Let's Get REAL

I have some things to get off my chest.  These are personal things, things that have been mulling in my heart and on the screen for a long time, and I don't know why I feel like I need to put them out on blogland, but when I go to write them in my personal journal I feel I have to stop and think some more and then I always feel like it should go here instead.  I don't know, maybe one of you need to read it as much as I need to write it.  I've been working on this post for a LONG time, thinking, pondering, writing, revising, even praying about it...it's lengthy, and I still don't have the words quite right, and my thoughts are truly jumbled, but today I am throwing caution to the wind and pushing that bright orange "publish post" button and hoping you will take the time to read it all the same and that you won't judge me too harshly by what I'm about to say.  I'm saying it because so many people don't, and I want a voice.

Let's talk about infertility.  If you don't learn anything else about me or my struggles, learn this: just as pregnancy is different for every woman, infertility is different, too. 
(1) The reasons you want a baby are different.
(2) The reasons you can't have a baby are different.
(3) The time you have to wait is different.
(4) Your financial/health situation is different.
(5) Treatments and your options are different.
(6) How it affects your marriage is different.
(7) The way friends/family/strangers around you handle it is different.
(8) What your family already looks like is different.
(9) And different things set you off on self-pity-parties and short bursts of maybe this is it hopes and dreams that keep you trying time and time again. 

So, disclaimer, this post is only mine.  I do not speak for all infertile couples in all their differentness, only for me; although, if you find yourself in the same boat as me, let's be soul sisters and share a cup of red raspberry leaf (herbal) tea and cry and laugh together about whatever is same.  :)

First of all, at least half the frustration of infertility for me is just not knowing why.  Physically, emotionally, spiritually.  Without insurance, we don't have a 100% certain diagnosis so I don't know what my odds are or what to do to fix things.  We have hunches, of course.  You know your body, and when you have certain health issues you know affect fertility you at least sort of have a clue.  But only time will tell, and without knowing why, or having the means to fix it, you feel hopeless that anything will actually change.  That living without the hope is killer.  I mean KILLER.  Trying to move on with your life in meaningful and productive ways AND truly "wait on the Lord" with faith at the same time is a strange learning experience.  It's amazing and worth mentioning, too, that when I look at other couples in their struggles to expand their families, I never once think, "They must be doing something wrong."  I think of their courage and openness, of their pains that I relate to, and I think how much God must love them to be so intimately involved in the creation of their families--however it turns out for them.  Yet when I turn around and look at myself, or at us as a couple, I think, "No wonder we don't have children...look at what I just did!  See how I think and how I handled that argument and what I spent my money on today!  I'm selfish.  I'm tired.  I'm filled with rage at moments and jealousy at others and why ever would God bless us when I am so imperfect?"  Why is it that it feels like a punishment, or like you're doing something wrong, instead of a trial when you're in the thick of it, but it's so easy to have that perfect perspective when you're outside of it?  Is this normal? Am I crazy?

Adding to this pain, and allieviating it at the same time, is the Plan of Salvation, a gospel truth I believe in WHOLE-HEARTEDLY.  Between the "culture" of motherhood in the church and the "doctrine" of motherhood in the gospel, knowing that part of the purpose of our whole existence (especially as women) is to perpetuate families makes NOT having children even harder on Mormon women than on other women (in my opinion).  It adds another dimension of pain, because you're not just "failing" a little at something you kinda want right now, you're failing at the very thing that is supposed to define you in the eternities.  BUT.  The gospel doctrines also are the SOLUTION to that pain.  Not only is there a Savior out there who understands--I mean REALLY understands--the distinctive pains you suffer, but He can make it right and whole and perfect, and He is working day and night for your happiness.  I know that knowing things turn out all right in the end (especially if that "end" is after this life) doesn't really make everything feel okay in the "now," but knowing that there is a plan for me, having the promises in priesthood blessings, and learning to be patient as our own story unfolds is a curiously breathtaking thing in its own right.  I'm not going to say I enjoy it, but I am grateful that the Lord is with me in the flowering valley when I would rather be climbing the mountain. 

Secondly.  Pregnant people.  You are everywhere.  EVERYWHERE!  And let me tell you, you do not have to walk on eggshells around me or apologize for your happiness or miseries.  Yes, I am envious.  Yes, I am sad that it's not ME calling YOU with the good news instead.  Yes, it's a huge blessing you have that I do not and, yes, you ought to be grateful, and, yes, sometimes it feels like seeing you all walk around with your multiple babies is a Providential slap in the face EVERY. SINGLE. DAY.  Yes, I am wishing that just one day would pass where my Facebook news feed isn't filled with new baby or gender announcements, pictures of baby bumps and nursery updates, complaints about something I *SO* wish I had, and playdates and stories that are told almost as inside jokes in this exclusive club called "Mommyland."  BUT.  I also am a human being that understands being pregnant means puking your guts out for three months at a time, having your ankles swell up, not being able to stomach foods that I can't get enough of, having strangers breach your personal bubble because they think touching your stomach is okay since you're out in public in your condition, and never being comfortable or getting a good night's rest...only to culminate in a sweet, smelly thing that cries, poops, keeps you up at night, makes traveling and dating darn near impossible, puts your dreams and hobbies on hold, costs you every penny and thought you'll ever have again and takes you for granted for the rest of your LIFE.  It's okay to complain on the days when those truths are REAL to you.  It doesn't make you thoughtless or insensitive because "at least you get to go through it."  In fact, when I hear you complain, it actually makes me feel a little better!  I may not be going through *your* life, but I have a life outside of infertility just as you have a life outside of motherhood, and it is filled with ups and downs just as much as yours, so I CAN relate to happiness and sadness, the HUMAN-ness of life.  What you do is a noble, painful, fun, insane thing, and it's hard, and it's beautiful, and it's maddening.  I get that, in my own way.  Person to person, share that with me if we really are friends.  If I go home later on and cry tears I thought had long-since dried up, that's my problem, and something I have to work on or just live through.  I'll still want to hear it if I love you.  (And if you are reading this, I really, really do!)  I will bite my tongue and cheer you on and someday, when I hope to be commiserating and celebrating right along with you, I hope you bite yours and don't throw my infertility struggles in my face and keep me from complaining when it gets hard for me, too.

And if you're wondering what TO say?  Ask.  Gauge your response on how willing I am to talk about it, and trust that what I say is what I mean, because if it isn't, it's what I WANT to mean.  And DEFINITELY don't say, "You're so lucky, at least you don't have to deal with (insert pregnancy- or child-rearing-related problem here)," or try to offer me advice on how to "relax and stop trying so hard," "count my blessings," or "fix" the problem, and we'll be just fine.  :)

Keep inviting me to babyshowers and get-togethers, even if all the other attendees there are moms.  Let me babysit and live vicariously through you until our own miracle happens, however and whenever it will.  Encourage me in the things I do well, and keep saying I'll make a good mom someday.  Talk about the precious parts of pregnancy and motherhood so that I am reminded that I really do want to keep trying. Ask me about our other plans and endeavors in life to distract me from the double-whammy that is menstruation or a single line on the pee stick.  And let me cry on your shoulder if I have to. Let's all just be people--mistakes, pains, joys, and all--and share in our peopleness together.

I don't want to start getting bitter or weepy, going into the things that hurt or upset me, or the specifics of those numbers 1-9 from above in my own life and marriage, unless you're genuinely curious and want to have a heart-to-heart chat.  Those feelings are very deep and very *mine* and I don't know if I could express them all even if I wanted to, and I'll figure them out and put them down in my personal journal.  So, for the masses, I'll leave you with this last of all: if you ARE lucky enough to be a mama, hold your kiddos a little closer tonight.  You don't have to enjoy every moment of motherhood.  I've heard it's a rough road, that uphill mountain climb, and I certainly don't want to guilt you into a "shame spiral" that makes you lose your footing or doubt your path because your body happens to "work" and mine doesn't.  But at least enjoy it for a *moment* once in a while, snuggle your babies closer tonight, and know that not only are you doing something godly and truly *magnificent,* but you are also the envy of 1 in 10 women just like me.