Yep, I know, I’m a Homesteading Blogger. Not a Mom Blogger. Not an Infertility Blogger. But, our blogs are used to help people. So maybe I can help someone else looking through the eyes of infertility. Or, maybe I can educate those that don’t know what it’s like.
6 years ago my husband and I were married. And 6 years ago we started trying to have children. We don’t have any. I don’t say any of this to receive pity or your condolences. Quite the opposite actually.
I would actually prefer it if you didn’t know that. I’d prefer it if you just thought that we didn’t want any.
Instead, the whole world thinks they need to ask that personal question, “When will you have kids?” Or, in our case, “Why don’t you have kids yet?”
It never fails that I go somewhere, and someone thinks that because they know a member of my family they know me well enough to jump right into that intimate conversation.
So, before you ask that question, let me tell you what it’s like to look through the eyes of infertility.
Every woman that wants children starts their journey thinking that pregnancy is just going to happen. You time your cycle, you love your husband, you get pregnant, you start a family. It should be that simple right?
And then it’s not. But it seems to be for everyone else. Everyday you get your daily social media fix and you see that at least one of your friends or family members is showing their bump, or that their baby is a month old today! And you truly are SO excited for them.
But, it still hurts. So you give up Facebook.
You reach a year and decide something isn’t right. It shouldn’t be this hard.
So you accept that maybe you need a little help. And you think that it’s probably not that bad. Your doctor will help you track appropriately, maybe put you on some fertility prescriptions, and a few months later you should be able to share your joy with everyone.
In our case, our first doctor told us that we were just stressing ourselves out too much. There were no problems. Take a few Chlomid rounds and you’ll be pregnant.
But then we weren’t. So we went through more tests. Tests that are painful and uncomfortable and you feel so defeated. And still there were no answers.
We decide to give it a rest. You get to a point where you almost don’t even like each other anymore. There’s a blame game that goes back and forth that almost rips your marriage apart.
So, you stop worrying about conceiving and start working on saving each other.
After awhile, and more of seeing those bump pictures, you decide you need help from someone else. Here we go again with the appointments and tests and embarrassing questions. All while listening to that question that everyone has to ask you. “When are you going to make your Mom a grandma?”
I watch my husband play with our friends children and our God Daughter with such happiness, but a sadness that maybe only I can see.
I see my Mom loving on everyone else’s babies. I see the joy on my Dad’s face when he holds the newborn members of our family and I wish so much that those smiles were for my kids.
So, we go back to the doctor, again. This time it’s not the usual answer, “You’re stressing too much. Relax and let’s start a round of fertility prescriptions.”
This time, for us, they find a mass. We’re immediately scheduled to see an Oncologist. A new fear added to the list that we already have. A new doctor to tell all of our intimate details to. Details that no one else has to talk about. And. More tests.
More waiting, more anxiety. And more of hearing that question. “When will you have your own kids?”
After two more months of that, we’re released back to the fertility specialist, the risk of cancer minimal.
But now there’s more. I need surgery. And there’s a new list of fears.
He may be able to correct the issue, I might lose a Fallopian Tube, I might lose both, and I still might have a chance of having a tumor. More waiting. And more watching that pain in my husband’s eyes, that I don’t think he even realizes he has.
So while we wait, I tell myself, “I’m OK. If this works we’ll be pregnant soon. If not, I’ll be OK. I have plenty to be thankful for.” Until I hear that question again.
Sometimes people even feel the need to let me know that our Mom’s are “getting worried” that we don’t have kids yet.
Really? I didn’t know that. It’s not like they haven’t been through all of this with us.
Excuses are made for the people that ask that question. “They didn’t mean to upset you. They’re just curious.”
That’s nice. It’s also inconsiderate. But it’s OK because there’s this idea that people have the right to know the answer to that question.
But, every time you ask that question, every experience I’ve been through over the past 6 years flashes through my brain.
My parents’ joy at holding someone else’s newborn, my husband’s sad eyes, the way people who know our struggle tip toe around sharing their good news, and every single appointment, test, and wait that we’ve gone through.
I see it all, all over again. This is what it’s like to look through the eyes of infertility.