Unexplained infertility.
That’s the reason we were given for not being able to get pregnant these past three and a half years. So basically, no reason at all.
A few mornings before we met with the infertility specialist, I was in the shower thinking/stressing about the appointment and this scenario came to mind: what if I wasn’t able to get pregnant? The thought overwhelmed me. I wanted to cry. The fact that carrying my own child could possibly not happen had never crossed my mind seriously, and I the moment it did, I panicked. Premature grief consumed me.
You would think the news that I could get pregnant would elate me. But, how frustrating to be told there’s no reason why I shouldn’t be pregnant. Theres no physical reason I shouldn’t be able to conceive. Every test we’ve both done has given results that our doctors are happy with. So then you’re left with the question: why?
Going through fertility treatments is overwhelming at best. So much information gets thrown at you. All the options. All the steps. All the appointments and the injections and the tests. All the needles and acronyms and medicalese. All the science that forces my body to do what its supposed to do naturally.
Infertility makes you a person that you don’t want to be and a person you feel badly about being. I find myself deciding who I think deserves to be pregnant and who doesn’t. When I hear about people being pregnant, my first thought isn’t excitement or joy, but rather sadness, followed by insane jealousy. I cry when people hardly try and end up pregnant or worse, don’t even try at all. And than I feel badly for feeling this way. There’s no winning. And not only am I upset and frustrated for my own situation, I’m upset and frustrated at those around me, for those who aren’t at fault for anything other than living, and I feel like a terrible person. It’s a cycle that doesn’t seem to end.
We’re in the preliminary stages of IVF, which is basically a ton of blood tests, urine tests, semen tests. We’ve discussed with the doctors our plan of action, which is a small relief, but because of some testing and vaccinations, we can’t start right away, which makes the very little patience I have left almost non-existent. (Also, I found out way more about sperm than I ever wanted to know.)
It’s a lot. It’s so much to know and think about and do and wait for. My brain feels like it can’t catch up to everything. I keep trying to re-read the steps laid out for us but there are so many of them that I find myself having to stop.
It makes me laugh, all those times as a teen when you were told that if you had sex just once, you could get pregnant. And while that’s true at the most basic level (and more true in teen years when we are at our most fertile), it's so insane to think that that’s the kind of sex education we grew up with — have sex once and you’ll get a baby.
But, conceiving a child is so much more complicated than that. Outside of your ovulation window, women only have a 2% (ish) chance of getting pregnant; even during your peak ovulation day, the percentage of conceiving is around 18%. EIGHTEEN PERCENT. There’s all kinds of other things that happen, very scientific things, but I’m not a doctor or a scientist or anything remotely close to those things, so I’ll just stop at: it’s hard. Getting pregnant is actually a miracle and no one tells us that.
It’s taken me over a month to write this and I’ve been having a hard time putting it together. I’ve discovered that I just don’t want to talk about it anymore. I’m tired. I want to talk about something else — anything else. I’ve spent over three years talking about trying to get pregnant, talking about it not happening, talking about the decisions Danny and I have decided to make, talking about the steps we’ve taken, talking about finally getting pregnant, talking about losing that baby, talking about going to an infertility specialist, talking about what the outcome was and what we’re doing next. I’M TIRED.
But, I also know not talking about it isn’t going to make anything better or easier. Talking about it has shown me just how many women in my life can understand what I’m going through and it amazes me how it slowly makes you feel less alone. I’ve had people contact me to share their experiences, their own heartaches, and finally (in most cases), their own joys. Talking about it is starting to make this topic less taboo and it’s pushed me to help make it a topic that others feel they can speak freely about, as well. I saw a comment someone made about a women who spoke freely about having a miscarriage that said, “This is a private family matter.” But, it’s not. And why should we have to feel like it is? It effects SO MANY women, and probably more women in your own life than you even know about.
So, talk about it. Let’s start to make it normal. Let’s show others that infertility and miscarriages don’t have to be something to keep hidden or to experience in silence. We don’t need to suffer even more by thinking there’s something wrong with us. Let’s help other people like me feel less broken and alone.
