As LM becomes a better sleeper and my mind becomes a little less foggy, I’ve been able to take a step back and reflect on my life before and after I had him. Certain things – smells, places, even songs – remind me of how different my life used to be, back when I was in the throngs of infertility treatments. It was such a dark time for me. I had thought about writing then, but I was worried that instead of helping, exploring my feelings would throw me into an even deeper depression. I was barely hanging on to my sanity, and I needed to keep my emotions in check lest they put me over the edge.
I’m finally in a place where I can look back on it with a clearer head. In some ways I want to forget about it, just pretend like it never happened. Now that I’m part of the mommy club, it’s like I’m a normal person. Like I fit in. Like I’m not a total freak.
But I don’t want to deny who I was, or who infertility made me. Because it did change me. It changed how I look at the world and how it works, how I feel about God or any kind of higher power, what I want out of my life and what kind of person I want to be. It cost me friendships, some of them dear ones that I didn’t think could ever be broken. It taught me to see good where I didn’t think there was any, and how to deal with the bad. It left scars. There are things that haunt me, that I don’t think I’ll ever get rid of.
Those of us who’ve done many, many treatments or had many losses call ourselves “veterans.” We went through our own personal battle. I’m not sure if military veterans consider it offensive when others use the metaphor of war to describe traumatic experiences. If that is the case, I apologize, but that’s what it felt like.
When you start out doing treatments you are all full of promise, so excited that you are finally getting help. The doctors have found out what is wrong, and they know how to fix it. You’re in their hands, and they are the experts. Couples doing their first IVF often have a sense of hopeful anticipation, that this is going to be the thing that solves all their problems.
And for many couples it does. But we veterans had been here a while. We looked on these rookies with cynicism, because we no longer felt anything resembling positivity. We watched couple after couple pass us by as they had success. But we were still here.
It was that way for the miscarriages, too. After we lost our daughter at 17 weeks, we went to a support group at our hospital. All the other couples kept saying things like, “when we have another baby” or “when we get pregnant again,” and it made me feel that my sadness was deeper than theirs (not that I want to play the Pain Olympics, which I’ll talk about in a later post) because I didn’t know if I would ever be pregnant again. Or even if I was, could I carry a baby to term? I had already had three prior miscarriages. Maybe that was my last shot.
I was in a hopeless situation. I couldn’t get pregnant without help, and I couldn’t stay pregnant once I was. Adoption was on the table but that involved so much, from home study visits to waiting to be picked to the fear the birth mother would change her mind. It seemed overwhelming. Plus, I just really wanted to experience pregnancy. That might seem selfish, but I felt like it was my right as a woman. I didn’t want to have to mourn the loss of that, too.
Sometimes it scares me how close I came to not having LM. I know I would have been a mom anyway, that I would have pushed myself through the adoption process and eventually I would have had a child. I wasn’t going to accept living child-free. I told myself that I could do it, I could be strong, even if it took years longer before we found a baby to adopt (or rather, before the birth mom found us).
LM was our last egg, our last hope. I had begged our fertility clinic to freeze whatever embryos we had left from our last cycle, no matter what shape they were in. And they did. We had two little guys, and they were both transferred on our last-ditch-effort frozen cycle.
The pregnancy did not go well at the beginning and I was sure I would lose him. But he hung on, and somewhere along the way I morphed from bitter infertile to fairly normal pregnant person to regular old mom.
Sometimes I feel like I’m hiding some big secret, like I’m pretending to be someone I’m not. I hang out with all the other normal moms and feel like I was rescued from a terrible fate. Like somehow someone lifted me up and pulled me out of my dark, depressing life and gave me a shiny new one. And that someone was my son.
Any other infertiles-turned-moms out there? How has your experience affected your life as a parent?