Sunday, October 11, 2009

The faces of infertility

I've been thinking a lot lately about how differently people seem to process infertility, and the many ways it can manifest itself. I always thought that I had a pretty typical response to infertility the first time around: I was angry, I felt broken and out of control, I cried unpredictably when faced with other people's good fortune, and I was open with some people about our struggles, while being more guarded with other people.

Now, faced with secondary infertility after primary infertility, I have found that I've lost what little patience I had posessed during that first go-round. Immediately I was infertile - even that month that I had my first post-partum period, I was infertile from the get-go. There was no happy-go-lucky, oooh isn't this fun stage of trying. It was all cervical mucus checking and watching the TP for signs of red. Dreading all the stories of the You Never Know people, the ones who get pregnant *like that* after needing fertility treatments the first time.

Now, I also tell anyone and everyone about our struggles. Sometimes inappropriately: I told a casual acquaintance at work that we "don't get pregnant like other people," when she asked when I was going to give that son of mine a sibling. (Well, c'mon, she asked for it.) My husband also is more open than he was four and five years ago ... I learned this when my step-mother-in-law said to me, "I know you guys have been trying for a while; I'm really praying for you." But at the same time, despite the openness with others, I'm also less raw over the whole thing. Not that I haven't cried, not that I haven't felt the knife of jealousy when my friend (for the second pregnancy in a row) announced that she got pregnant the first cycle trying. (And really, people, when is that ever ok to say, especially to a person you know is infertile??) Those hurts are still there, they still cut deep, and while they might not hurt more than they did the first time around, there are more of them. If that makes sense.

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This weekend, I had a long conversation with a couple friends of ours who are finally pregnant after their first IVF. I was shocked by how different her take on the whole thing was. Oh, she understood the pain and the frustration, for sure; she certainly didn't miss any of that. But she seemed to keep herself completely unaware of the finer points of her treatment and diagnosis. She was with her OB/GYN for treatment for a year and a half, and when her new doc told her, "go right to an RE, you won't get pregnant without IVF," it was a surprise to her. I can't even imagine. I mean, yes, they're the experts and they tell us things we don't know. But when I got a test result, I always knew what it meant. I had it in my head when I took the call: ok, if my progesterone is under six, that's really bad, and if it's at least ten, then that's pretty good, but if it's over 15, then I'm in great shape." When my doc told me my FSH, I knew what it meant. I asked my friend questions about her progesterone at 7dpo, and about her FSH, and she got this blank look on her face.

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I have another friend who just gave birth to twin girls after IUI; she and her husband had been trying for about 18 months. I think this was their third IUI. I mentioned to her during her pregnancy that for me at least, infertility never went away. Even when I was pregnant, and even when I had my new perfect baby. She was aghast. She couldn't believe I could feel that way. "Oh, I'm over it already," she said.

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I guess for some people, infertility is something to be overcome, something for a doctor to figure out and treat. For me, it was always more of an identity. Why is that? Why did I put on this suit of infertility 5 years ago, and I still can't get it off? Why am I more involved with it than some people? Why do I think that if we end up with the family we hope for ... or even if we don't ... that I'll remember some facet of this experience, and I'll continue to carry it with me, and it will continue to shape who I am and how I parent my son, for a long time to come?

9 comments:

  1. I think you have brought up such an interesting topic. Some of us wear IF as an identity, and to others it is more of a passing challenge. Like you, I carry my infertility with me every day. Not necessarily in a harmful way at this point, but I'm still mindful of it's influence. Even after when I got pregnant with my son, I look at it as winning the battle, but I was still in the war. I probably always will be, in a way.

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  2. I wish I had an answer...and often I wish I could be like some of the people you describe. Sometimes I feel like I would be healthier mentally if I didn't spend so much time researching and analyzing everything about my infertility and my cycles.

    If you have more insights into this, pass it on!!!

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  3. I totally agree with you. I just don't get why some people aren't as "invested" in their diagnosis. And, further, when I meet people IRL (and on-line), that "get over" infertility... I just don't get it. AT ALL. Sure, you can learn to live with it, and it's more visible to us for the mere fact that we have not achieved our goal.

    Personally, whether or not I ever have another baby... Infertility will always define me. Having years of disappointment and loss has changed me forever. In good and bad ways.

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  4. This is such a thoughtful and well-written post. I often wonder how I compare to other IFers who are not bloggers. I mean bloggers want to share, they have details, most of them have recurring IUIs, IVFs, etc. What about the other people?

    I don't know if I will ever 'get over' this. Perhaps if it happened after the first IVF, I would have had the innocence still. But, now I think I am forever changed by this journey in some good ways.

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  5. Sounds like denial to me. I think people are still loathe to identify with the shame and stigma of IF. Even though we have kids, we are still technically infertile because we can't achieve pregnancy without medical help. Tell your twin-having friend to stick that in her pipe and smoke it! ;-)

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  6. I'm in a very similar place. I feel so broken because my body won't let me reproduce normally. The moment I got the diagnosis I felt suddenly older than I actually was, maybe because the RE told me that even though I was only 31 my ovaries were like those of a 40 year old. It had a profound effect on my self-image and even when I got really lucky getting pregnant with my son, the feeling has continued. And I haven't a clue as to how to stop feeling this way.

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  7. This is a great post. I am very private about my infertility and I've shared with only a few people (and I knew they were going through IF before I opened up). Your stories are nearly the same as mine. One friend didn't seem fazed at all and went straight to IVF. One friend is pretty much in denial. It's really interesting how different people respond to this "situation." Thanks for sharing.

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  8. ' "Oh, I'm over it already," she said.' (having had a baby after ONLY 18 months TTC via ONLY IUI)

    Yeah, I refer to those people as "fertile infertiles" and I abhor them almost as much as the regular fertiles; in fact in moments when they say things like THAT, I abhor them MORE. Because they should know better. Alas, they didn't suffer enough to really "get it". Lucky them.

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  9. "Me" - be careful, please, because I got pregnant with "ONLY IUI" and after a mere 2 years (22 cycles to be exact) of trying, when I was dealing with primary IF. And the infertility hit me like a goddamn train. That's my whole point here, that people take it differently.

    I hate to play the "who has it worse" game, because seriously all infertility sucks. Frankly, I'm kinda jealous of those who can handle it with more grace than I can seem to manage, even on my best days.

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