The bruises on my abdomen are gone, along with the dark blue and green ones that lived in the crook of my arm. There are no early morning appointments or amped up anxiety. Life is sort of calm, maybe quiet.
On February 16 we transferred our only embryo, and a week or so later, we found out I wasn’t pregnant. I am only now realizing how big a moment that was.
During infertility treatments, I was on autopilot. My only thoughts were appointments, tests, diet, work, rest, and fear. Fear of never getting what we want, fear of lost time, fear of having to move on. We are now having to move forward.
Recently, I was asked to read some of my infertility essays and poems to a local support group of men and women going through the never-ending journey of infertility. I say never-ending, because even though we are officially done with IVF, we are still scrambling to figure out what is next. After reading each poem or essay, the social worker would have us discuss any feelings or thoughts that the piece brought up for anyone. This small group, many of whom were meeting for the first time, dug into the feelings and emotions I had and still have in relation to our infertility story. Members put words and labels to thoughts I have had swirling in my heart but never knew how to express.
I was in a space where people understood completely how defeating, exhausting, and emotionally draining, infertility treatments can be. We also talked about the current healthcare system, how infertility is a medical diagnosis, but treatments are rarely covered by most insurance plans. We also owned the fact that we, in many ways, were fortunate to have figured out creative ways to pay for our treatments and that, in some ways, were among the lucky ones.
Throughout the past ten months, I’ve grabbled with hints of acceptance that I, in all likelihood, will never carry a child. For years I pushed through the emotions, pretended I was fine, but now was realizing, infertility impacted me in ways I am still discovering.
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As an adult who has been in an out of therapy for twenty years, I am now slowly starting to uncover the unhealthy ways I have dealt with sadness, anxiety, loss, and frustration in my life. When I was in my late thirties, I was driving home one night from the airport. I had landed in Asheville after a weekend of teacher training seminars in Michigan. I wasn’t feeling great and was having asthma related breathing troubles. I felt so crummy that I decided to head straight to urgent care.
As I drove from the airport to urgent care, I had a panic attack, alone, while driving through the Blue Ridge Mountains. I pulled off to the side of the road and tried to call my husband. At this point, I thought I was having an asthma attack and that there were no other explanations. My hands froze, I couldn’t unlock my fingers, but I somehow managed to call my husband, who rushed to where I was and drove me to the doctor.
In the exam room, the doctor tried to explain to me that I had had a panic attack, but I didn’t believe it. I didn’t listen. Yes, I was also sick, but what I thought was an asthma attack, was actually something different. It took me years to admit that it was an actual panic attack. Denial can be strong, especially when it is the main way you deal with stress and pain.
In a recent therapy session, my therapist asked if I thought I had been depressed the last two years, while undergoing IVF. “Depressed, I don’t think I was depressed,” I insisted. After a few minutes of recalling my symptoms, (trouble getting out of bed, sadness that lasted for days, not wanting to socialize, etc.) I realized I had been depressed. The signs were all there. Why didn’t I see it? Why did I ignore what I was feeling, just to pretend that everything was ok? Why did I feel the need to act like life was normal? Why couldn’t I own the fact that I was sad and hurt?
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After reading my pieces to the support group, it felt like a weight had been lifted off me. I was able to share my experiences with people who really understood it. I was also privileged and humbled to hear the stories of others in the group, stories of struggle and strength. It was a moment I didn’t realize I needed.
Recently, my therapist recommended taking a short but definite amount of time off from thinking about family planning. She encouraged my partner and I to take a month or two to feel normal again, to travel, go on more dates, and remind ourselves of who we were, both as a couple and as individuals, before we started infertility treatments in 2018. My husband and I both agreed that it was a good idea and we embraced it. After a bit of time, I found myself not being triggered by families with children and I was able to genuinely smile when I saw an adorable and chubby baby. I was trying to live in the moment and found myself writing more. Good things were happening.
Recently, we bought our first home together, and the past two weeks have been spent packing, donating, and throwing away the contents of our sweet apartment. Joy is a new but familiar feeling, and having a fresh start is exactly what we need.
Feeling more like myself, has allowed me to try and embrace the moments of sadness that still pop up. Yesterday, as I was taking out the contents from my grandparents’ credenza, unused fertility medications and syringes fell out onto the floor. It was something I wasn’t ready for. Hundreds, perhaps a thousand dollars’ worth of expired, no longer useful, or unwanted supplies pooled around my feet. I sat down on the floor and cried. I had tried to donate the extra meds to a local fertility agency, but no one needed the shots that I had. Now, it was time to get rid of the evidence. As I separated the pills, vials, and unused syringes into piles to dispose of properly, I silently apologized for not being able to carry a child. Maybe I was apologizing to myself.
The collection of medications was difficult to look at. It was a reminder that we tried, really tried, to get pregnant, and yet it wasn’t enough. The pills, shots, and extra syringes at my feet let me know that I still had some healing to do. I wasn’t over the loss or the grief, of not carrying a child, and the evidence at my feet was enough to make me see that.
Yesterday, as I cried, I realized I wasn’t fully healed from the experience, and that I still had a ways to go. This time, however, I was able to accept, in some small way that sadness is ok. Sadness doesn’t exemplify failure, but, instead, maybe hinted at a small amount of acceptance. I just need to convince myself of that.
Stefanie Wielkopolan 