Tag: infertility

The Loss of Connection, part 1

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The following reflection was written by Dogwood.

Forsythia and I have a unique friendship: one of those once-in-a-lifetime connections. Our souls just recognize each other. She and her husband battled infertility from the start. She was never on birth control and was surprised many times at the beginning of their marriage when she was not pregnant. I remember the first time I witnessed a reaction to a negative pregnancy test. Forsythia had come over to hang out with my roommate and I at our tiny college duplex. She had stopped at the drugstore on the way to pick up a test. She told us when she arrived that it was just a precaution; her period could come any day and she didn’t think it would be positive, though she hoped it might be. We changed the CD, sipped iced tea, caught up on each other’s lives. Then, it was time to look at the test. We were all very excited at the possibility of a baby for our first married friends! We had a lot of hope that it would be positive, though there were questions of how they would provide and make room in their lives for a baby. I’m sure I held my breath as she walked out of the bathroom holding the little white stick. Sure enough, it was negative.

We all felt it–the loss of hope. Little did we know that my friend and her husband would never conceive a biological child. I could never have imagined what it would be like to walk alongside my best friend as she watched her dream of being a mother slip away. I was still a young woman and those thoughts were not in my realm of imagination at the time.

Watching Forsythia experience one loss after another was unbearable. I did my best to stick with her through the ups and downs of her and her husband’s uncertain journey towards parenthood. What this looked like was mostly listening and mourning with her. I shook my head at the awful things people would say to them about having children, and held my breath when mutual friends announced new pregnancies.

During this time, my husband and I received news from my doctor: “If you want to have biological children of your own, you need to do it now” (I was 24 at the time). They had discovered endometriosis in my uterus after an extensive myomectomy. We wanted children, but had planned to wait a few more years. I knew I wanted to be a mother and that I wanted to see my husband father our children, so our plans changed and we started trying to get pregnant as soon as I was recovered from my surgery. I got pregnant after trying for 2 months. Sharing this news with Forsythia was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. She and her husband were in the trenches of infertility: telling her that I was pregnant felt like sticking a finger into her open wound.

I was unprepared for motherhood; I was thrown into it by the circumstances of my health. I was excited and full of joy and could not share any of this with my best friend. Up to this point in our friendship, there wasn’t much we hadn’t shared. It felt strange and alienating to hide this really important part of my life from her. I had made many transitions in life with her by my side–graduating college, beginning a career, marriage–and now I was transitioning into motherhood without her. She could not come with me. I could not expect her to be happy for me.

My husband and I had moved back to our hometown shortly before getting pregnant. It was a lonely time for me for many reasons. I had my family, but I had no community–no one to walk with me into this very scary world of motherhood. I needed Forsythia. She was unavailable. I didn’t get to send her videos and pictures of my son doing absolutely nothing (that’s what most of those first pictures and videos are, after all). I couldn’t call her to vent about wishing my husband would hear the baby crying at night before me, or about the marital fights that this caused. I couldn’t ask her to come see us in the hospital after my son was born. I couldn’t call her from the hospital to tell her that I wanted to go home, or that I wanted my baby to latch properly so that my nipples would stop bleeding and my milk would stop clogging. I desperately needed her to hear how I was wronged by hospital staff and our doctor–how they stole the first hour of my son’s life from me. I needed her to cry with me and sit with me in the confusion and pain. She couldn’t. Her loss became my loss in an unexpected way.

Instead of sharing my life with her at this time, when we spoke it was mostly about what was going on in her life, and any part of my life that my son didn’t intrude upon. She did what she could; she asked about him when she was able to bear it. But I never dared go into much detail for fear of hurting her more.

Our friendship survived this dark period. I missed her and I know that I could have used her support during those first years of my kid’s lives, but I was able to forgive her for being absent at such an important time for me because I understood that she wasn’t able. I knew that if she could, she would. I trusted her heart.

Infertility does not happen in a vacuum. The pain, confusion, and loss of infertility will reach as a far as it is allowed. I willingly stepped into Forsythia’s pain. Of the losses I chose to endure, losing our friendship was not one of them, because I knew that the heartache was only a season. We are so apt to believe that what is now will always be. That is the lie we tell ourselves, a lie we must reject. As Forsythia and I faced loss together, I embraced hope: that she would be a mother; that we would walk that road together one day; that there was meaning behind the pain we endured. I gripped tightly to these beliefs for my friend, whose heart did not have the strength to believe them, but also for myself: what I was giving up was not in vain.

 

The Loss of Mirrors

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Weeping Willow, Claude Monet

The following reflection was written by Willow.

One of the losses that has become part of my story is the loss of a common experience with other women: I have not been pregnant and will never be pregnant. I do not know what it feels like to carry a baby in my body, feel him move inside me, deliver him into the world.

I remember talking to an acquaintance about my infertility and she quickly tried to console me, saying “Well, at least you don’t have to deal with morning sickness!” I thought to myself, “I would give anything to deal with morning sickness right now.” When my mom friends start talking about what it was like to be pregnant, I immediately become a spectator instead of a participant. I listen with curiosity, not resentment. But the familiar feeling of loss is right there with me every time.

Connected to this is another loss: I will never have a child that looks like me. In the adoption world, this is called “the loss of mirrors.” My brother’s daughter has my granddaddy’s red hair. My sister’s kid has her daddy’s adorable scrunchy face. I will never know what traits a biological child might have gotten from me. I have a beautiful, almond-skin, black haired little boy who looks nothing like anyone in my family or my husband’s family. No one picks me out of a crowd as my son’s mommy.

Everyone loves to make those biological connections–“Oh, she looks just like her mommy when she was little.” Or, “He has his daddy’s thick hair.” Again, I become a spectator of these exchanges, listening patiently from a distance. I think it’s important to note that this particular loss is part of my son’s story as well, if not more so. He will never have the comfort of seeing himself reflected in my face. Looking like one’s family brings an unspoken sense of belonging that my son will never know.

It’s uncomfortable and often socially unacceptable to mention anything negative when it comes to adoption, but these are significant losses. It has nothing to do with my love for my son or his acceptance in my family. There is both great joy and great loss in adoption–to acknowledge one without the other is to paint an incomplete picture of a complicated, messy, beautiful thing.

 

June Focus: Loss

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Infertility introduces countless losses into the lives of those it touches. Sometimes, these are obvious consequences of the diagnosis–expectations or hopes that must be abandoned; dreams that will never come to fruition. Even losses that seem “small” or “insignificant” can be devastating: the grief they evoke both blindsiding and enduring.

Whether the re-routing of a dream or the letting go of a single aspect of expected life, these losses not only shape our lives, but the people that we are at the very core. They impact our view of the world, our religious beliefs and relationships, identity and intentions. Many of these life (and self) changing losses go unspoken. They are consequential to who we are, yet are often misunderstood or simply unknown.

Over the month of June, we hope to demystify some of the losses specific to infertility by opening windows into personal experiences. We hope that these stories will validate or even reveal the losses most effecting you in your own season of infertility. Perhaps these stories may even serve to help you understand those around you who are grappling with losses that are shifting what they know about themselves and their world.

You Are Seen

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Photograph credit to www.curiositysip.com

The following reflection was written by Sunflower.

 

After the first loss, I avoided Mother’s Day like the plague. I wasn’t interested in watching others celebrate–so easily, so carefree–something I felt like I was begging for without result. It felt like being asked to go out into a hail storm without any protection. My heart just couldn’t take the beating. So I stayed home wrapped up in my blanket of grief. The second loss was even harder. I had put so much hope into that pregnancy that the grief of it ran over me like a semi, then backed up and ran over me again.

I remember like it was yesterday: The first Mother’s Day after my second loss. The loss that had left me emotionally crippled. When Mother’s Day approached, I was bitter but determined. I was a mother. A mother to babes who graced heaven with their presence. And I was so exhausted with grief that somehow, some way, I was going to make others see me the way I saw myself. So, like a soldier preparing for war, I put on my armor of determination and went to church.

I did well through the Hallmark-y 3 minute video they showed in the service that commended the hard work of motherhood. I didn’t shed a tear, standing there like a rock. I even held it together when the pastor spoke kind words about his mom and wife. Yes. I had this. I was going to make it.

…and then they asked for all the moms to stand in the congregation. They were going to hand out flowers. I breathed in deeply, my tears falling freely as I stood. Here it was: my moment of validation. My heart was screaming to be seen as the thing I so desperately wanted to be, the thing I knew I already was, though I had no baby to hold in my arms: a mother. When the man who was handing out red carnations came to my section, he handed them to everyone except me. I lost all composure and left as fast as my feet would carry such a broken and heavy-hearted woman. I was devastated. All the old voices of shame returned. Why should he acknowledge me as a mom? I had no children that he could see. But my heart cried out that I was a mom. The identity resided in the core of my being. It was the person I was created to be, and the short 13 weeks and 10 weeks of my babies’ lives had made me mom. Yet, the one thing I wanted on that Mother’s Day was the last thing I would receive.

Devastated and broken, I fell before the Father’s feet. On one hand, He was the one I blamed for my pain, my losses. And on the other hand, He was the one I clung to for comfort and hope.

“I just want to be seen.”
“You are seen.”

It was simple. It was truth. He was the One that saw my pain, carried my grief, collected my tears, and made me a mom. He knew.

Even now, 7 years later, that memory is painful. Yet, on days when I don’t feel as though I am seen, I have come to realize that I’m seen by the One who is with me through every pain and every joy. Who is witness to every part of me, the visible and invisible. Who weeps in my mourning and rejoices in my joy.

When the next Mother’s Day approached and I had two losses and infertility under my belt, the need to be recognized by others was no longer there. I didn’t put armor on. I didn’t put my blanket of grief on. I didn’t fake it or pretend it was anything but what it was. Because who I am and what I am feeling is always before the One who created me and sustains me. He sees me.

Mother’s Day is painful. When you are in the middle of this pain and asked to wait while everyone around you celebrates, it is incredibly hard. For me, it became O.K. that it was a hard day when I acknowledged that it filled me with grief and believed that this was valid–not a reason to be ashamed or hide myself. And I didn’t try to change it. I knew He saw me, and for that moment, it was enough.

 

Privilege and Grief

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Weeping Willow, Claude Monet

The following reflection was written by Willow. 

I celebrated Mother’s Day for the first time as a mother this year. For 32 years, I had only known this holiday as a time to honor my own mother. When I think back on the Mother’s Days
of my childhood, I remember cheesy Sunday School crafts, carnation corsages, and fancy brunch at the Embassy Suites after church. As I got older, it became a more meaningful holiday because my mom and I are very close. I liked to pick out small but special gifts for her and spend the day doing her favorite things. It was an uncomplicated holiday. I have a mother who loves me and I love her.

I had no idea how privileged I was.

When I was in the early stages of infertility, it didn’t immediately occur to me to that Mother’s Day was an extra-special-sad-day for people like me. I’d only ever experienced this day as a daughter celebrating her mother.  So when a friend handed me a card and a knowing hug at church that day, I remember thinking, “Oh yeah, this is another thing to be sad about. I’m not a mother on any day, but here I am, also not a mother on Mother’s Day.”

My social worker friend Francie says that one of the hardest things to grieve in life is the loss of something you never had. In many ways, infertility is such an ambiguous grief. You grieve for a child that doesn’t exist. You can’t see his face or hear her voice. On Mother’s Day, you grieve the loss of something you don’t have – the experience of being a mother.  It’s not easy to explain this grief, and most people don’t even realize the everyday events and activities that can trigger the grief of those suffering from infertility. I certainly didn’t until it was me.

Mother’s Day is complicated and painful for so many people. It was a privilege and a gift to grow up celebrating this day without emotional baggage. I know that now. But if you haven’t experienced infertility or don’t have any close friends who have, it’s easy to take that privilege for granted. That’s why just simply having an awareness and a sensitivity of the potential suffering of those around us is so powerful. It’s such an important first step in caring for our loved ones who are grieving.

I have been a mother for 9 months. But my son’s story did not begin 9 months ago. He has had several mothers in his life, and we plan to honor their part in his story. On Mother’s Day, we will be thinking about Ms. An, our son’s birthmother. We don’t know much about her, but we will send her love and talk about what she might be like. We will also think about Insook, his foster mother. Insook provided our son with a loving and caring home for almost a year before he became part of our family. We are forever grateful to these two women. Our son will always know what an important role they played in his life.

I got to be celebrated as a mom on Mother’s Day this year. I got the flowers, the special meal, the extra kisses from my son. So many women did not. The silence and emptiness of their homes will have been especially noticed on that day. No words can ease the pain. If you know this pain, please give yourself permission to feel whatever emotion you are feeling on that day, or any day. You are not alone, and your story matters.

Never Forget

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photograph credit: Guthrie Whitby’s Website

The following reflection was written by Hawthorne.

 

For those of us who have experienced infertility, Mother’s Day is a loaded and weighty phrase. I believe that infertility changes everything about us as human beings, and how we view such a simple holiday doesn’t escape that change.

Growing up, Mother’s Day had little to do with me, really. It was the day we got flowers for our mom, wrote her cards, and my dad would take us out to eat so mom didn’t have to cook. As a young adult, Mother’s Day became a day that also celebrated my sweet sister who had become a mother too.

Then my husband and I started trying to have kids and month after month, nothing happened. By the time the first Mother’s Day rolled around, we had been trying for exactly a full year. I remember trying not to think about it, trying not to relate myself to the day in anyway, but I got a card from someone who said she was thinking of me on this “hard day,” and suddenly it became that.

I dreaded going to church, specifically, because most church services do something celebratory of moms on that day, like having them all stand up and people clap, or doing a sermon dedicated to motherhood. I am beyond grateful that that has not been the case at the church I attend, at least since I’ve been infertile. My brother-in-law is the worship pastor and usually says something about the complicated nature of the day: How it is sweet for some who are moms and some who have moms, but painful for moms whose kids are in trouble or who have passed, and so heavy for those whose moms may have passed or those whose moms have been unkind, harmful, or abusive. He also acknowledged the heaviness of those who would love to be mothers but can’t. Hearing him say that made me realize that Mother’s Day could function essentially as a day to mark my grief, my pain of not being able to have a baby after a lifetime of assuming I could and would be able to.

For three years, that’s what Mother’s Day has been to me: A day to remember and process a little of that grief that I carry. To find a corner and cry, and realize that I am not alone in my grief. There are so many women in my life who fall into one of the categories my brother-in-law listed, and for all of us, Mother’s Day can be a day to remember our grief. Infertility is such an intangible, hard thing to explain to people. It is grieving for the non-existence of someone you desperately love and want to know, and in that very real way, it is grieving a death. Unlike grieving someone who has died though, there is no death date or birth date to mark the loss. For me, that is what Mother’s Day became.

This year will be different as after three years of trying—with many I.U.I.’s, an IVF, an embryo transfer, and another year of having given up the idea of having biological kids–I am pregnant. I’ve been thinking about Mother’s Day coming up with incredible confusion and complicated emotions. I still feel the need to grieve the lost years, the pain I experienced, the babies I miscarried early through IVF, and the permanent change that infertility caused in me. But I also want to be able to celebrate the life growing in me. I don’t know that I’ll ever figure it out or that it will ever be easy for me to know how to handle this day, but I never want to forget the road I have traveled or the countless friends I have who are still there.