A Community in Waiting

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When we lived in the small town of Black Mountain, North Carolina, I had a favorite coffee shop that I visited regularly. It’s still my favorite roastery and coffee, except now, instead of it being down the street from our home, it’s about eight hours away. I worked in the same sweet town that I lived in, that my favorite coffee shop was in, and it was all in a walkable mile radius. Most mornings, on my way to school, I would take my travel coffee mug, that my work friend gave me, to the coffee shop and get it filled before school. Most mornings, when I opened the squeaky door to the cafe, the regulars would be sitting on the couch, people would be chatting on the front porch, and I would be greeted by parents from the school as I stood in line behind my favorite librarian from the local library. In the background, the record player would play Carole King or James Taylor, especially if a specific barista was working, and I would feel content. I admit that I love routines. I find comfort in them. There was safety in knowing that once I opened the squeaky door to the coffee shop, I would see people I knew, I would hear music I loved, I would be reminded that I was part of a community. I was part of a group that consisted of friends, neighbors, artists, educators, huge hearted individuals, and the mountains covered in fog outside the window.

Infertility is isolating. Sometimes, the most uncomfortable moments are in the waiting room of the clinic. People barely make eye contact. Couples whisper to one another as if they’re in a museum, partners work on their laptops while they wait, people look down at the ground, or look at their phones. These actions are all to be respectful. Covid has only deepened this behavior in all of us in that waiting room. Masks allow us to blend in, not be noticed. It’s not to say that I don’t understand why we try to disappear. I’m hesitant to make eye contact or smile at another person because I do not know what they are there for. They could be there for a painful test and they are nervous. They could be there for a consultation to discuss why the recent round of IVF didn’t work, and what they need to do now. A person may be waiting, anxious to get the morning’s tests over so she can get to work and not miss any more time. It’s heartbreaking. The waiting room is anxiety provoking. Everyone in the waiting room is experiencing infertility, but each story is filled with its own circumstances, pain, disappointment, and fear. Maybe we can’t look at each other because it hurts too much.

A couple of Saturdays ago, at 7 a.m., I sat in the second waiting room of the day. The first waiting room was large, spaced out, and decorated with abstract drawings of fruit. After the nurse took my blood, I grabbed a chair in the second waiting area, a room the size of my bathroom. Chairs lined the cramped walls and framed newspaper articles about successful IVF cases hung above me. It’s difficult not to make eye contact in this room, but that morning I was doing my best to find a spot on the ground to concentrate on. I am always fidgety at the doctor’s office, so I pulled out my phone to distract me as my partner went to the restroom. The woman across from me, with confidence I’m not used to feeling at the clinic, started speaking and it caught me off guard. At first, I thought maybe she was on the phone, but when I looked up, she smiled at me beneath her mask and asked me how I was doing. For a moment, I didn’t know what to say. How am I doing? Half of the time I’m not sure.

Oh, good! How are you doing? I responded hesitantly. I wish I could have said, Well, actually pretty crappy. I’m at the infertility clinic on a Saturday morning, but I didn’t know how.

Eh, doing ok. What treatment are you doing or are you just getting started? The stranger asked me.

We’re in the middle of our first IVF round, I answered.

That’s so great, she replied, good luck with everything! How is it going?

It’s exhausting, I sighed.

At that moment, I felt relief. I told a stranger, who has some idea of what we’re going through, exactly how I felt. She understood too. She got it. Then, a third woman walked into our waiting room cubicle and sat down. This stranger too looked tired and worn down. Without hesitation, the woman across from me asked the new woman how she was doing. The new woman explained that she was tired, that their first round of IVF wasn’t successful, and that she and her partner only had one embryo left. How many embryos do you have? she asked me.

One. We only have one too, I said.

Before your egg transfer, look up embryo glue. It’s an extra $500, but with all we’re spending already, $500 is nothing, the new woman said to me.

I smiled, thanked her, and a moment later, was called back to the ultrasound room. As I walked back to the exam room, I felt lighter than I had felt in a while. I felt seen and understood by two strangers. I felt part of a community, not like the Black Mountain community, but a powerful one, nonetheless.

This is all to say that I have no idea how to be different in the waiting room. I don’t know how to strike up a conversation with a stranger, right before a blood test or transvaginal ultrasound. What I can say is I am grateful the woman in the waiting room saw me and made a point to talk to me. That’s all that mattered in the moment; three woman who didn’t have to explain why they were trying to stay positive but really wanted to stay in their pajamas all day and sleep. They just knew.