It’s going to be ok. That’s what I tell the beast that lives in me called anxiety. It doesn’t work, but at least I tried. I’m nervously massaging my left hand with my right while the crinkle of the paper below me disturbs my thoughts. Ambient music fills the room as I stare absently at the ultrasound machine. I wonder, how did I even get here? My doctor walks in and gives me a big smile. That’s a good sign; everything will be ok. She confidently talks through the procedure and makes sure I’m doing fine. She silently maneuvers and expertly analyzes. Ultimately, she tells me she didn’t find anything significant, and everything appears normal. That’s what I wanted to hear. Normal. But also, it’s not what I wanted.
She leads my husband and me into a room with a circular table and a window facing the highway. As we sit down, she attempts to find a standard female reproductive diagram among all the abnormalities in women’s health. A moment later, she finally produces one from the entire stack. After explaining what she had done, she provided us with options going forward. I completely shut down like they do in movies. The background noise sounds like echoes, I see my doctor talking, but I don’t hear what she says, my husband talks, but I don’t know what’s happening, and through the window, the whole world is moving, but I’m frozen.
I’m stuck in this hell called unexplained secondary infertility.
I always envisioned a big family for myself. Being the youngest of two, I knew I wanted kids to fill a home, so every child would have more than one sibling to play with. My heart doesn’t feel complete at three, and I know I have room for more to love. The story of how each came into being was uneventful compared to the journey to number four. My body has done this before, multiple times, why can’t it do it again? Every month, I get a new sense of hope with delusions to keep me going, then it ends in despair. Then, somehow, I find new hope to get me going, but then I fall back down again. This has been the case so far for 15 cycles.
Ovulation test strips, monitors, basal body temperatures, diet changes, lifestyle changes, etc. It feels like I’ve done it all, and I’m at the end of the road.
I didn’t realize how sickening it would feel when other women announce their pregnancies around you, especially when they weren’t even trying. It’s like a stab and twist into the deepest chambers of the heart. You don’t realize how much energy you use to be happy on the outside while crumbling into teeny tiny pieces on the inside. The juxtaposition is suffocating, literally and physically. I’m never mad at them; I’m sorrowful for myself. Why can’t my body do what it’s supposed to do? Or do what it did before? That’s what I used to tell my labor patients, “your body knows what to do.” But somehow, my body forgot. When another mom fighting infertility announces their pregnancy, it’s like I get a new sense of hope. It was their turn, and they deserve it. The happiness they feel is radiating, and it’s the only time I don’t feel like I’m falling apart. In fact, it’s like their joy is putting my crumbling pieces back together again. Like hope is rebuilding itself in my soul.
Infertility is hard to talk about because pregnancy is no stranger to me. I was one of those women who said, “It just happened” and now I want to punch myself for ever saying it. What really knocks me down is when people ask if we will try for a boy. I’m already struggling to get pregnant, but to be reminded that my family isn’t enough because we don’t have a boy really crushes what little hope I have left. I’m trying for a baby, but what if I was just meant to be a girl mom? My heart says no, but my body will not cooperate.
I can’t help but blame myself every month. It’s my fault I had postpartum depression. It’s my fault I’m stressed. It’s. My. Fault. And all while my hope is slowly crumbling down again, I’m thankful I let in a cluster of close friends who have been supporting me through this ordeal. Some friends whom I can vent to about another pregnancy, my delusions, and doctor visits. With their unwavering presence, it feels like I can stand again. I’ve been fighting my faith through this all, wondering why God would do this to me. But maybe He is planning something big for me; I just have to wait. And so, hope flutters.
I’ve been contemplating whether I should even share my story because I’m still fresh in this journey of infertility. Then I realized that there may be another mom out there hiding in the shadows because she also feels ashamed and embarrassed to be dealing with this. And if there’s anything I feel strongly about in motherhood, it’s that I never want another mom to feel like she’s alone.
So, if you’re stuck in the hell that is infertility, whether it be primary, secondary, or unexplained, I’m here too.
I see you biting your tongue when unsolicited advice comes your way and fighting your tears because they just don’t understand at all. I see your polite smile form as others talk about their current pregnancy, how “it just happened,” and how you wish you could just melt away. I see the pursing of the lips when they say, “you’re stressed, give it a year,” or “you’re still young.” I see you deflate when your emotions are dismissed, and you step closer in the shadows. I see your hope dwindling despite everything you’re doing; it seems everyone is getting pregnant but you.
I see the pain tucked behind your half smile at pregnancy announcements and well-meaning yet painful questions. I see you hiding in the shadows so no one sees how heartbreaking every month is or how daunting holidays can be. I see you unfollowing friends or avoiding social media in general because you’re protecting your mental health. I see you crying into your pillow every night, wishing it was you, wondering, begging, pleading when it will be your turn. I see you creating silly delusions just to make the days lighter and bring more hope that your turn will come soon. Through it all, I see how brave you are.
I hope you know your story matters. Your feelings are valid. You matter.
Every Sunday night, I do a weekend round-up of what I did with my family on my Instagram stories. The last slide is always the same, either a quote of “I hope something good happens to you this week” or “I hope your prayers are answered this week” because I know someone out there is looking for a sign. I want to give hope to someone who is silently struggling. I hope for someone else, even if my hope is empty.
If my prayers won’t be answered, I hope someone else’s will.
As I checked out of the fertility office, I saw a poem framed on the wall. With my hand on the doorknob, I read the first line and walked out. I didn’t have to continue reading because I recited the rest in my head as I stepped into the elevators. I memorized that poem for a competition in high school, and surprisingly enough, my brain remembered it. Maybe it was a sign, or maybe it was just a coincidence. I choose to think of it of as what the poem signifies. It was Emily Dickinson’s poem, “Hope” is the Thing with Feathers.
“Hope” is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words,
And never stops at all,
And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.
I’ve heard it in the chillest land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me
Maybe, just maybe. Everything will be ok.
