Tag: isolation

The Waters Between Us

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Lavender-Picture-15The following reflection was written by Lavender. 

The isolating effects of infertility can be far-reaching. While I have not experienced infertility myself, a few of my closest friends have been walking down its lonely road for many years. Over these years situations, conversations, and interactions have occurred that have threatened to dig deep gulfs between us that would erode the foundations of our friendships. The fathomless waters of grief, hurt feelings, and loss would try to rise, putting us on separate islands. I am so grateful that my friends and I saw the value in continually and intentionally building bridges to keep us connected.

The first time I realized that infertility had the potential of separating us happened when my friends started going for tests and procedures, and I was not yet trying to get pregnant. Their worlds seemed full of appointments, anticipation, and disappointment. It was so hard to watch them go through all these things, not having any medical knowledge or life experience to draw from. In addition, I wasn’t in their same mindset about eagerly seeking pregnancy. Looking back, I see their patience with me when I must have seemed immature and unhelpful in their emotional struggles. Cookouts, coffee shop dates, game nights, and other mundane social gatherings served as bridges for us to stay connected, to keep “normal life” afloat as we entered this new era in our relationships.

A few years into this journey, my husband and I felt we were prepared to start a family, and I became pregnant before my friends with infertility. This appeared to everyone to be in the wrong order, and it was deeply felt on all sides. I felt guilty about this, and my “good news” seemed like bad news to the friends with whom I had most wanted to celebrate. I had no idea how to share it and when I did, I dealt a huge blow. In response, I perceived feelings of anger, frustration, apathy, and resentment. There were attempts at joy swallowed by sadness. I think this for many people would have been a tipping point. It would have been easy for us to go our separate ways, to avoid further injury. In actuality, I was in more of a place to feel sympathy for them than ever before. I had a new understanding of the pregnancy-seeking world, having entered it myself. I listened more intently and tried to give more of my support. More bittersweet times lay ahead, when I felt that I could not share some aspects of my pregnancy (discomfort, tiredness, sweet baby movements inside of me, etc.) for fear of appearing ungrateful or boastful. I must say my friends gave heroic efforts in supporting me with kind words, tips on sales on baby gear, and questions about my pregnancy. While we kept our friendships together, I just can’t help feeling even today that we missed out on the bond that comes from everyone eagerly anticipating something together.

The third opportunity for isolation came when my baby was born. I felt so loved by family and friends who supported us generously when we came home. I remember desperately wanting to share the joy of my baby’s birth with my sisters-by-heart and thinking that they were very likely in a place not to feel it. Crushing. They bravely came soon after we arrived home, and I have rarely felt so emotionally vulnerable. This was heightened by my physical and emotional exhaustion. My friends with infertility reached out their hands and built another bridge just by having the gumption to show up and support me in my early days of motherhood. It may not always have been with the happiness I craved, but they found it within themselves to put aside their pain to be with me anyway.

As time passed, I tried to support my friends as they struggled with their infertility. There were times when I felt like the outsider, being the only mom as others discussed their most recent infertility test or procedure, or decision to adopt. On the flip side, I knew they felt like outsiders when I talked about what I was going through as a new mom. There were social gatherings at which children were encouraged to stay with a babysitter, which was bittersweet. On one hand, I was happy to have an evening or a day with only adults. I was lucky to have a support system that I could count on to take care of my baby if my husband and I wanted to attend these events. However, I didn’t like the feeling that if I didn’t get a babysitter, I would have to stay isolated at home because I was a mom. I understood that my friends wanted to have gatherings without having to be reminded of their infertility by having children around, but it still hurt. The important thing is, we just kept talking. When we hurt each other, we eventually apologized. We kept praying, reaching out, and connecting. We just kept trying, hoping it would be enough.

I have seen the waters that threatened to separate us recede time and again. It was with the deepest elation and relief that I have seen my friends become mothers. Years of my prayers, anxiety, and anticipation seemed to wash away as I welcomed their babies into this world. What if they had never become mothers? I actually believe we would have found a way to remain friends. I felt that it was imperative not to let infertility define who we were as people. Infertility was one part of their identity, but these lovely ladies were so much more than that. I decided a long time ago that if they would have me as their friend, I wouldn’t let them go for anything.

A Balm to the Lonely Heart

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forsythiaThe following reflection was written by Forsythia.

Infertility is an isolating thing.

I have spent hours upon hours this week trying to flesh out that statement. I have written countless drafts of this narrative attempting to explain where this isolation comes from, what it looks and feels like, how to prevent it. It has eluded me again and again. It is extremely complicated, nuanced, personal, and hard to express.

But here goes nothing.

My isolation in infertility was caused by being left out and left behind; by thoughtless, insensitive, well-meaning but often asinine comments; by cultural and religious expectations I couldn’t fulfill; and plenty other external forces. I could describe each one in painfully perfect detail.

But there’s another side of the story, too. Inadequacy, shame, guilt, fear, and despair constantly came between me and community from a strong, internal source:

I found myself believing, truly believing, terrible lies: I was too fat and ugly to be pregnant. I was not a real woman unless I was a mom. My life mattered less than those who were parents. My infertility was a punishment. These things filled me with guilt and shame. I was deathly afraid that they might actually be true, as ridiculous as they sound. But, I was too embarrassed to share these fears and my inability to be open about them kept me locked inside myself.

I was constantly comparing my life to those around me, creating a false hierarchy that separated me from others. In addition to isolation, comparison caused me to feel shame and self-pity when I didn’t measure up and pride and self-righteousness when I determined myself superior. My heart was soaked through with bitterness, and I could not see the beauty of my own story for lusting after everyone else’s.

The relationship between joy and grief in my life was basically impossible to explain. I almost never experienced one without the other for years and years. When my siblings were becoming pregnant with their first, second, third; when I watched my parents love on their grandkids; when friends were enjoying their newborns and telling birth stories–I felt happiness, joy, excitement, interest. But if I were my authentic self, not just the socially-acceptable version with a smile and the right words, I would have to admit that these feelings were always tempered by pain and grief. I was embarrassed to feel this way. I constantly berated myself for not being able to be purely happy for those I loved. I told myself that I was selfishly making everything about me. Nevertheless, the feelings didn’t change. It was a part of my process through loss and, as a friend recently reminded me, “there are no shortcuts through grief.” This struggle was a huge part of my day-to-day life, and fear of judgment or rejection kept me from being honest about it.

These kinds of thoughts, feelings, experiences are corrosive if handled completely alone. Because isolation is so easy to slip into, and is cultivated by both outward and inward forces, I know no other remedy but the constant pursuit of friendship—even with just one person. This is a two way street: it is a meeting together of two hearts both willing to be absolutely honest, and committed to sticking around despite the messiness. It’s hard to be alone when someone is consistently pursuing the heart of you, demanding openness and authenticity even when you don’t feel like giving it to them.

Such friendship must be earned through lots of listening, sacrifice, patience, reciprocal vulnerability, and consistency. It’s hard work, but even one such relationship is a balm to the lonely heart—indeed, a spring of water to a person dying of thirst.

August Focus: Isolation

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Though the statistic of couples struggling to get or stay pregnant is a staggering 1 in 8, infertility is still accompanied by acute isolation and a deep sense of loneliness.

The infertile voice longs to be heard, but is often silenced by embarrassment, shame, or fear.

The infertile experience is bursting with uncomfortable emotions that have no easy solution: longing, sadness, anger, bitterness, grief.

The infertile journey can be long and uncertain, requiring prolonged patience and enduring empathy.

For these reasons and more, isolation is a common part of the infertile story. As is true for all kinds of suffering, community is integral for surviving infertility. With it comes empathy, insight, understanding, perspective. Yet, many people are unable or unwilling to reach out from within and without the infertile experience to make that healing connection.

Communication can be a hindrance to this connection, and isolation can cut both ways.

There are many realities in infertility that are difficult to express—it involves very personal, physical aspects, as well as heightened emotions that make the typical blundering of human relationships difficult to manage. It is an ever-present grief, its pain easily triggered by a endless number of things.

On the other hand, it can be frustrating and futile to walk alongside a person going through infertility. They need truth and encouragement; challenge and sympathy; closeness and distance; words and silence–it is a constant challenge to know when to employ which aspect of friendship.

The goal of this month’s focus is to offer narratives from both sides of the spectrum in order to foster understanding and connection between those experiencing infertility and those trying to walk alongside them. Wherever you’re coming from, we hope that these personal stories offer insight that leads to a strengthening of the community in your own life.