Living with infertility is not something I planned on as a child. I
knew life would occasionally be less than perfect, but I only ever
thought I'd end up with really bad bouts of strep throat or pink eye (my
worst enemies in those younger years).
It's not all bad. I
mean, there are times when everything is wonderful. In these moments, I have
all the hope in the world that everything will work out perfectly and soon I'll have new, simpler worries to
deal with.
There are other moments when that vision crashes on my head as if to say, "Don't plan on it."
You'd
think that these moods would be kind enough to stick around for a while,
and occasionally they do, but usually I swing between them several times in a day.
I worry because infertility is not something you just bring up in a casual conversation.
Hey, I know you said something cool just now but I was distracted thinking about how my body can't make babies on its own.
I
worry because I want to tell my story, but some people only know how to
respond with "helpful hints" for getting pregnant.
Could you stop suggesting that diet/method/vitamin now? I read about it three years ago and trust me, it will not fix me.
I can't help but worry when I'm talking to strangers that they'll see how hollow I am or, even worse, they won't see that I'm hollow at all.
Hi, my husband has a pretty low sperm count. Did you know that?
It's
the monkey on my back. I hear a sad song, and I want it to be singing
about me and my infertility, telling my story because no one else will.
I'd
totally go to that rad event tonight, but I'm actually saving money for
a thirteen thousand dollar procedure that might not work.
The
only stories I hear told publicly are miracle stories. Infertile couples who,
after years and years of pain and trying and doctors visits and adoption
agencies and money, have finally achieved parenthood.
I
kind of hate you right now for asking how I'm doing, because if I were
honest with you, you wouldn't know what to say back to me.
I read a happy story, and I almost shout at my computer screen to keep its damn happiness to its damn self for a few days.
Wow,
your baby is really cute. Could you get it out of my sight for a few
minutes while I work up the courage to look at it without crying?
These are the thoughts that pass through my head while you're talking to me.This is what my life is like.
Oh,
hello there, person who is a complete stranger. Could you not ask me
when I'll have kids? I may punch you in the face.
My
two options are 1. give up and move on with a different life than the
one I have wanted since I figured out I'd grow up one day, or 2. keep
trying. Trying sucks. Infertility sucks. Living this way is the worst.
But I can't imagine a world in which I take option 1. I can't move on. I
won't. And that's just how it's going to be.
If a single person comments on this post that I just need to do x, y, or z to get pregnant, I'm pretty sure the angry vein in my forehead will burst.
