, on your terms, it's unbearable."
"Give us time to figure this out and then you'll have your baby."
I pouted. I actually wanted to leave the appointment, but I love my doctor and I know she's right. She finished the consult by giving me a stack of tests she ordered. I am so over tests. I am tired and annoyed and just over it. She left the room and had her nurse come in to explain some of the tests to me. A few minutes later she opened the door and peeked her head in,
"I bet you're a great Mom."
"I am. I try. Thank you."
"Have a nice weekend."
The nurse asked me to go set up my next appointment and then head to the 3rd floor for some blood work. I didn't do either. I didn't feel like being poked that day and just wanted to go home.
I stood in the elevator feeling sorry for myself as a young child entered with their mother. The child was wearing a mask and looked quite ill. I initially put my head down feeling rather ashamed for the pity party I had just thrown myself. The child stood there looking at me and I told him I liked his mask. It had characters on it and seemed fitting for a child his age. He thanked me and told me he liked my shirt. I smiled.
I left the elevator and told myself that I was an asshole. I have a team of doctors trying to figure out what's going on with me and they deserve my patience. I couldn't imagine what that little boy was going through. What was his diagnosis? What appointment was he coming from? How was his mom holding up? I can't imagine and probably couldn't bear hearing the answers to the questions in my head.
It quickly brought me back to the days that I would complain to my parents about things not being fair.
Infertility is a bitch. It's cruel, heartbreaking, gut wrenching and will make a person go crazy. I do feel like it's not fair that people who struggle with infertility would make the best mothers and fathers. But I also know that there's children out there struggling to see the next day. There's people who wish they had one more day with a loved one. There's people who are on their knees begging for a little luck to come their way.
I don't have it all that bad. I tell myself this often. Some days I am guilty of feeling sorry for myself, but I'd like to think that most days I have it together- and that I'm truly thankful for the gift of the present moment.
After the reduction I remember laying in bed staring at my Dad who sat by my side. He told me it was ok to cry- one of the few times he's ever said this to me. I cried as calmly as I could, not to upset the baby I was trying so hard to hold on to. I looked at my Dad and quietly whispered "this isn't fair". He nodded his head and said, "your goddamn right it's not."
My brother once told me that maybe the reason why I suffer with infertility is because I am strong enough to take it. My strength has been tested time and time again. I question the strength I still have, if any. I always think it's a little funny when people reach out to me saying they admire my strength for being an open book. It's not strength though. I talk because that's what gets me through. When women reach out asking how I do it I always say, "I don't know. I guess I just have to". And that's the truth. There's no secret in trying to achieve your dream.
Last week I had a long sit down with my Neurologist. We spoke about my upcoming Mayo trip and I told her why it's so important to me that they figure this out. It's not just about wanting to feel better, but I feel like for the past two years my life has been put on hold. I want a baby! I've been patient and I'm getting closer to hitting a wall.
She looked at my chart and said, "you're still young! The guns not to your head yet."
"We started trying when my child was one. She's about to turn 5."
"Time is on your side. We have to get you healthy first."
"I have to have a baby. I have to. We have to get moving. I'm losing my patience."
"Don't you want to feel better?"
"I don't know what is worse some days. The heartache that comes with not being able to have a child, on your terms, it's unbearable."
"Give us time to figure this out and then you'll have your baby."
I pouted. I actually wanted to leave the appointment, but I love my doctor and I know she's right. She finished the consult by giving me a stack of tests she ordered. I am so over tests. I am tired and annoyed and just over it. She left the room and had her nurse come in to explain some of the tests to me. A few minutes later she opened the door and peeked her head in,
"I bet you're a great Mom."
"I am. I try. Thank you."
"Have a nice weekend."
The nurse asked me to go set up my next appointment and then head to the 3rd floor for some blood work. I didn't do either. I didn't feel like being poked that day and just wanted to go home.
I stood in the elevator feeling sorry for myself as a young child entered with their mother. The child was wearing a mask and looked quite ill. I initially put my head down feeling rather ashamed for the pity party I had just thrown myself. The child stood there looking at me and I told him I liked his mask. It had characters on it and seemed fitting for a child his age. He thanked me and told me he liked my shirt. I smiled.
I left the elevator and told myself that I was an asshole. I have a team of doctors trying to figure out what's going on with me and they deserve my patience. I couldn't imagine what that little boy was going through. What was his diagnosis? What appointment was he coming from? How was his mom holding up? I can't imagine and probably couldn't bear hearing the answers to the questions in my head.
It quickly brought me back to the days that I would complain to my parents about things not being fair.
Infertility is a bitch. It's cruel, heartbreaking, gut wrenching and will make a person go crazy. I do feel like it's not fair that people who struggle with infertility would make the best mothers and fathers. But I also know that there's children out there struggling to see the next day. There's people who wish they had one more day with a loved one. There's people who are on their knees begging for a little luck to come their way.
I don't have it all that bad. I tell myself this often. Some days I am guilty of feeling sorry for myself, but I'd like to think that most days I have it together- and that I'm truly thankful for the gift of the present moment.
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