My husband and I looked at each other. We didn't have to say a word. We knew what the other was thinking. And I'm pretty sure I don't have to tell you because you know exactly what it feels like to be her. It hurt my heart that this woman had to endure a train full of people oggling a baby making statements like this is what life is all about all the while she stood there smiling politely. When I can I do tell people the struggles I faced, but on this train ride, a full minute in length, throngs of people gripping metal bars surrounding me, how could I?
We had lunch with a co-worker of my husband's today. She loves kids and also could never have any. She held W and kissed him on the cheek. He giggled and cooed and adored her. She doesn't know I was in her shoes too. . . and at a meal of project cuts and site visits where the mention of infertility never even made a peep how could I tell her?
And who does telling help? Does it just help ease my survivor's guilt? Does it really matter? It doesn't change the facts. They did not get their heart's desire. I try not to pull myself into a tailspin at moments like these of why me not them? Because what good does it do? It never helped when it was the other way, why them, why not me? It surely can't help now either.
Moments like this remind me that I may have a child but infertility and loss have forever changed me. I kiss him more than I probably should. I find myself gazing into his eyes unable to look away. Sleepless nights. Tearful tantrums. All things that I thought I would surely lose my patience on, I handle with a grace that is not typical of how I normally operate when faced with challenging circumstances.
That's the good side of life after infertility. The other side is the way your stomach drops when you meet someone still in the trenches. When you remember what you left behind. For better and worse, whether I have just this one child or five more, infertility is like a bullet lodged deep within me, one that no matter how hard you try will remain exactly where it is. You are free from its dangerous grip- but its imprint will always remain.
That was a really wonderful post. Thank you for sharing.
ReplyDeleteI think telling helps us, because it does alleviate some guilt, but I think, moreso, it helps other infertiles to feel less alone, and let's the fertiles know that life isnt always "easy" and encourages a little more care around others.
ReplyDeleteAnd you are so right- that imprint never fades.
I feel like I need to pass out a footnote when I get the stare I use to give pregnant women. I struggled too - I understand how hare it is to see this bump...I'm sorry I'm making you hurt right now.
ReplyDeletetelling makes a difference because not only does it make the person feel less alone, but it shows them that it is possible, some of us do make it to baby, and if we can, maybe they can too.
ReplyDeleteI don't even have a baby yet, and already I feel guilty. I can't fathom why me and not someone else. So many others are more deserving, have tried harder, longer, spent more and lost more. I'm so grateful and still so sad for where I was and could be again. It's such a weird feeling.
ReplyDeleteThis is a fabulous post. True and haunting. You're right. You want to reach out to those folks, but the time isn't right and frankly will that ease our own guilt or help the other person. Hard to say. I have a friend who hasn't called for visited since the girls were born. She doesn't have children, I think she always wanted them. It makes me wonder.
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