How Are You?

I have been asked this question several times over the past week. For the strangers and acquaintances who don’t know what I’m going through, I can usually answer with “I’m fine.” But for my friends and support system, the question has been a little heavier. It’s a genuine question of wanting to know how I’m doing, how I’m absorbing the news we got last Friday, and if I really am fine. I’ve been answering them with a shrug of the shoulders and tears, because I can’t say that I’m fine. And I have so many emotions going through my head that it’s hard to pick 1 or even 2 to be able to answer the question. So for those of you who are wondering, here are the ways I would answer.

“I am relieved.” In a lot of ways, the doctor finally telling us that we shouldn’t get our hopes up and that my chances of carrying another child are not good frees me. I am relieved that there will be no more procedures, no more poking and prodding, no more medicines. I am relieved that I can start some things that had been put off while trying for another child (like working off the 10-15 pound infertility gain). And most of all, I am relieved that I do not need to spend another month setting myself up for failure. I feel a bit of a weight lifted off of me, and like maybe I’ll get the chance to breathe again. But the second I start feeling this weight lift, it is replaced with another one.

“I am wracked with guilt.” There are still things that we could try. And while the doctors don’t have much confidence that any of them would work, they are still hanging out there. In my heart, I know it’s time to stop. But, the truth is I could still try. When people tell me that I did all that I could, it doesn’t feel right to me. I am not exhausting every possible option, and I feel like I should.

“I feel alone.” I should probably say that “we” feel alone, but I don’t want to presume to speak for Gordon. But this feeling of loneliness doesn’t come from any problems in my marriage. It comes from being in a place that so few people understand or know how to handle. I feel like the pitiful person that everyone feels sorry for, but no one knows what to say to, and so most say nothing at all.

“I am lost.” Having a child has been my primary goal for nearly 3 years. Our life has been largely built around it, because it had to be – I had medications and doctor’s appointments. Just last week, I was taking multiple pills and 1 shot every day and had 4 doctor’s appointments to navigate around. And just like that, they are all gone. My nightly ritual of taking a prenatal vitamin, which I have been doing every day for 3+ years, is no long necessary. I still reach for the vitamin bottle every night, and feel that stab in the heart when I remember that I’m not taking them anymore. This week, I didn’t need to think about assembling my meetings around a doctor’s appointment. When a potential work trip came up, I didn’t need to think about how that fit in with my cycle. The thing that I organized my life around is over, and I’m feeling pretty lost on how to go about my day without it.

“I am profoundly sad.” Hearing that news last Friday really represents yet another loss for Gordon and I. People will say how there are still ways to build our family, and that is true. But the fact is I will never carry our children. I will never feel my baby kick for the first time, I won’t feel them grow, and I won’t get that early physical attachment. And while it’s the destination (having a child) that matters most, there is still grieving when another path to that destination closes.

“I have never felt worse about myself.” I have answered the question this way for only 2 people – my husband and a dear friend who I knew wouldn’t judge me for it. But, here it is. My feelings of self-worth are at an all time low. To feel so damaged, both physically and emotionally, is a feeling I wouldn’t wish on anyone. You start to think that God just thinks you’d be a horrible parent, and so He finds every way to stop you from violating the plan. You see pregnant women and parents with children everywhere and wonder why you are so unworthy of that experience.  Infertility already does a number on the self-esteem. Getting the “probably never going to happen” speech from your doctor sends the self-esteem to record lows.

“Mostly, my head is swirling all day, every day.” All of the emotions I described above, I feel simultaneously all day long. I’m finding that it’s hard for my brain to process all of this when it feels relieved, guilty, alone, lost, sad, self-loathing and other-emotions-I-have-yet-to-identify all at the same time. I try to move forward with something to take steps to move on, and I become paralyzed by sadness. When I even start to think about getting rid of my maternity clothes, I get so overcome that I can’t even breathe.

It’s only been a week since we’ve had to let our dream go. I know there is still much healing to be done, and time will do what it always does – make things more manageable. In the meantime, I sort through all of these complicated emotions and attempt to figure out a way to answer “how are you?” in a way that is more easily understood, but still honest. It will be a while before that answer can be “I’m fine.”

A Window Closes Too

This post should probably come with a disclaimer. This is not a happy, hopeful post. This is the harsh reality that is my life.

We’ve been keeping a secret from pretty much everyone we know. Over the past few weeks, I have been preparing for a frozen embryo transfer. We didn’t tell many people because it felt private. I have taken countless pills, both orally and vaginally (sorry if that’s TMI – welcome to my world), been on a high iron and magnesium diet, and gone to acupuncture twice a week. All of this was in the hopes that it would thicken my endometrial lining, and we could move on to an embryo transfer. We’ve had mixed results throughout, but got a glimmer of hope earlier this week that maybe, just maybe, we could get there.

We found out today that this isn’t the case. My lining is pretty damaged from the D&C’s I had after Vivienne was born, and despite medications, diet, and acupuncture, it will likely never get to where it needs to be to sustain a pregnancy. While there are still some other options we could try, the doctor told us not to get our hopes up.

And so a month ago, I closed the door on ever getting pregnant on my own. Today, I attempt to close the door on ever carrying another child.

It’s probably for the best, in some way. My body has been nothing but a deathtrap for my children. It has failed me and them more times than I can count. To continue to try for a miracle feels incredibly selfish, like I would just be inviting more loss and heartache. To continue to try would only be for my own self-worth, so that I wouldn’t continue to feel like a failure. I can’t justify putting one of our precious embryos in an unviable situation just so I can feel like I tried.

I have never tried harder for anything in my life. I have endured countless procedures, 3 surgeries, pills that could fill your medicine cabinet, and shots and needles that fill 3 hazards containers. All of this in the span of 16 months. And ultimately, all for nothing. All that I have to show for it are 3 more children in heaven, a few extra pounds, a lighter bank account, and a heart that has been broken over and over and over again.

We will figure out a way forward from here. But for now, I am just exhausted, confused, frustrated, angry, disillusioned, hopeless, and most of all, unbelievably sad. I don’t exactly know how to accept that you can work so hard for something you want so desperately and come up empty handed.

I Must Be Doing Something Wrong

Recently, I wrote about how I’ve stopped asking myself “why me?” I have to admit, I was pretty proud of myself for getting to that point – to a place where I stopped asking why bad things kept happening to me. Lately, I’ve been consumed with another question, and it was disheartening to realize that the question is just a variation on the “why me?” theme. I can’t seem to escape it, and it’s always running through my head.

What am I doing wrong?

It happens every time I see a pregnant woman or a baby. Every time a friend or acquaintance announces her pregnancy. And every time I see happy baby pictures. What am I doing wrong that having a living child constantly slips away from me? What am I doing wrong that I don’t get these happy moments that everyone else does and that I want more than anything?

I should state that, logically, I know that I’m not doing anything wrong. I get great medical care. I research and read. I continue to do everything I know to do to get a happy outcome. And yet, it still does not seem to be enough.

I recently returned from a work trip to Chicago. I flew into Midway and took the el to/from my hotel downtown. For any of you that have taken the orange line in Chicago, you know that it is inevitable that you will see many teenage mothers or very young women with multiple children. I had a physical reaction each time I saw one. It took a few instances before I recognized what it was. It wasn’t anger, jealousy, or sadness (although, I did feel all of these things). What I felt was shame. I wondered how a 16 year old with little means could have a healthy pregnancy and child and I couldn’t. What was I doing that was so wrong?

There must be something I can’t see or recognize that makes this keeps happening, right? I must be doing something wrong and just can’t figure it out. I’ve received lots of unsolicited advice on this topic. Stop trying so hard (I’m pretty sure that not trying will not result in a pregnancy, just saying). Stop stressing and just relax (my personal favorite – this one really does tell me that I am responsible, and if I could just calm down, everything would turn out differently).  Even well intentioned people tell me what they think I’m doing wrong in an effort to help. They must ask themselves the same question “what is she doing wrong?” We all want a solid, logical explanation that doesn’t exist.

My doctors, who are among the best in the state, are kind of stumped. All of the tests (and I’ve had MANY, MANY tests) indicate there is nothing that should cause any problems. For the most part, my losses are completely unrelated. “Unfortunately, you just come out on the bad side of the odds” our doctor recently told us. From a medical perspective, we are doing all of the right things. And still, here we are.

I’m at a loss on what to do with this question. I certainly don’t want to feel ashamed for doing nothing wrong, but I really can’t escape it. Much like everyone else, I want to fix what’s wrong. And in order to fix it, you need to find out what to fix. So when doctors tell you that there’s nothing wrong, how do you not believe that it must be something that you’re doing? It’s not intentional, but it’s there nonetheless. I must be doing something wrong. I don’t know how else to explain it. 

I’m not asking for any of you to answer this question of what I’m doing wrong – trust me, I have thought long and hard about it. I don’t have any answers, but I still keep torturing myself with the question. 

Guilt, Failures, and (eventually) Forgiveness

It’s been over 10 months, and I have to admit, I thought I would be working towards a better place by now. In some ways, I am. But in other ways, the guilt and feelings of failure are still pretty strong – it doesn’t take much to bring them back in full force.

I still to this day, and probably will to some extent for the rest of my life, feel guilt for the things I could/would/should have done. I still feel deep in my heart that I could have stopped it, that there is something I could have done or said to the doctors to stop the labor so she could stay inside and develop more. I still kick myself for what I didn’t know – about symptoms I should have recognized and questions I should have asked. It was my job to protect her, and I failed.

In failing Vivienne, I failed so many people, including my family and friends. My counselor would stop me right now to tell me to remind myself that my body failed them, not me. But, my body is mine, and even though I can’t completely control it, I am ultimately responsible for it. When my body succeeds in doing something great (like my 3 day walks), I take credit for that. When it fails, I take ownership of that too.

Let’s face it, having a baby is a miracle that most people consider to be easy. The majority of the population doesn’t have difficulty getting pregnant (I do), the majority of the population doesn’t have any difficulty carrying a pregnancy (I do), and the majority of the population has trauma free deliveries (not me). It’s a difficult position to be in to struggle with something that goes so easily for others. When you fail at multiple things that other people consider to be easy, the self esteem takes a beating. It’s a constant battle not to think of myself as a failure.

I think part of it is evolution. Women are designed for this purpose – to carry and produce offspring. Whether you want children or not, it is a big part of how we are defined, by scientists and by society. To fail at something that is so fundamental to your being, that is ingrained into your DNA and how your body is designed, is unlike any failure I’ve ever known. It is harder than I can say to try and pick yourself back up from that level of failure.

I try to not let these feelings of guilt and failure eat away at me. But there are times when those feelings are stronger than any logic to counter them. And I know I will wrestle with those feelings for the rest of my life. I’ve heard people mention needing to forgive ourselves for the things we think we did wrong or the failures we’ve had.  I’m trying. I’m hopeful that with more time, I’ll find that place of forgiveness. That I’ll be able to forgive myself for what I didn’t know and didn’t do. That I’ll be able to forgive myself for failing Vivienne and my family so horribly. That the feelings of knowing I did everything I knew to do will outweigh the guilt of not having done enough.

It’s hard to find that kind of forgiveness for myself. If someone did something of this magnitude to me, I wouldn’t want to let them off the hook easily. Forgiving myself is another part of losing a child that may take a lifetime to accomplish.