Infertility is a big deal.
My friend XBox is going through fertility issues. He asks the question why people who achieve pregnancy suddenly forget about their infertility, why they deny the pain they went through.
When people see me with the kids the last thing they think about is infertility.
A prime example of this is when I walked into the Naturopath’s office after ten months of unsuccessful trying to conceive post William.
She asked me why I was there and I said for fertility issues. I had all the children with me (at the time five in total) and her eyes boggled.
I’ve jumped ahead though. Best place to start is at the beginning.
When Dave and I were married we started trying straight away to fall pregnant. We both wanted our family at a young age. I was young, I was just 20 when I got married.
Pregnancy did not come easily though and after a year of trying I went to the doctor, who scoffed at me because I was young. He ran a few tests and told me I was fine, to get on with living, I had plenty of time to procreate.
I didn’t really talk to many people about it then. None of my friends were in the same position. None of them even married, let alone trying for a baby.
I wasn’t happy though, the thought of each cycle induced a kind of pain and distress and longing that is hard to describe.
Another (female) doctor and a few more tests and I was sent to a gynaecologist who discovered I had polycystic ovaries and a little thing called hyperprolactinaemia.
I started on the fertility drug called Clomid (clomiphene). It was supposed to induce ovulation because, apparently, I was not releasing eggs.
I did learn alot about primary infertility, I learnt alot about myself and now, I can look back and think about it and feel a little wistful about our first entry into the ‘trying to conceive’ world but when I was in the thick of it, I only felt pain.
I think I was about six cycles in when I discovered I was pregnant. We celebrated, told the world and put a cot on layby.
Eleven weeks later I miscarried.
The loss was devastating and it felt so unfair. The baby had died and I had to go back and start treatment again.
The gynae didn’t tell me until I fronted back up to his rooms post D&C that women who take clomid have a higher incidence of miscarriage than the normal 1 in 5 statistically prone.
Clomid and Parlodel (the medication I took to normalise my prolactin levels) made me moody, depressed and helped me, along with lashings of comfort ice cream, put on weight and I guess I wasn’t surprised when a new pregnancy, that started on the ninth cycle ended eight weeks later. It was still very distressing though and I found myself constantly wishing for a baby.
After a second year of nothing, we moved onto our first ever fertility specialist. This was hard core stuff.
IVF scary stuff.
My lowest point came when I saw a young girl, with a baby in a train station tunnel. The baby was in a rag of a nappy and nothing else and the Mum was begging for money. I wanted to take that baby and run.
I told David that night, lamented that this waif - girl could have a baby, had nothing to offer her (in my eyes) and that I could not even carry a baby past the 12 week mark.
Dave became very angry with me. Asked me what right I had to judge this girl and think that her baby was better off away from her mother. He was right, of course. I had none.
We fought alot, that year about everything and nothing.
I wanted a baby so badly though, every mother with a child was like a slap in the face to me. I had terrible bitter thoughts, anger and depressing lows.
I could blame the medication but in all honesty, that was how I felt, deep down. If you looked into the middle of my very black heart, those feelings were all that resided there. Those and the feeling that all of this was very unfair. I’d forgotten what it was all about really, the joy, the excitement, the awe of the human body, had all been replaced with the total suckage of trying (and failing) to conceive.
Things went from bad to worse when the fertility specialist took one look at me and told me not to enter his office again until I had lost twenty kilos. I was just “too fat” to have a baby.
Only seven kilos too fat, it seemed, because three months later, I found myself pregnant and with that first tentative ultrasound, found that we were having twins. Conceived naturally.
I’d love to say it ended there and that after that fertility was not an issue again. In fact, it wasn’t an issue with Lily at all. She was my ‘just meant to be’ baby.
However, when it came time to have a forth baby, that elusive pregnancy was four years of, what is known as, secondary infertility.
This type of infertility was worse for me than the primary infertility.
There were several reasons for this.
The first was that I already had three beautiful children.
It should be easy, right? I should be able to fall as easily and as quickly as I had with Lily.
I felt as though I was being greedy wanting another.
People made sweeping statements that went along the lines of being happy with what I had,
that some people couldn’t even have one baby,
it was God’s way of telling me my body had had enough.
When I went to an infertility specialist, he laughed and asked me why I would be crazy enough to want more children.
Of course, I went through all of the very same questions but the longing for another baby was strong.
Primary or secondary infertility; they’re still the same feelings, emotions, wants. You still make the same deals. Just with a whole lot of guilt for the people going through primary infertility added into the mix.
During that four year period I had two miscarriages.
One early and one at 16 weeks.
The 16 week ‘miscarriage’ of our little girl, Aubrey, brought me to my knees and almost had me giving up.
Two D&Cs, six rounds of clomid, one lot of dye blown through my fallopian tubes, a laparoscopy, a myriad of spiteful, angry doctors, so called friends and even strangers opinions and judgements.
My one last deal was with the door to the operating theatre at work. This particular door had a tricky code combination on it and I often found it difficult to co ordinate the numbers and turn the handle in order to open the darn thing, in a hurry. I was a midwife by then and I was on my way to an emergency caesarean.
…”if I can open this door first go”, I vented to the empty corridor,” then I am pregnant and I will carry to term”.
Yes, the deals were that ridiculous.
Of course the door opened and I rushed through to the birth of a healthy baby boy.
Nine months later we welcomed and farewelled William.
Post William, conception meant another 12 months of fertility treatment (clomid, laparoscopy, IUI x3) and tests, judgement and comments. It was our hardest period of infertility.
Truly.
Even though it was our shortest, it was the most tumultuous, gut wrenching period of time because there was so much riding on it.
I will never forget any of it.
Those periods of infertility.
Looking back on it, I know that I am a better person for having gone through it.
All of it.
Of course, it’s easy to say now.
It’s hard to put into words exactly what you go through. When you are the infertile one, there is alot of self doubt. I tried to turn David away. I told him to find someone else. There was alot of anger and tears and not much good came out of that time, except that we survived and we have some pretty special children at the end of it.
I guess, that is why I don’t talk about it anymore. Because I did win in the end and there are many people out there who are struggling, who never get their happy ending, who are going through awful, heart breaking stuff.
When you are going through infertility, you don’t want to hear that it will be okay. You don’t want to hear all the stories about how so and so tried for years and then the minute they gave up and relaxed, BANG! They were pregnant. So to have someone who has had six babies all up, come and tell you they understand, I imagine would be the ultimate kick in the guts. When you are infertile, it doesn’t matter how the other person got to parenthood, all that matters is that you don’t have it.
It’s amazing, and scary, how we judge a person by what they have and ignore what the person is saying.
(((hugs)))
I cannot imagine what the struggle to conceive would be like. Only that those who persist are extremely strong, brave and determined, and therefore to be admired.
That ache to have a child though? Oh I know that well. All to well, even after having 2.
Wow, what a post Tiffany. I can tell you have a very heavy heart of late. I’m terribly sorry for the loss of Aubrey. 16 weeks,unimaginable. I wish I could tell you I knew what you were going through, find a way to ease these burdens. Just know that I’ll keep you in my prayers.
Thankyou. Just, thankyou.
You know what I think of this.
Thank you for helping.
I can’t imagine what it is like to be infertile. Absolutely no idea. My history runs like this:- married at 18, baby #1 at 20, baby #2 at 22, baby #3 at 24, miscarriage, baby #4 at 28, hysterectomy at 37 (pre-cancerous cells found throughout reproductive sysytem).
I just wish fertility was something I could share around. I would gladly will my ease of conception to anyone who wanted it.
I’ve always thought that if I should ever get pg I will get a t-shirt saying ‘recovering from infertility’.
As an infertile I remind myself often when I see pg women ‘you don’t know what they had to go through to get there’ - it doesn’t lesson the pain but still…
And I call myself your friend. I didn’t know a lot of that! Thank you for sharing. Sincerely.
I have never experienced infertility first hand. My parents had trouble conceiving after they had me (broke the mould, ha ha). They went through some treatment, but I was only 10 at the time and have very vague, fuzzy memories of hushed conversations and endless waiting in doctor’s surgeries. It was all very secretive. I remained an only child.
Darren and I only had to think ‘we should have a baby’ and BANG! we were pregnant. I’m really thankful for that. We had a blissfully uneventful conception, pregnancy, labour and delivery. At the time, I took it for granted. Since then, I’ve come to realise just how lucky we were. Are.
We only have one child, but that has largely been through choice. I have never consciously thought ‘I want to conceive’ since Mollie’s birth. I’ve been clucky. I’ve suggested it to Darren as a thought. But we haven’t tried.
I have no idea what it’s like to struggle with infertility. I can only imagine how difficult it must be. I have made insensitive comments, such as ‘it’ll happen when you relax’. I didn’t know how hurtful those comments are. I don’t comment any more. If someone says they have no children, I don’t ask why. If they tell me they are having infertility issues, I tell them ‘I’m sorry’. I don’t offer suggestions or advice, because they have heard it all before and they have probably already tried everything.
I don’t feel guilty for having had a child and I won’t apologise for it. That doesn’t mean I can’t feel for others.
*smiles* beautifully written Tiff…
So beautifully written, per ususal.
Thank you.
I’m new here, but wanted to tell you how beautiful this post is. I do not have personal experience with infertility, but my first pregnancy ended in miscarriage and I remember how dark those days were until I became pregnant with my oldest daughter. I can’t even begin to imagine how difficult it must be - not only to deal with infertility to begin with, but also the reactions of people to it.
Thank you for sharing your story, it is so heartfelt and touching.
Thank you for this post…it’s touched my heart. This part…
“I felt as though I was being greedy wanting another.
People made sweeping statements that went along the lines of being happy with what I had,
that some people couldn’t even have one baby,
it was God’s way of telling me my body had had enough.”
How I wanted to scream from the rooftops that I WAS NOT BLOODY GREEDY, AND I LOVED WHAT I HAD! So true, so true.
My thoughts are with you, and I pray for your peace.
I love the honesty what you’ve written here. You’re right. Women struggling with the sort of sorrow and grief you’re describing probably don’t want to hear about -possible- happy endings. They just want it to be done.
I just had my first miscarriage last month…that feeling of betrayal by one’s own body is so very poignant, and I’ve only experienced the smallest taste of that feeling.
Thanks for writing this. Two of my dearest friends have gone through similar experiences, and it helps me to…not understand, per se, but at least to understand how much I don’t understand.
Thanks for sharing your story. It is so easy to make assumptions & judgments, and this is a great reminder that not all is as it appears and we need to look beyond the surface.
Why does life have to be filled with so much hurt and pain? You have my prayers for the strength to move forward.
Dorothy from grammology
remember to hug gram
grammology.com
I popped over here from Summer’s Nook.
As one who has experienced infertility, inflicted the procedures and treatments of infertility upon myself, and survived to enjoy three beautiful, miracle children, your words ring true with me, and I’m grateful to have read them. Grateful to know someone else understands THE pain.
Thank you.
Very familiar feelings — even the black ones, Tiff. And I was scared with our second one that it would be just as emotionally horrific to try and conceive again. I’m still scared that it will be that way for the third that we hope for. So I really identified with your feelings of someone invalidating the feelings surrounding the issue of fertility after you have already had children. When you want a child and you cannot conceive, it is brutally painful no matter how many children you do or don’t have. You are just amazing, Tiff and you continue to be my battle-scarred hero. Sending you squeeze-the-breath-out-of-you hugs…
Thanks for sharing. A neighbor of mine dealt with this issue and I wondered what it must have been like. I never asked questions or offered suggestions; feeling that it was too private and personal. Your story reminded me of awkward/painful feelings I had as a kid growing up when anyone asked me about my dad. He left when I was four and I never saw nor heard from him until he was 70. There is no direct comparison between our situations - it just helps me understand in a small way some of the feelings you must have dealt with.
Cheers for fighting the good fight and not giving in to the resentful and bitter thoughts that accompany such experiences!
beautiful post Tiff - (hugs) thanks for sharing your story it opens up doors for others to share too.
I jumped over here from Summer’s Nook as well. This is a truly wonderful post. To speak of your pain so thoughtfully, as well as the joys is truly a gift to others.
It makes one appreciate what they have received as well as create compassion and understanding for those who yearn to nurture another life in this world.
Thank you and I also wish you continued strength as you navigate through life’s crazy twists and turns.
You have an interesting post. I really enjoy reading it. I have already bookmarked your blog so that I can come back later for more updates.
Thanks so much for writing this. I had a friend forward it to me when I told her that I was debating asking some questions and getting support, but I was afraid that if I posted my story to infertility sites/blogs, they’d either laugh at me or hate me.
I haven’t had an easy time conceiving, but up until now it hasn’t been horrible, either. I’ve got three kids. The first was conceived after a 13 months of not-very-hard trying. The second was after two months of trying. [Pure fluke[. The third was conceived after 12 cycles of intense TTC. Now, I’m trying to have my fourth. It’s been 20 cycles thus far. We’re starting to go through ultrasounds and blood work. They’ve found cysts on my ovaries, but I don’t think it’s PCOS.
Anyway, I’m just writing all this to say thinks, for letting me know there is support out there for someone having trouble conceiveing after 3 kids.
Char