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10/02/2006
The cure
I fell off my Danskos today. I am exactly that graceful. A ballerina. A dainty sprite. Yes, an airy goddamned sylph, if I do say so myself. While standing, not even walking, on perfectly level, newly paved asphalt, my ankle turned and I went down, Charlie in my arms.
It happens so fast that you don't even think about it. In a contortion born of pure reflex, I hit the ground with elbows, wrists, knees, and flanks, twisting elaborately to make sure Charlie didn't. It had been raining for hours, so I was soaked to the socks, flat on my back on the pavement, with a raincoated Charlie sitting upright on my stomach, looking down at me in bewilderment.
Well, wouldja look at that, I thought, smiling back up at him to show him nothing was wrong, though I felt badly shaken, didn't spill a drop.
On the drive home, he kept telling me the news over and over, a one-boy CNN: "Mama fall down parking lot." You're right! It was scary, but everything's fine now. "Mama fall down parking lot." Yes, baby, I know. "Mama fall down parking lot!" You're right; I was there. I'll back you up in court. "Mama fall down parking lot." Right! Now. Let's click over to Fox and check in with that nice Bill O'Reilly. I like the way he thinks.
I've been trying all weekend to write about how angry I am at this latest cancellation. For someone more comfortable with flippancy and humor, no matter how brittle and forced, than with unadorned negative emotion, it's not easy. I type, delete, swear; type, delete, growl; and type, delete, swear some more until I'm banging my head against the keyboard like Don Music.
I am angry. In fact, I'm most royally pissed.
What I didn't ever foresee was that having a child wouldn't cure my infertility. Having Charlie most certainly relieved the daily anguish of childlessness. A small boy glancing over his shoulder, a tiny pajamaed Orpheus mournfully lowing, "Goodbye, flannel blanket" as he leaves his bedroom is a jim-dandy analgesic. But it turns out that childlessness was only a symptom — a most debilitating symptom, to be sure — of infertility, a deeper, more pernicious disease.
Some women find that they're healed by becoming a mother at last, regardless of how it happens. Others consider the question of finding solace in a low-tech pregnancy and birth after the high-tech machinations of ART. And others hope that a future pregnancy and birth might eclipse bad memories of an earlier, scarier one — the therapeutic do-over.
None of this helps me. I had a baby, but I'm not healed. If I do get pregnant again, I'll be monitored more closely, dosed more thoroughly, and frightened more dreadfully — taking comfort in midwives and waterbirths is entirely out of the question. And the emotional revisionism of the do-over isn't for me; I can't do the heavy lifting necessary to make myself believe my body would cooperate, a belief which seems essential to the exercise.
So where does this leave me? Better off, I know, than I was before I had Charlie; certainly more fortunate than my friends who are still pissed off and childless; grateful but still really angry.
My body has failed me at every turn. I — because it is dishonest to divorce "my body" from myself that way — have failed in achieving pregnancy, sustaining pregnancy, birth, and breastfeeding. How can I not be furious?
And what do I do with the anger? How do I handle the betrayal, the failure, the rage? Because one child didn't cure it, I know another won't. And I do not know what might.
"Mama fall down parking lot." That fall may be my saving grace. Taking a tumble for Charlie without an instant's thought.
I hurt today. I'm sore from the twisting and tender where my body made impact. My ankle is swollen, damn those treacherous clogs, long may they founder in the Goodwill bin. But. Because of that pain, I am forced to recognize that my body doesn't fail me always. I can protect my son. Because of his very existence, I know that I can, with some difficulty, conceive a child. I can keep him safe inside long enough, if only just. I can give birth, even if "have birth taken from me while I lie there in an immobilized daze" seems more fitting. I can feed him, though, Jesus, we all hated that. For all the failures — cancellations, negatives, miscarriages — there is one living, undeniable success.
I and my body can do this. After all, we've done it — badly, and narrowly, but we did it. I'm not sure we can do it again, and for that reason I'm still angry. Still furious, in fact, at no one and nothing and myself and the world that my body can't do what it should.
Maybe I always will be. But now and again the truth lands on my stomach in a scaled-down yellow slicker, and I hope one day I won't.
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Damn those shoes. I have the same pair and I swear, the same thing happened while carrying my son. Although, I was walking. Which still doesn't say much, because I guarantee I'm more uncoordinated than you.
I'm sorry. I know this pain, well, some of it, and it sucks. No advice, of course. What could I even say?
Can we give your body a C+? You get the diploma, but graduate school . . . well, we'll see . . .
There's a reason American Ballet Theater doesn't perform in clogs.
PS to Charlie: Mama what? Did she hit her head, because she made a favorable comment about Bill O'Reilly, and even in jest . . . I'm sorry, she what now?
Damn you're a good writer. I fact, you've just said the exact kind of thing I think, but can't get out properly.
I'm sorry, this so sucks. It is really is a rollercoaster and not a straight ahead road, isn't it?
Carp, crap, crap
I hope you recover from the "Mama fall down" quickly.
I've thought the same thing so many times; I hate myself for failing my daughter. It's my fault that her entry into this world was so damn hard. And every parenting challenge that comes up now - from having to slip a little bit of formula in her bottles for daycare because I can't pump enough to her strange pooping schedule - is just a further indictment of me.
I don't think it helps for anyone to tell you differently. That you're a good mother to Charlie. That he seems to be a delightful child. It's just easier to believe the bad stuff.
I'm really sorry about your cancelled cycle. I found cancellation to be more difficult than failure.
Okay, this is going to sound schmaltzy and hokey, but really I believe it. You talk about the physical machinations of childbirth and breastfeeding and feel like you did them "narrowly and badly" but what about the other more lasting parts of mothering - the nurturing, loving, enlightening, guiding, enjoying, etc. etc. of Charlie. It sounds like you do a bang-up job of that and while I'm not denying your anger and frustration about your body's difficulties (I've had those same feelings because I kind of suck at this pregnancy/childbirth thing too) you should at least give yourself credit where credit is due. Hope I haven't sounded like a complete idiot.
I'm so sorry, Julie. (o)
Thanks for writing this, Julie. Even as I revel in my son, a lot of these feelings rear up unexpectedly--thanks for giving an eloquent voice to some of them.
Thanks for writing this. Bodies are complex things. I was badly abused as a kid and then thought despite that I had finally come to some friendly relations with mine, until my daughter strangled on her/our umbilical cord and died.
All I can tell you is I think you are on the right track in seeing how it is also your body that holds your son, protects him, prepares food for and feeds him, dances with him, plays games with him, reads to him, and takes him and you places.
But I'm not sure there will ever be a total end to the grief, you know? It may be something that continues on with you as you also experience the joys.
Julie,
"My body has failed me at every turn." You just summed up what I have been feeling for months now. I'm trying now to just own the anger and grief so I can move on and revel in my beautiful daughter. Thanks so much for expressing these feeling to all of us. I know you've helped me realize I'm not nuts - or at least not alone in being nuts :)
I'm sorry about the cancellation...it really sucks =( I know you feel like your body has really let you down, but you know, havig a baby is kind of like a pass/fail course. You have Charlie, you passed, and you can pass again. Not everybody has the guts to go through what you are going through, and what you'll continue to go through when you get pregnant...but you already know that you have the stones for it, and you'll be OK.
As for the Danskos...love them clogs, but man do they have lousy ankle support! I always loved how they float over the ankle and don't give you blisters, but one little slip and you're eating serious asphalt. If you're a size 40, send 'em along!
It's a strange and horrible feeling isn't it?
I'm not positive that I would enjoy being a mother or that I would be a good mother. That being said, my OBGYN pretty much told me that with my blood pressure and thyroid issues, I may not have a choice. Even though I don't have any identified reproductive issues, I may not be able to carry a baby full term and it might not be worth the risk. THAT pisses me off! Even though I'm not pining for a pregancy or children yet, the feeling that my body doesn't work right and the possibility of harming myself more or my future baby by trying, is indescribable. I can only imagine how much worse you feel because you do desparately want another child. I hope you find the strength, yet again, to get through this.
I haven't gone through nearly as much as you, but my c/sec gave me similar feelings of inadequacy and failure. However, I do think that it wasn't just my body, but the way we treat birth in this country (separate rant) and so I have forgiven my body for not being able to overcome those obstacles and just squirt a baby out no matter what.
I have many suspicions about the infertility problems out there, too; maybe there's just a lot of stuff we've all absorbed from the environment that has messed with a lot of us hormonally; it wouldn't surprise me. And even if it's just genetics, well, you can always blame your ancestral DNA--your poor body just got dealt a shitty hand. But it's doing the best it can, and you're right, it deserves credit for that. I think we should all feel more compassion for our poor bodies, in general, like we would for a pet. They might be scruffy and unable to learn a lot of tricks, but they deserve love all the same.
I can't help but nod in agreement. I'll be the first to say that I haven't had to go through the same type of medical intervention to get to the pregnant part - all of my intervention comes after the pregnancy begins. But the "how many licks does it take to get to the center of a tootsie pop?" question keeps popping up. Just how many more cycles, miscarriages, surgeries, or dead babies would it take for me to get to the end result of another healthy baby? And though I know I want that end result, the quest itself seems beyond daunting.
You're in my thoughts.
I recognize a lot of those feelings, and I'm sorry you have to go through all of it. It's very reasonable to feel angry, and horrible that there is nowhere to direct the anger except at your own body, and yourself. Infertility, secondary i/f, high risk pregnancy, prematurity and all those things are miserable. I don't know if that anger, grief and feeling of failure will go away entirely, but I hope that some day it will be less acute, and more manageable - at least it is for me.
May you find peace of mind and healing soon, and a plan that feels right for you and your family.
I hope you recover quickly from the aches and pains of falling.
Big hugs for the rest, since I know that that healing will not come as quickly.
Wow, this hurts to read. You have every right to just be pissed, no need to be funny for us. Thinking of your own body failing you must make the pain worse. I guess it because we are MF I never really thought of it in that way. I know the one we've got on the way (that hopefully makes it) will be the only one. I hope some of the sadness goes away but I think everytime somebody says "when are you having another" or makes a nasty comment about only children, my infertile heart will break all over again.
I've fallen down with each of my kids. Both times it was on stairs. Both times, the child was a toddler in my arms. Both times, I got hurt pretty badly, but wasn't even aware of it until after I had confirmed that the child involved was completely unhurt.
We all fall down. But we have to get back up and keep on walking. Even when it hurts. Yeah, that's a real corny metaphor for your cycle...I know I suck as a writer. But I know that you will do what you have to do to make your dreams come true. Oh, and take some ibuprofen...for those non-metaphorical aches.
I was just thinking the other day about how badly I've been treating my body lately. I've been skipping breakfast and lunch, having junky snacks instead. I've been drinking too much red wine at social events and waking up with a headache the next day. I've been imbibing way too much caffiene. I had a realization the other day that I used to treat my body with a lot more respect, which I lost once it made me go through all of those grueling months of secondary infertility. I think I've actually been subconsciously punishing it, and have been doing so ever since weaning #2, my IVF baby. I can only imagine that it would have been even more of an issue if I had suffered from primary infertility, and if I had suffered longer. I don't blame you for being angry.
I have struggled with the "body has failed me" routine as well...never carried a pregnancy long enough to see a live baby. Then in the midst of an adoption, i wreck my car and break my neck and wonder how I will ever hold my baby...But i WILL...will it cure my anger at my body? I don't think so...but maybe I'll have moments where i realize my body can and has taken good care of me and will take good care of my daughter (for example, i'm NOT paralyzed...i may still never gestate a recognizable baby but i can walk, though not on dansko clogs--mine went to the charity thrift store long ago!)
Anyway, I read your blog often, though i don't know that i've ever commented. I appreciate you sharing your journey and though mine is different somewhat, i can relate. Thank you!
This is terrifically well written. I'm sorry this is happening. Take care.
To borrow from Joe Isaacs, there is no cure for infertility. Therefore, even when you've been successful, you're still infertile. And that, I think, is one of the hardest things to think about with secondary IF.
When a student never does their homework, you expect that the next day they'll fail to bring in their homework as well. But the frustrating student is the one who normally brings in the homework and then won't. And then starts again. And then stops. And you know they can do it--prehaps with a lot of guidance--but for whatever reason, they won't. And that's how I feel about my body. Before we ever tried to conceive, it was the body that brought in the homework. And then it didn't. And then we conceived and it was back to working again (with, you know, the small side treks into premature birth and inability to breastfeed). And now it's not. And I want to yell at myself, I KNOW YOU CAN DO THIS.
But...then I remember...screaming at my body doesn't change anything. I'm trying to get better at that.
Ah, Danskos. The official state shoe. (I don't know about state birds or flowers or anything, but the official state shoe is the Dansko clog and the official state car is the Subaru Outback.) I finally gave in a bought a pair of Danskos a few weeks ago. After all, everyone else has them. After trodding around in them for a few days, I decided that, yes, my toes aren't cramped, but sooner or later I'm going to kill myself. I step out of them all of the time. I bet that poor Britney was wearing Danskos when she took her infamous baby tumble. (Although she didn't recover nearly as gracefully as you.)
On the subject of more abstract falls, I hurt for you as I read your thoughts about your body and infertility. I can so empathize with the pain, the sense of disappointment, of hating one's body for all that it fails to do. I may be trying to find solace in asking my body to do all the rest "naturally," but I suspect that I, too, will always be infertile. It is so defining, that pain. I'm so sorry.
Wow- I know its hard for you (because you say it is), but you are just as good a writer when you are not funny as when you are.
Anger- yeah, I can relate. But without it, is possible to have enough energy to do this (working around IF) day after day, month after month, year after year?
As for will another child cure IF- I keep hoping it will too. And maybe, it probably won't. But you know what it will do- allow me, eventually, not to live in it day after day. Allow me to have some closure, some escape from constantly thinking about all that IF has robbed from me. And that would be nice, wouldn't it?
You are still infertile, and another pregnancy will certainly be watched very carefully, but you're assuming that what went wrong with your first pregnancy will happen again...which may or may not be the case. Since you will be watched like a hawk from the beginning, and since there have been new breakthroughs and medications discovered since Charlie's birth, I'm betting on a fairly healthy full term pregnancy the second time around. And without being born prematurely, a lot of the breastfeeding problems you had wouldn't exist either. You have every right to be pissed, but you have every right to be hopeful too. Why not?* Not only did you save Charlie, but you didn't break anything. You're amazing!! Here's to your body surprising you in a GOOD way...not in the "whoops didn't mean to ovulate" way next time.
*yes, there may be a million reasons "why not", but you're looking at someone who still took a pregnancy test last month when her period was late, even though she has about the same chance as getting pregnant spontaneously (with her husband, anyway)as getting hit by space debris. Sooooo...take it as you will.
I'm sorry you're still angry; the best assvice I can offer is that the only way out is through, and you're entitled to be angry as long as you need to.
But it's more fun not to be, and I wish I knew what to say that would make it easier. :(
Thank you for articulating this for me. We had two miscarriages and then boom - everything went right, good pregnancy, good baby - and I thought, "Oh, my body just needed to figure it out and it did and now we are all set." So you can imagine how much the next three miscarriages caught me by surprise.
One of my best friends tripped on the sidewalk while carrying her one year old. She saved the baby from any hurt - but broke a couple of fingers in the process. Motherhood (or the attempts to get to motherhood) is not for the faint of heart.
I feel your pain, for slightly different reasons. I was considered infertile till I *surprise!* got pregnant without any help, without even trying. Now I'm not considered infertile, despite the 4inch thick chart at my ob/gyn's office, and the fact that my body can't do anything right except for managing to produce one perfect, healthy, beautiful baby girl. But now she's out, my problems have all returned with some new ones, and I'm angry. I think the anger without any direction is the worst. It's not my doctor's fault, nor my husband or my mother's. It's not really my fault, it's just the way things are. I guess I'm angry that things can't just be some other way instead for me.
Your post summed up so many of my feelings so much more eloquently than I could ever have done. Please keep sharing, its good to hear I and others out there aren't alone in our varying degrees of pain and hurt and whatever else.
I'm amazed (in a good way) at the connection you made between falling off your clogs and managing to protect Charlie and your body's ability to conceive/handle/deliver another pregancy. Wow.
Specifically re: falling off the clogs, though I've never done it while standing still, I have turned an ankle many, many times while walking on Philadelphia's brick/cobblestone/just plain broken sidewalks. Danskos are definitely meant for hospital hallways, restaurant kitchens, and other areas where the walking/standing surface is flat and even.
Amen.
That is all.
Julie -
I've never tried to get pregnant, although I've watched hopelessly as my partner tried (without success). Part of the reason I don't want to try is the feeling that, whenever it has a chance, my body will fuck with me and let me down. Diabetes? Surrrre. Various unpleasant autoimmune skin conditions? Surrrre. Breaking a foot from stepping off the curb? Surrree. Skin cancers that you're not supposed to get when you're twenty? Why the hell not?
And my body is, as much as I'd like to avoid the fact, myself. It's hard not to feel as though there's some internal flaw radiating out through my body's misfortunes.
Reading this post, and reading of your anger at your body and the inability to find a place for that anger really resonated for me.
I'm so grateful to you for sharing this.
A friend of mine who is planning to become a lay midwife was recently lamenting "women who don't trust their bodies."
The phrase startled me.
Because trusted, mine will clot up and kill embryos(either by blood blot or immune system attack they don't know--- think US/Iraq policy---- sanctions Vs. shock and awe) as it's done 8 times now.
It's hard to write coherently about, but we're in different territory, my body and I. As I try to celebrate it(it's beautiful! It carries me around! It protects me!) part of me can't help but feel so BETRAYED.
I turned to midwife friend and said, "When left to its own devices, it kills my offspring."
But who is "It" vs. who is "me"? Can "We" be so opposed to each other?
thank you for writing about this, Julie.
and again, I'm sorry for the cancellation.
I thought I was cured - really and truly. I keep telling myself that I'll be ok regardless of the outcome of this cycle because I have my son. But I'm one week in to my two week wait and now I'm not so sure. I'm sorry about your cycle, Julie. I'm so sorry.
I will never forget the day I fell down in the middle of the street in front of ongoing traffic. My groceries flew everywhere, and my daughter was in a front carrier, strapped to my chest, for the very last time ever. Traffic stopped, and helped me, and asked if we were ok. I kept apologizing to everyone and asserting that my daughter and i were FINE. She was fine, and I was in major pain, which would get worse the next day. All I was worried about was her. She has no memory of it. I still dream about it on days when I am feeling out of control. I wish you all the best, and most of all I wish you peace.
Having not been through the pain of infertility myself, I can't say I know how you feel, but I can say I'm sorry you're having to go through all this. Hope you recover quickly from the fall - and try to take some solace in the fact that it's obvious from your writing that Charlie is one lucky, lucky boy to have such a loving mom and dad.
I'm so sorry that your cycle was cancelled. Being cancelled is worse than the cycle failing, I think. It is like hitting a brick wall going sixty miles an hour. I hope that you find a way to make your dreams come true.
But I do believe it will eventually fade, this feeling of being "infertile." It has for me.
Having my son didn't cure me of feeling "infertile," feeling defective. Oh, right after he was born, I felt okay, "over it." We had thought we would adopt a second child, and I was done with the infertility crap. I secretly hoped I would just get pregnant on my own. As friends turned up pregnant, it really hurt, to my surprise. I had a child, I did give birth. Shouldn't I be cured?
So we put the adoption applications on the shelf, and I said "well, let's try one more time" for "closure" whatever the hell that is. I could not believe I was doing it again. I swore I would do it only once, because I really did want to adopt. I was excited about adopting, and, in fact, was not that excited to be pregnant again. I HATED being pregnant; I was borderline depressed the whole time. I just wanted to GET pregnant. First cycle was a disaster. So I sort of pretended that I had never said that I would only do it once, and we did it again. Even as I waited for the result the second time, I was figuring out how to try for the third time. Well, it worked. Really well. And the pregnancy was awful. This time I crossed right over the border into seriously depressed, on medication, seeing shrinks twice a week to keep my head on straight. I had other complications and physical problems and pain and just awfulness. I knew I should not ever consider getting pregnant again.
So I had my tubes tied, obviously more as a symbolic gesture than anything, signing the papers in the OR preparing for my emergency c-section 9 weeks early. It was that important to me. I thought it would empower me. I thought maybe if I took control, affirmatively decided for myself that there would be no more pregnancy, I could get over the feeling of being defective.
It didn't really work, and despite how awful the pregnancy was for my mental and physical health, and the fact that I now had three children, when I'd really only ever planned on two, I still felt wistful sometimes, and wondered if I would ever have gotten pregnant on my own. Still felt bad when friends got pregnant.
Now, 2.5 years later, I really am "over it." But I think it is because I am 43 now. My children didn't cure me; time did. I'm not really supposed to be able to get pregnant easily at 43. You are considered "lucky" to get pregnant at 43, and not defective if you can't. Now I feel more that I am leaving my child-bearing years behind, and am sad about that, but the bitterness about the infertility has really faded to just the smallest background noise.
I will never say that I regret doing the last two cycles, because that would mean that I regret my beautiful twin girls, and I would never say that. I adore them beyond reason, and am grateful they are here. But I do think I was mistaken in my reasons for doing the cycle -- there is no "closure" -- and I do often lately feel sad that I never got to adopt. I am certain that if I had adopted and not done those cycles, that I would be very glad now that I had not done any more treatment, and would love my adopted child beyond reason as well.
I hope that you find the right path forward for yourself, and I believe that some day you will find a way to leave the infertility behind.
I fell in Danskos too! The physical therapist said it happens all the time.
I'm angry too.
Some people Never get the chance at one.
Thankfulness is a healing place, and a saving grace. some people are never happy with what they have.
I wish I had red hair. so I buy it......just like I adopted a baby,so I'd have what I wanted......
Errrr, what, Dianne?
If my experience is any guide, the betrayal wound will heal in a few more years. I wasn't quite as infertile as you (failed a mere five cycles of drugs, got a baby out of the sixth, didn't have to advance to IVF), and my son was a couple weeks less premature than Charlie, and my preeclampsia didn't go as far as yours—but still, I had a tough time getting pregnant, was high-risk while pregnant, my body became an inhospitable environment for my fetus, and the lactation...oy, the lactation. I failed there on numerous counts. I was pissed as all hell for a couple years.
Ben's six years old now, and he still gets occupational therapy every week. Why? Who knows? It could be related to that lousy uterine environment and prematurity, or it could just be one of those things. He also needed several years of speech therapy—the things Charlie says now, Ben couldn't have uttered intelligibly before age 3 1/2. I've mostly given up blaming myself for these things (though I have my moments occasionally).
Since I have some nonreproductive organs that would fizzle out dramatically with another pregnancy, I've had to take the possibility of pregnancy off the table. It's a disappointment, yes, but also a relief. Never again will I be saddened by a negative pregnancy test. Never again will I have a tiny baby in the NICU. Never again will I have to contend with the star-crossed mammary glands and the complete strangers asking me about breast-feeding. If it weren't such a bad idea medically, I would have loved another chance at pregnancy—but in my case, the risks are too huge.
And so it is that I've had enough time to forgive my body for failing at basic mammalian biology. In time, Julie, you'll get there—but perhaps not until fertility treatments, high-risk pregnancy, NICUs, and lactation woes are firmly behind you. In the meantime, just...well, hey, be pissed off. You're entitled.
As an adoptive mom, I'd like to believe that what Dianne was trying to say was something to the effect of: "Perhaps you do have more control than you think over matters of family expansion. Respectfully I ask if you've considered adoption?" I think you've addressed this before, but, since you yourself linked to Karen Nakey-O's oh-so beautiful post about feeling like a bountiful, at-peace fertility goddess ...
Thank you, Julie, for being able to verbalize what I cannot. I've spent almost my entire "infertility budget" on cancellation after cancellation, never even being able to move on to the remaining "joys" of ectopic, miscarriage, resorption, etc., etc. Ah, the naivete of the "infertility budget", just enough for two or three IVFs, never imagining that you can spend $20,000 on nothing. So, thank you. I'm parallelling you at the moment, and your ability to put this into words helps me so much with my grief as I come to grips with my possible new label, a childless, middle-aged couple.
Stop trying to get over it, it doesn't ever really go away. I never did and my experience wasn't NEAR as traumatic as yours
I got pregnant easily enough, and had a perfect pregnancy, but I had to have a C-Section. My baby latched on perfectly and loved to nurse and my breastmilk failed to nourish. It just kinda sucked a little at every turn.
I did have a fabulously easy baby (once he wasn't starving) and we are now getting ready to do the teenage years, and I am grateful, but I still feel cheated out of my perfect birth and babyhood.
It gets a easier, but you will probably still always feel like you got gypped out of something when you think about it.
It doesn't go away, it just fades into a silver scar instead of a big red angry line - or is that stretch marks?
My eldest child is 13. I have 3 children. All with a lot of help (dx is PCOS/recurrent loss, what a dry way to say that it's hard to conceive and harder to carry.). They're basically healthy, happy, fun, all that. We deal with things along the way, like any parents. I love having them.
But I'm still thinking about when I'll have to do another hpt, before I start provera because I have to have a bleed off once in a while. I'm still wishing my body was normal and that being at cd 32 meant that I was pregnant, not that my body is doing its usual PCOS thing. I still pray for healing - all kinds of healing - body, spirit, mind. And I'll never forget the pregnancies that I lost.
Infertility isn't about the children. It's about dealing with the fact that we don't get to choose to do (or not to do) what many women get the choice about - trying to conceive and actually conceiving.
I'm sorry this cycle was cancelled. It's hard to want a baby - or another baby - and not get to even try. It's like training for the race - and having your shoes fall apart before the race even begins.
Don't forget- your body contains your brain, and that is one wonderful organ that seems to be functioning at over 100%. You are such a skilled writer.
Your shoes have failed you, your reproductive bits have failed you, but the other, unique parts of you that make you, well, you, are working fine. You did not fail Charlie- either in "fall(ing) down parking lot" or in your raising up of such a bright young lad.
But don't get me wrong: you have every right to feel angry and cheated. You struggle so hard for what others take for granted. I am so sorry your cycle was cancelled because every other part of you seems to make up a brilliant, intellegent, fully functioning human being.
And I just Loooved the Don Music reference.
I broke my foot wearing my Dansko's. Damn shoes! I feel for you! I have rarely worn my clogs since.
You're writing about what so many of us feel, do you ever feel better after having suffered from infertility? Do you ever trust that your body will be ok? And you write about it so eloquently, I almost forget the pain in the elegance of the words describing so well what I feel. I am sorry, I hope it gets better. I hope that in x years time this is behind you, far, far behind you and you sit at home with your children and think, I feel good.
I'm so sorry your cycle got cancelled! I've felt let down by myself as well and I thank you for your anger because it helps me feel a little bit "normal" for feeling angry as well, and somehow, a little bit better. Thank you.
The most helpful thing I ever heard on a similar topic was on NPR, talking about dealing with crappy childhoods. "The thing is," the psychiatrist said, "that you don't get another one. That was the childhood you got. So you can continue to be angry and resentful at what you lost, or you can work towards a way of accepting that it sucked, but it's over, and you can get on with a good life despite that."
Hmm, now I've written it, not sure how helpful it really is. Perhaps it stayed with me because I had a pretty good childhood, so I didn't have a lot to resent. Now I do have something to be angry about, and it eats me up, every day.
So intead of accepting that we got a crappy deal, perhaps it's about accepting that we're angry, rather than trying to fight it, or make ourselves feel better.
In the UK there is a famous fertility specialist, Dr Robert Winston, who once described infertility treatment as being like sticking a band-aid on a wound. The treatment temporarily covers up the symptoms but underneath you are still infertile.
I can see why you'd be pissed at your body dicovering that you're not cured, that it was just a cover up and you're still expected to deal with the reality.
Myself, I'm about to go to see an IVF specialist in Dublin, Ireland.
I feel as if I'm loooking the wrong way down a telescope and that at the end I can see what I'm hoping for but it's a very long way off. I've been following your life for years and it does give me some hope...
Thanks.