Hello IF sisters (and possibly a solitary bro out there?)! Welcome! You see, I think my luck is turning. I was just jonesing for chocolate and was convinced that I had nothing in the house. I'll admit I was getting a little desperate. And then, a quick reach in the back of my pantry revealed a well preserved and terrifically delicious chocolate bar. That has to be a sign of things to come, no?
OK. Probably not. Even I'm not delusional enough to think that chocolate can somehow be prophetic. But damn it's good. And so what if I won't be able to button my pants up tomorrow morning? I'm happy now.
Actually, that's how things have been going recently. After many years, one IVF baby, two miscarriages and a diagnosis of diminished ovarian reserve at 34, we decided to go the donor egg route in March, but have been stalled due to finances. For a long while, I was mourning my new diagnosis (which I'm sure I still am) and felt trapped from moving forward, luring me into a wildly bitchy, hate the world place, but in the past week or so, I felt very distinctly that I had made a metric-sized shift in my attitude. I decided to worry about today, to live now and figure out tomorrow's challenges when I was in a better space to do so (kinda like the eat chocolate now, figure out clothing that fits later, which is actually both metaphorical and literal for me).
Active treatment? What's that? I'd love to know, but for now, I'm not there yet. And I will be...someday. And I don't know when the day will be or what that day will look like, but right now, I'm just learning how to be OK with that. And to be better about keeping my house stocked with chocolate.
Sunday, May 19, 2013
Friday, May 17, 2013
Mother's Day, Bittersweet
This past Mother's Day marked my 2nd as a Motherless Mother. It was filled with endless activity which kept my mind busy from the the bittersweet that it seems this holiday will always be tinged with. I need that, I know now. Because last Mother's day, just two short months after my Mother's death, my thoughtful husband booked an entire day of quiet indulgence. Neither of us could have anticipated what that day would turn out to be, except that now I know what it's like to:
Cry on a massage table
Feel deeply envious of a hairdresser (and this time it wasn't baby-related, but mother-related)
Be pitied openly by an esthetician
Get flowers for my mother only to have nowhere to bring them
Pray for an end to the day
Just a month before Mother died, my in-laws proposed going camping on Mother's Day weekend. My Mom didn't want me to go because she thought it might be her last one and wanted to spend it with me. We were both so confident that that date would come to pass. How I wished that were the case and not that we had already spent our last Mother's Day together almost a year before.
There were so many years spent in longing to celebrate this day as a Mother but I never anticipated the mark that losing my own Mother would forever have on it. Like I said, bittersweet. The gift of one, the loss of another.
Every Mother's Day, I buy a plant for her and pray that my black-thumb doesn't kill it before the season is over. This is the meyer lemon tree I got this Mother's Day because she loved eating lemons (as does G). Happy Mother's Day, Mom.
Cry on a massage table
Feel deeply envious of a hairdresser (and this time it wasn't baby-related, but mother-related)
Be pitied openly by an esthetician
Get flowers for my mother only to have nowhere to bring them
Pray for an end to the day
Just a month before Mother died, my in-laws proposed going camping on Mother's Day weekend. My Mom didn't want me to go because she thought it might be her last one and wanted to spend it with me. We were both so confident that that date would come to pass. How I wished that were the case and not that we had already spent our last Mother's Day together almost a year before.
There were so many years spent in longing to celebrate this day as a Mother but I never anticipated the mark that losing my own Mother would forever have on it. Like I said, bittersweet. The gift of one, the loss of another.
Every Mother's Day, I buy a plant for her and pray that my black-thumb doesn't kill it before the season is over. This is the meyer lemon tree I got this Mother's Day because she loved eating lemons (as does G). Happy Mother's Day, Mom.
Monday, May 13, 2013
Financial Infertility
*Update Below
Do you know what the true force that determines whether you will ultimately be successful in this family building business really is? It's not clear fallopian tubes or sperm counts. It's money. A big old truckload of greenbacks just waiting to be dumped into either the clinic's or agency's pockets can almost certainly open up your possibilities and, in many cases, guarantee that at some point, you will become a parent. It might not be in the way you had originally intended, but the reality of a child ending up in your arms is tenfold when you are blessed with the income (or, more rarely, insurance coverage). Because if you're especially infertile and don't have money, well then, you may very well be stopped on a dime...literally.
Pretty crappy way to determine who gets to be a parent, no? But then, we all know this life in IF land was never built on what's fair.
When we thought we were headed for a 'plain' own egg IVF several months ago, even that was a financial stretch for us. But when we were slapped in the face with my brand-spanking, shiny new DOR diagnosis and decided to go the egg donation route (rather than throw away 20K using my crusty ovaries), that's when we found the stopping point of our dime. Our forward momentum is now at a full stand still until we can magically come up with several thousand dollars (in the midst of the constants of life, like car repairs, house repairs, etc.). We will get there, though, but it won't be any time soon. I know that much. At least the ticking time bomb that once sat squarely in my ovaries is no longer an issue.
And yet, we're still one of the lucky ones. There are so very many people who will never see a F.ollistim pen or wake up from an egg retrieval because that will always be out of their reach. It's funny to think that anyone would consider going through that a privilege, but I do. Access to medically necessary treatment like IVF could very well be the one thing that separates you from your child. And despite what it seems, not everyone gets that opportunity.
My best friend from middle and high school (who is now more of an acquaintance, though I still love her dearly) is infertile. I've always known she was infertile, even when we were kids. Her periods were so wonky and she ended up with a 16 pound cyst that had to be removed when she was 18. You don't need a specialization in reproduction to know that there's going to be some baby making issues later on. I don't know all of the details of her story currently, but the last time we spoke in depth over three years ago, she shared that she had a wicked case of PCOS (which I guessed) and since then, I know she's been going through treatment and has had a few miscarriages. She recently shared on Facebook that the doctors tell her it's time to move on to IVF, but she can't. She simply does not have the money and that's heartbreaking to see.
This is only one example of a family that might never grow unless there's some magical good Samaritan that shows up with wads of cash or a change in insurance. I know there are more like her, especially in these economic times. For any number of people who have stretched themselves thin by taking out loans to finance treatment, there are probably far more who can't even get a loan because they foreclosed on their house or because they kept going over the limit on their credit cards when they lost their job.
I don't know if my friend has considered foster adoption, but maybe that's not an option for whatever reason. Because we don't have a lot of contact, this is all speculation, but I use her as an example of what I'm guessing to be a huge subsection of the IF community that we don't often hear from. The blogs/forums I read are more frequently by people either actively in treatment and/or parenting following successful treatment/placement. It is rare to see someone sit on a blog or forum for years on end with little to no intervention. Sure, there's quite a lot of failed cycles out there, but are there many people writing who rarely ever see a doctor because they simply can't afford it? Not that I've seen, but I know they're out there and they're probably plentiful.
I would imagine that watching your fellow bloggers/forum buddies move forward with treatment (and often with success) when you are standing still against your will breeds a whole new level of pain to the infertility equation. No one wants to conceive their children by way of catheter and/or petri dish, but what if you never even got the opportunity to do that? I've been touched by this. I want nothing more than to get started with a clinic, pick a donor and move on with our journey, but I can't. I sit here and daydream about the moment when I show up to an RE's office and finally say, "I'm ready." I actually look forward to treatment, regardless the outcome (although, obviously I'd like an actual take-home baby from it). But the truth is, we just don't have 32K lying in our back pockets. Who does? Well, some, but I doubt that makes up the majority of us.
**UPDATE: Aaryn brought up a great point and I want to clarify, just in case it didn't come across. I in no way believe that money=baby. What I wanted to convey was that in many cases no money=absolutely no baby. I know most understood (including Aaryn) that this was not the intention behind my message, but just in case there was any idea that it was (which, I could see how someone could come to that conclusion), I wanted to make it clear.
OK. That's all. Carry on...
Do you know what the true force that determines whether you will ultimately be successful in this family building business really is? It's not clear fallopian tubes or sperm counts. It's money. A big old truckload of greenbacks just waiting to be dumped into either the clinic's or agency's pockets can almost certainly open up your possibilities and, in many cases, guarantee that at some point, you will become a parent. It might not be in the way you had originally intended, but the reality of a child ending up in your arms is tenfold when you are blessed with the income (or, more rarely, insurance coverage). Because if you're especially infertile and don't have money, well then, you may very well be stopped on a dime...literally.
Pretty crappy way to determine who gets to be a parent, no? But then, we all know this life in IF land was never built on what's fair.
When we thought we were headed for a 'plain' own egg IVF several months ago, even that was a financial stretch for us. But when we were slapped in the face with my brand-spanking, shiny new DOR diagnosis and decided to go the egg donation route (rather than throw away 20K using my crusty ovaries), that's when we found the stopping point of our dime. Our forward momentum is now at a full stand still until we can magically come up with several thousand dollars (in the midst of the constants of life, like car repairs, house repairs, etc.). We will get there, though, but it won't be any time soon. I know that much. At least the ticking time bomb that once sat squarely in my ovaries is no longer an issue.
And yet, we're still one of the lucky ones. There are so very many people who will never see a F.ollistim pen or wake up from an egg retrieval because that will always be out of their reach. It's funny to think that anyone would consider going through that a privilege, but I do. Access to medically necessary treatment like IVF could very well be the one thing that separates you from your child. And despite what it seems, not everyone gets that opportunity.
My best friend from middle and high school (who is now more of an acquaintance, though I still love her dearly) is infertile. I've always known she was infertile, even when we were kids. Her periods were so wonky and she ended up with a 16 pound cyst that had to be removed when she was 18. You don't need a specialization in reproduction to know that there's going to be some baby making issues later on. I don't know all of the details of her story currently, but the last time we spoke in depth over three years ago, she shared that she had a wicked case of PCOS (which I guessed) and since then, I know she's been going through treatment and has had a few miscarriages. She recently shared on Facebook that the doctors tell her it's time to move on to IVF, but she can't. She simply does not have the money and that's heartbreaking to see.
This is only one example of a family that might never grow unless there's some magical good Samaritan that shows up with wads of cash or a change in insurance. I know there are more like her, especially in these economic times. For any number of people who have stretched themselves thin by taking out loans to finance treatment, there are probably far more who can't even get a loan because they foreclosed on their house or because they kept going over the limit on their credit cards when they lost their job.
I don't know if my friend has considered foster adoption, but maybe that's not an option for whatever reason. Because we don't have a lot of contact, this is all speculation, but I use her as an example of what I'm guessing to be a huge subsection of the IF community that we don't often hear from. The blogs/forums I read are more frequently by people either actively in treatment and/or parenting following successful treatment/placement. It is rare to see someone sit on a blog or forum for years on end with little to no intervention. Sure, there's quite a lot of failed cycles out there, but are there many people writing who rarely ever see a doctor because they simply can't afford it? Not that I've seen, but I know they're out there and they're probably plentiful.
I would imagine that watching your fellow bloggers/forum buddies move forward with treatment (and often with success) when you are standing still against your will breeds a whole new level of pain to the infertility equation. No one wants to conceive their children by way of catheter and/or petri dish, but what if you never even got the opportunity to do that? I've been touched by this. I want nothing more than to get started with a clinic, pick a donor and move on with our journey, but I can't. I sit here and daydream about the moment when I show up to an RE's office and finally say, "I'm ready." I actually look forward to treatment, regardless the outcome (although, obviously I'd like an actual take-home baby from it). But the truth is, we just don't have 32K lying in our back pockets. Who does? Well, some, but I doubt that makes up the majority of us.
**UPDATE: Aaryn brought up a great point and I want to clarify, just in case it didn't come across. I in no way believe that money=baby. What I wanted to convey was that in many cases no money=absolutely no baby. I know most understood (including Aaryn) that this was not the intention behind my message, but just in case there was any idea that it was (which, I could see how someone could come to that conclusion), I wanted to make it clear.
OK. That's all. Carry on...
Wednesday, May 8, 2013
When Being Open About Infertility is Not a Good Thing
I remember it so well. I was newly pregnant and our ultrasound showing the heartbeat had been just a few days before, so I was walking around on a cloud of euphoria. I was working for my previous district and when I was called to the office for a delivery at my elementary school the Friday before Mother's Day 2008, there they were, a dozen long-stemmed roses. When I walked in, a few people were wondering out loud who they were for and, assuming that it was a Mother's Day gift, the principal (who knew of my infertility), turned to me with spite and snarled,
"Well, I know they're not for you."
I kid you not. I am quoting her word-for-word.
The flowers were for me from my lovely husband and the words inside spoke of our perfect secret, but her words almost knocked me off the cloud I had been riding and were proof to me that I still needed to keep my mouth closed. That my infertility (on top of already preventing me from building my family) could be used against me was the final blow. No, strike that. The fact that I lost that baby a month later was.
For a long time now, however, I have been very open about my infertility, almost to the point where I'm quite certain I've been Facebook blocked about a dozen times thanks to my zest for posting IF literature for a group who is largely fertile. (I can hear it now: "OK, OK, we get it! We won't tell you guys to relax anymore! Geez!") A lot has changed since that Mother's Day, obviously. I initially 'came out' at my baby shower, but I'm going to be the first to admit that this didn't take nearly as much courage as it should have. I chose a time when infertility was (at least at that very moment) behind me. I was, by all appearances, successful, so I was speaking in past tense and too wrapped up in impending Mommyhood to really feel the full sting of infertility as I had when that principal shot her venom at me. It's far easier to speak about something traumatic after you've conquered it. It was a precisely-timed 'outing', so my hats off to anyone who is speaking while still in treatment/waiting.
Recently there's been this message in our community, especially in light of 'joining the movement', to talk about infertility. It goes something like this:
Just talk! Don't be silenced! If we are to move forward and remove the stigma from infertility, then we need YOU to tell your story!! Do it, and do it, now! Don't delay! Our community needs you to speak-and speak loudly! In fact, shout it from the rooftops!
Now, I LOVE this message-LOVE it! Obviously I subscribe to it and have blogged about needing more IF awareness recently, but that's because I'm in a place where being vocal will not wound me. When I told my employers all those years ago, however, I was. It was only after I realized that I needed to start becoming transparent to explain my ongoing absences at work that I finally approached them. Because of Bay Area traffic, what should have been a 20 minute appointment (pick up sample, stuff in bra, drive like mad, lay on table for 5 minutes, then done!) often turned into 2 hour stretches. In the course of an 8 hour work day, that's a huge chunk of time. And it was my first year with the district, so it made it even more imperative to explain why I was dropping off the face of the earth several times a month. So, I was forced to tell my boss and that ridiculous principal. While I don't regret explaining my absences, I do regret going into any sort of detail and opening myself up in the way that I did.
These confessions were long before I had processed any of my infertility. In fact, most family and friends were none the wiser and here were these two people who held this extremely private information and had no motivation to keep it private or treat it respectfully. I had not yet found my way to a support group meeting nor did I even realize the ALI community existed, so I therefore assumed that I was an oddity, having no idea that any of my experiences and feelings were remotely normal. And because of this, I was so tender about the topic of infertility that the mere mention sent me into tears. I still regret showing my tears to that principal when I told her. She didn't deserve that piece of me, but she got it and eventually abused it. So, should I have shouted about my infertility from the rooftops? No...at least not at that moment.
For those who have yet to 'come out', I would caution them with this: think carefully before you do. I'm not telling anyone to remain silent-no, but I think that we should find a way to balance self preservation and supporting our community. Being open about infertility is not meant to be comfortable. Whatever situation you're in, it should take courage, but it shouldn't be done at the expense of yourself, otherwise it could end up doing more harm than good.
Take for instance someone who lives in a small, rural conservative community. Although I live in a pretty liberal place, the stigma still exists here, so I can only begin to imagine what is being said in some places about those 'people who do IVF'. There are quite a few groups who feel it to be a moral obligation to prevent treatment from happening (take personhood bills, for example), so mean spirits could potentially slip their way in and disrupt your life. And even if you're not worried about the community, if you're not quite prepared to start fielding unsolicited ass-vice, ignorant comments or better yet, very pointed questions about current treatment, then maybe it might also be wise to wait awhile. Being open about infertility educates, which is what we want, but it also has the potential to change the relationships, and thus, the life around you and sometimes not always in a positive way. We need voices, but at what cost? For some, the cost is just too high.
And then again, some people never even tell at all. And I want to say, I get it. I really do, and I don't hold it against them. Does this silence in our community make for more of an uphill battle for the rest of us? You bet it does. But do I think that the members of our community need to participate if it yields more personal pain? No. Not now. Maybe later. So, if an 'outing' can take place at any point in time in someone's journey, we need that added voice desperately, but learn from my mistakes: choose your audience carefully and make sure that you're ready because sometimes the world of being open is amidst rough waters.
"Well, I know they're not for you."
I kid you not. I am quoting her word-for-word.
The flowers were for me from my lovely husband and the words inside spoke of our perfect secret, but her words almost knocked me off the cloud I had been riding and were proof to me that I still needed to keep my mouth closed. That my infertility (on top of already preventing me from building my family) could be used against me was the final blow. No, strike that. The fact that I lost that baby a month later was.
For a long time now, however, I have been very open about my infertility, almost to the point where I'm quite certain I've been Facebook blocked about a dozen times thanks to my zest for posting IF literature for a group who is largely fertile. (I can hear it now: "OK, OK, we get it! We won't tell you guys to relax anymore! Geez!") A lot has changed since that Mother's Day, obviously. I initially 'came out' at my baby shower, but I'm going to be the first to admit that this didn't take nearly as much courage as it should have. I chose a time when infertility was (at least at that very moment) behind me. I was, by all appearances, successful, so I was speaking in past tense and too wrapped up in impending Mommyhood to really feel the full sting of infertility as I had when that principal shot her venom at me. It's far easier to speak about something traumatic after you've conquered it. It was a precisely-timed 'outing', so my hats off to anyone who is speaking while still in treatment/waiting.
Recently there's been this message in our community, especially in light of 'joining the movement', to talk about infertility. It goes something like this:
Just talk! Don't be silenced! If we are to move forward and remove the stigma from infertility, then we need YOU to tell your story!! Do it, and do it, now! Don't delay! Our community needs you to speak-and speak loudly! In fact, shout it from the rooftops!
Now, I LOVE this message-LOVE it! Obviously I subscribe to it and have blogged about needing more IF awareness recently, but that's because I'm in a place where being vocal will not wound me. When I told my employers all those years ago, however, I was. It was only after I realized that I needed to start becoming transparent to explain my ongoing absences at work that I finally approached them. Because of Bay Area traffic, what should have been a 20 minute appointment (pick up sample, stuff in bra, drive like mad, lay on table for 5 minutes, then done!) often turned into 2 hour stretches. In the course of an 8 hour work day, that's a huge chunk of time. And it was my first year with the district, so it made it even more imperative to explain why I was dropping off the face of the earth several times a month. So, I was forced to tell my boss and that ridiculous principal. While I don't regret explaining my absences, I do regret going into any sort of detail and opening myself up in the way that I did.
These confessions were long before I had processed any of my infertility. In fact, most family and friends were none the wiser and here were these two people who held this extremely private information and had no motivation to keep it private or treat it respectfully. I had not yet found my way to a support group meeting nor did I even realize the ALI community existed, so I therefore assumed that I was an oddity, having no idea that any of my experiences and feelings were remotely normal. And because of this, I was so tender about the topic of infertility that the mere mention sent me into tears. I still regret showing my tears to that principal when I told her. She didn't deserve that piece of me, but she got it and eventually abused it. So, should I have shouted about my infertility from the rooftops? No...at least not at that moment.
For those who have yet to 'come out', I would caution them with this: think carefully before you do. I'm not telling anyone to remain silent-no, but I think that we should find a way to balance self preservation and supporting our community. Being open about infertility is not meant to be comfortable. Whatever situation you're in, it should take courage, but it shouldn't be done at the expense of yourself, otherwise it could end up doing more harm than good.
Take for instance someone who lives in a small, rural conservative community. Although I live in a pretty liberal place, the stigma still exists here, so I can only begin to imagine what is being said in some places about those 'people who do IVF'. There are quite a few groups who feel it to be a moral obligation to prevent treatment from happening (take personhood bills, for example), so mean spirits could potentially slip their way in and disrupt your life. And even if you're not worried about the community, if you're not quite prepared to start fielding unsolicited ass-vice, ignorant comments or better yet, very pointed questions about current treatment, then maybe it might also be wise to wait awhile. Being open about infertility educates, which is what we want, but it also has the potential to change the relationships, and thus, the life around you and sometimes not always in a positive way. We need voices, but at what cost? For some, the cost is just too high.
And then again, some people never even tell at all. And I want to say, I get it. I really do, and I don't hold it against them. Does this silence in our community make for more of an uphill battle for the rest of us? You bet it does. But do I think that the members of our community need to participate if it yields more personal pain? No. Not now. Maybe later. So, if an 'outing' can take place at any point in time in someone's journey, we need that added voice desperately, but learn from my mistakes: choose your audience carefully and make sure that you're ready because sometimes the world of being open is amidst rough waters.
Tuesday, April 30, 2013
Why Everyday Needs to be National Infertility Awareness
I was naive in thinking that the questions of when I'll be having a second were going to be nonexistent. I've gotten this far (3 1/2 years) without a lot of curiosity directed my way, so it seemed logical to assume that I dodged that always-awkward bullet. I even let the preparation for my canned response slide in the back of my brain, nearly forgotten. But lately the questions have been cropping up again, despite my out-and-proud IF status, and as always, I give them my standard (though sorely unrehearsed) answer:
"I don't know. It took us almost five years to have G. We needed a lot of medical intervention, so I'm not sure we'll get that lucky again, but we'll see... "
If they ask further, I am always happy to share more. In fact, most probably regret asking because I stop just short of getting out a diagram of the female reproductive system. But more often than not my response solicits a polite, "Oh, OK. I hope it happens for you" from them after which the subject is dropped entirely. Except today.
Today, a particularly thick-headed co-worker of mine kept on the subject. It baffled me that she asked whether we would have another given that she's an active Facebook user and I had been making up for lost NIAW time with multiple posts about our story just a few days before (my guess: I'm probably on her blocked list-ha!).
At first the conversation was benign enough. And then, it happened. As if she had just consulted a manual on exactly what NOT to say to someone who is infertile, she went straight to a few of these tried and true gems:
"Maybe you should just leave well enough alone."
"You know, I've heard that when people stop trying so hard, it happens for them. My brother's friend's sister tried for a long time and when they finally stopped trying, it happened!"
"Adoption? Oh, no, you want to stay away from that. You have no idea what you'll get. You've seen what those kids turn out like."
I'll wait a moment while you collect your jaw off the floor from that last one.
Here's the crazy thing. I've heard similar responses from people who (prior to saying them) I considered to be some of the most brilliant people I know. This particular coworker, while no Rhode's Scholar, is by society's standards an educated and moderately intelligent woman. But that doesn't buy you common sense and emotional intelligence, does it? In fact, some of the brightest people I know have also turned out to be some of the densest when it comes to understanding infertility. I have one person in my life in particular who was an ivy leaguer and were it not for my very thorough 'training', he would still be saying some of the same dipshit things to this day.
Mel from Stirrup Queens recently revisited her NIAW post from last year about how everyday is National Infertility Awareness for her. That post in particular resonated with me, but not nearly as much as it did today when I realized that despite my social media efforts in the last week, I was still confronted with this obvious need for continuing education about infertility. Laying down a few carefully-worded status updates once a year just won't cut it when these are the comments I'm still getting after all this time.
There simply is no true understanding of infertility unless you've been there. We all know that. The million ridiculous comments on articles about infertility spell that out plainly enough. But that doesn't mean that our efforts are all for naught. I know that if we keep taking every small opportunity like this, little-by-little, we'll get there.
And what did I say to her? Well, I (politely, of course) set her straight that infertility is very much a medical condition, that my family building decisions were my own and that no, 'those' kids (meaning adopted) do not follow the exact trajectory of the select few she was referencing (and, by the way, she works with kids with emotional disturbance--that's a pretty skewed sample from which to draw a conclusion about any population). Whether my words actually moved her remains to be seen, but I think she reminded me why everyday needs to be about infertility awareness.
"I don't know. It took us almost five years to have G. We needed a lot of medical intervention, so I'm not sure we'll get that lucky again, but we'll see... "
If they ask further, I am always happy to share more. In fact, most probably regret asking because I stop just short of getting out a diagram of the female reproductive system. But more often than not my response solicits a polite, "Oh, OK. I hope it happens for you" from them after which the subject is dropped entirely. Except today.
Today, a particularly thick-headed co-worker of mine kept on the subject. It baffled me that she asked whether we would have another given that she's an active Facebook user and I had been making up for lost NIAW time with multiple posts about our story just a few days before (my guess: I'm probably on her blocked list-ha!).
At first the conversation was benign enough. And then, it happened. As if she had just consulted a manual on exactly what NOT to say to someone who is infertile, she went straight to a few of these tried and true gems:
"Maybe you should just leave well enough alone."
"You know, I've heard that when people stop trying so hard, it happens for them. My brother's friend's sister tried for a long time and when they finally stopped trying, it happened!"
"Adoption? Oh, no, you want to stay away from that. You have no idea what you'll get. You've seen what those kids turn out like."
I'll wait a moment while you collect your jaw off the floor from that last one.
Here's the crazy thing. I've heard similar responses from people who (prior to saying them) I considered to be some of the most brilliant people I know. This particular coworker, while no Rhode's Scholar, is by society's standards an educated and moderately intelligent woman. But that doesn't buy you common sense and emotional intelligence, does it? In fact, some of the brightest people I know have also turned out to be some of the densest when it comes to understanding infertility. I have one person in my life in particular who was an ivy leaguer and were it not for my very thorough 'training', he would still be saying some of the same dipshit things to this day.
Mel from Stirrup Queens recently revisited her NIAW post from last year about how everyday is National Infertility Awareness for her. That post in particular resonated with me, but not nearly as much as it did today when I realized that despite my social media efforts in the last week, I was still confronted with this obvious need for continuing education about infertility. Laying down a few carefully-worded status updates once a year just won't cut it when these are the comments I'm still getting after all this time.
There simply is no true understanding of infertility unless you've been there. We all know that. The million ridiculous comments on articles about infertility spell that out plainly enough. But that doesn't mean that our efforts are all for naught. I know that if we keep taking every small opportunity like this, little-by-little, we'll get there.
And what did I say to her? Well, I (politely, of course) set her straight that infertility is very much a medical condition, that my family building decisions were my own and that no, 'those' kids (meaning adopted) do not follow the exact trajectory of the select few she was referencing (and, by the way, she works with kids with emotional disturbance--that's a pretty skewed sample from which to draw a conclusion about any population). Whether my words actually moved her remains to be seen, but I think she reminded me why everyday needs to be about infertility awareness.
The Stomach Bug Who Shall Not Be Named
In comparison to years past, the showing on social media for National Infertility Awareness Week was pretty remarkable. It's heartening to see how much it's expanded over the last few years. There were many in my friends list who did a great job contributing on an almost-daily basis. One of my buddies had a 'topic of the day', including everything from 'Adoption does not cure infertility' to 'Infertility Etiquette'. Some friends posted their personal infertility stories on Facebook and of course RESOLVE was posting topics frequently to which countless people responded. I've never felt more proud to be a part of a community in light of this showing of support. Of course, it goes without saying that being infertile sucks donkey balls and I'm sorry others have to be here, too, but for better or worse, I am in the company of some truly remarkable people.
Posting everyday was initially my intention until I was hit full force with a beast whose presence was so vile I can only describe it as 'the stomach bug who shall not be named'. By the end of the week, my nausea was still blinding, leaving me certain that this couldn't possibly be anything ordinary. Of course, that means running to Dr. Google and looking up insane diagnoses, thus forcing my real and non-Google doctor into a series of needless tests and requisite eye-rolling on the other end of the line. I'm not usually that histrionic about health stuff, but I was desperate. I could barely work and wanted respite. After a little over a week later, my stomach still isn't quite 'right', but I can function. I'll take what I can get...
Being in the ballpark of reproductive age, you can imagine how many times I got, "are you sure you're not pregnant?" Gotta love that one. Yes, I am 99.99999% sure, but thanks for reminding me of my non-existent chance of reproduction without the use of multiple lab coats and a nice young lady looking to earn a few bucks. So, of course, that series of labs included a pregnancy test. I groaned when the phlebotomist mentioned it and bit my tongue from explaining the groan. You see, if I am going to be tortured by a BFN, it needs to be on my terms. I never leave it to a phone call. Every negative (or positive) I've ever received has started within the confines of my own bathroom, so when the nurse calls (or when the email lab result comes in*, in this case), it's never a surprise. I don't leave it in anyone's hands but my own. I grieve on my timeline. Maybe that's part of my controlling nature, but in this world of IF, so little is private or within our hands that I seize any opportunity I can to have that moment without the intrusion of others.
How do you handle big news?
*Not to ruin the suspense, but it was negative.
Posting everyday was initially my intention until I was hit full force with a beast whose presence was so vile I can only describe it as 'the stomach bug who shall not be named'. By the end of the week, my nausea was still blinding, leaving me certain that this couldn't possibly be anything ordinary. Of course, that means running to Dr. Google and looking up insane diagnoses, thus forcing my real and non-Google doctor into a series of needless tests and requisite eye-rolling on the other end of the line. I'm not usually that histrionic about health stuff, but I was desperate. I could barely work and wanted respite. After a little over a week later, my stomach still isn't quite 'right', but I can function. I'll take what I can get...
Being in the ballpark of reproductive age, you can imagine how many times I got, "are you sure you're not pregnant?" Gotta love that one. Yes, I am 99.99999% sure, but thanks for reminding me of my non-existent chance of reproduction without the use of multiple lab coats and a nice young lady looking to earn a few bucks. So, of course, that series of labs included a pregnancy test. I groaned when the phlebotomist mentioned it and bit my tongue from explaining the groan. You see, if I am going to be tortured by a BFN, it needs to be on my terms. I never leave it to a phone call. Every negative (or positive) I've ever received has started within the confines of my own bathroom, so when the nurse calls (or when the email lab result comes in*, in this case), it's never a surprise. I don't leave it in anyone's hands but my own. I grieve on my timeline. Maybe that's part of my controlling nature, but in this world of IF, so little is private or within our hands that I seize any opportunity I can to have that moment without the intrusion of others.
How do you handle big news?
*Not to ruin the suspense, but it was negative.
Sunday, April 21, 2013
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