Our Story: Part II

This is the second part of our path through infertility. Here's Part I.

OUR STORY: PART II

Daily Sadness and Bad Thoughts

The summer of 2009 marked the beginning of a very depressing period of our lives. For a year Jess and I tried to conceive and nothing worked. We did everything we were supposed to do and the one thing we wanted more than anything else escaped us. I couldn’t give you an exact date, but it was somewhere around the year mark where our attitudes shifted dramatically. Instead of hopeful thoughts, we were asking and pleading, “Why us? What did we do to deserve this? We’re good people! Why them? They appear to be awful people. Look at how they're acting! They’re probably ruining their kids’ lives? Why do teenagers get pregnant, but we can’t?”  And on and on and on and on. Our emotions turned dark, ugly, jealous and resentful. We were judge and jury.  

I am not proud of those thoughts, quite ashamed, actually. But they were very real. I was bitter and mad at the world. I judged strangers, people I knew, people I loved. None of them, in my estimation, deserved a child until Jess and I could have one. Jealousy is not part of my makeup, but it became the driving force of my outlook on parentage.  Not healthy and certainly not conducive to conception. Even worse, we began to resent those who openly displayed any affection for their children. My irritation was much greater than Jess’. She was more saddened, where I was just angry.  Didn’t they realize how inconsiderate that is? Didn’t they know that someone who can’t conceive may see them hugging their child and be ripped apart inside?

Now let’s think about this: a mother or father is holding their child’s hand as they cross the street, and somehow I’ve molded it into the epitome of flaunting your riches. The purest thing in the world was now a slap in my face.

“Why Would You Say Such a Thing?”

It was also during the 1^st anniversary of infertility that we both started to notice and scrutinize some of the things people say to childless couples. Below is a sample of actual things people said to us, with what we always wanted to say in parenthesis:

• “What’s taking so long?” (Uncontrollable circumstances that sadden us each and every day)
• “What are you waiting for?” (An egg to be fertilized)
• “You’re not getting any younger.” (Nice. Gotta go, you just destroyed my wife inside.)
• “Don’t you wanna have kids?” (Yes, but apparently we’re destined to be miserable)
• “You’re SO lucky not to have any kids!” (If by “lucky” you mean having our hearts broken every four weeks ….then you are correct)

To be fair, I’m sure I’ve said less-harsh versions of the above to friends who were married and didn’t have kids. But having gone through this, I wouldn’t dare broach the subject again. You just can’t realize how hard it is to hear some of this stuff when going through infertility. It consumes you.

“Wellstock 2009”

The most difficult bout of our new-found jealousy and sadness came during an event we look forward to every year. Over a designated summer weekend, Jess and her best friends from their alma mater, Wells College, hold an unofficial reunion called “Wellstock”.  The women, along with spouses, partners, and kids meet at a rotating destination for a weekend of pure fun. It’s always a perfect weekend: everyone gets along, there’s rarely any drama, and we just laugh continuously.

By 2009 Jess and I were the only childless couple in attendance.  Much of the talk centered around parenting, kids, and stories of conception. Now, chances are, this is what happened every year, but we never noticed. When you’re fine with where you are in the parenting journey, people can say whatever they want and you don’t think much of it. But here were with some of our best friends talking OPENLY about getting pregnant. And how they PLANNED it. And it worked. The ”nerve”, right?  It’s important to point out that we weren’t upset with our friends…they did nothing wrong. They are amazing people who would do anything for us, but our heads were not in the best place for a lot of the conversations that weekend. All we wanted to do was change the subject.

And the kids. They were running, playing and laughing together. Having fun, making bonds that they’ll remember forever. Some babies and some as old as nine or ten. Where were our little ones to add to the group photo? As much fun as it was that weekend---and it was fun---we felt somewhat empty, knowing that we weren’t able to add to our family of dear friends. Jess and I both spent extra time with the children at Wellstock 2009…just trying to feel like everyone else. As wonderful as some of those interactions were, it wasn’t exactly what we wanted.

On Friday and Saturday night, Jess and I held each other in bed. We didn’t say much; we didn’t have to. And quite frankly, we didn’t want to. Talking about it didn’t change anything. But not talking, as we’d learn, created a whole new set of problems.

“What’s There to Say?”

The first year of infertility came and went. Jess and I were, predictably, going through a horrible phase of our life together. We were well aware that the next step was to seek medical attention. It had been a year of unsuccessful attempts. But we didn’t seek help. What a stupid, stupid decision. Insurance companies in Massachusetts are required by law to cover fertility consultations and treatments. By all accounts, meeting with a fertility specialist should have been a no-brainer for us. Get the help we need for no more than the cost of a series of $15 co-pays. But a weird thing was happening between us. Our communication about what we were going through became non-existent. It was so sad to think about, let alone talk about it. What was there to say that we hadn’t said a million times? We were sad, disappointed, and didn’t deserve this. As a result, we never put a plan together. We just tried to conceive, hoping it would just happen. How is it they describe insanity? Doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results. That was us.

Not only were we not talking to each other about it, we weren’t talking to anyone else. Jess and I decided early on—well-before we had any idea of the troubles that lay ahead---that we would keep our decision to have kids to ourselves. Once you open up that discussion with others, the 500 lb gorilla is firmly planted on the couch of every conversation you have. It was a personal decision that we’d share with others when the time was right. So after a couple of years of marriage passed, there was a vacuum of silence about the topic…specifically with our parents. Early on in our marriage, I mentioned to my family that we planned to wait to have kids, but didn’t give a date.

Parents are naturally curious as to when they may have grandchildren, but we didn’t want any of that discussion. I know for a fact that I bit my mother’s head off a couple of times for either asking me about kids or hinting at it. Looking back, I realize how crappy I was to her. She had no idea what we were going through because we opted to keep that information to ourselves. But at the same time, I resented the fact that she didn’t act like she knew. How unfair is that?  

Looking back, I think we should have reconsidered our code of silence. Sometimes you just have to talk about this stuff with other people just to get it off your chest.  But  when you’re living this, the last thing you want to do is spend  time chatting about it. But from time-to-time, you need a release valve with this stuff. Perhaps someone you trust can offer a perspective you hadn’t considered that may change your outlook considerably. Instead, we kept it to ourselves….and our perspectives weren’t particularly positive.

“A Cruel, Sick Joke”

There were a number of reasons why we avoided the topic of seeking medical help to deal with our infertility. The most obvious reason? Simple:  we were afraid of finding out that something was wrong with one of us and we were unable to have children. By remaining intentionally ignorant we could continue to pretend that the best news of our lives was never more than 28 days away. But that news never came. We just repeated the horrible routine, month-after-month.

Jess’  menstrual cycle started with dogged optimism, having just gotten through another reminder that we were childless. We were usually OK during the first ten days or so because we’d gotten over the few days of sadness, and we were a few days away from thinking about scheduled sex.  As we entered week two, we had to get serious about conceiving. But as we talked about, doing that was often forced and less-than-intimate.  But we did it, then waited. And waited. And hoped.  But that hope was always fleeting.

The worst moments came when Jess was a day or two late. We allowed ourselves a nibble of optimism and held our breath. I cannot tell you how many times Jess went to the bathroom in a fine mood, and returned in tears.  It was like a cruel, sick joke that replayed itself every four weeks.   And without a communicated plan, we were destined to remain miserable.

Part III coming soon....