Recently, at one of the many 6:30 a.m. appointments at my fertility clinic, the irony of where the office is situated, was not lost on me. The fertility clinic is located inside a hospital for women. Makes sense, right? A place where women of all ages can come for wellness visits, fertility treatments, women’s health, cardiovascular care, and cancer treatments. The fertility office is located on the fifth floor, a couple floors above a specific place I want to be more than anything.
Sometimes, this reminder is a little too much.
Depending on my mood, walking into the women’s hospital for appointments can be a mixed bag of reactions. Sometimes, I walk in feeling hopeful, other times, the stream of pregnant ladies passing me in the hallway, the lactation center, and the children’s books showcased in the hospital store’s window, can feel like an icy slap in the face.
Here’s what happened. On a recent autumn morning, I arrived for my appointment and stepped on the elevator. A sweet couple greeted me and asked what floor I needed. “Five, please. Thank you!” As I made eye contact, the scene was clear. The woman was about to give birth to her baby. She had the overnight bag, the half donut pillow, and the couple were in a really good mood. At 6:30.am. A good mood at 6:30 a.m. See what I’m dealing with here?
How in the hell, does someone who has been trying to get pregnant for five years, land on an elevator with an adorable couple, about to give birth? Statistically speaking, at this very hospital, I’m sure it happens on a daily basis. But, didn’t the person who designed this hospital, think that that would happen and that maybe, they should create a remedy for it? Or, at the very least, give pregnant women about to give birth a special entrance and elevator pass that no one else has? Being in an elevator with a sweet couple, who are clearly excited about having a baby, was just a reminder that they had what we wanted but weren’t sure would ever happen for us. It hurt and made me feel defeated. At that moment, I kind of hated them. Then I felt bad for hating them and stepped off the elevator, two floors above them, to have bloodwork done and a transvaginal ultrasound, while they, settled in on the third floor to give birth. Seems fair.
I am a person with strong Midwest roots, and the clear understanding that if someone, whether they be family, a friend, or a stranger, asks how you’re doing, you say, every time, “I’m great! How are you?” It’s not lying. It’s called being polite. I don’t know how to express my anger. So, instead, I cover it up with optimism, toxic positivity, and some well-honed repression tactics. Whereas my partner, who was born and raised in New York City, will tell you exactly how he’s feeling, whether you are family or someone he knows casually. When we first started dating, I was completely taken aback when he would get home from work and say, “This day sucked so bad. Work was slow and no one knows how to drive in Pittsburgh!”
Actually, let me pause for a moment, you have caught me in the act of Midwestering up my own partner’s language. What my partner actually said when he got home was a salty mixture of the f word, some other choice swear words, and a very critical critique of Pittsburgh drivers, that did not hold back at all.
So, after the appointment, when my partner asked how everything went, I complained about the elevator ride, the couple on it, and the gross irony that they were about to give birth. At this point, I was ready to hear a slew of swear words come out of my partner’s mouth about the shitty experience. I was ready to hear that it was ok to hate someone, briefly, for wanting what they have. I was ready to wallow in my anger and sadness for a bit, and maybe, just maybe, milk it for cake or even a large Detroit style pizza. What I got in return, was in fact, the exact opposite.
You know when you’re in a new relationship and you think to yourself, “Gosh, I’m going to help this person be a better individual. I am going to show them how to develop patience and more empathy towards others.” (No? Just Me?) And then, years later, they actually throw it in your face how patient and empathetic they’ve become? It’s the worst! Here he was, telling me, that maybe it was a good sign that I was on the elevator with the couple. That maybe, it meant our future will also be abundant and include a family of our own.
Gag! None of that was what I wanted to hear.
I glanced at my innocent love, shot him a look, and shouted “That is NOT what I wanted to hear! What the hell!?!? When did you become so optimistic?”
Was it my best moment? No. In honesty, I needed to commiserate with him, but at the same time, I needed to hear his unexpected outlook. Did his reaction make me angrier at the situation? Sure, but it also felt good to be the one complaining, the one yelling about the organizational layout of the hospital, to swear and hope the couple’s kid has explosive diarrhea on a regular basis. (I didn’t mean this at all.)
I want to say that later I felt better about our situation, that I saw the silver lining in sharing an elevator with a woman about to give birth, but I didn’t. I don’t, but swearing and calling people idiots, really does help. If infertility has taught me anything, through countless couples and individual counseling sessions, it’s that I can’t ignore how I’m truly feeling. I can’t always cover it up with a smile or a “I’m doing so freaking great! Thank you for asking!” response. Sometimes, more often than not, I need to be honest with how I’m feeling. I need to be honest with myself, and then, after a litany of screams, move forward, somehow.
Stefanie Wielkopolan 