Infertility is really hard. It’s also pretty lonely. Through this process, I have been really outspoken. I’ve posted things on social media. I’ve never left it out of conversation, and I am blatant about our struggles when people ask questions. I’ve made a lot of friends that way. People have reached out to me to say “me too.” I have a network now. Different infertility diseases, different points in the process, different religions, different ideas. But we all are infertile.
At the risk of sounding self-congratulatory, I’ve helped them. I’ve helped others move forward when they are paralyzed in fear. I’ve helped others feel less alone. I’ve helped others with the technical knowledge of the process. I’ve helped. I’ve found doctors for some. For others I have spent time mourning a loss. I make myself available to talk about the hard stuff. And we do talk. We talk about the upcoming cycle. About the plan to conceive this month. We talk about all the tracking and “extra” stuff this month, to give the best shot possible. We talk during the two-week-wait. We talk statistics. We talk symptoms. We talk. And then we talk about the negative tests. We talk about how shitty periods are when they are so unwelcome. We talk about how bad it feels to fail again. And we cry. Sometimes, we celebrate. Sometimes, we talk about a positive test. We talk betas. We talk doubling time. We talk about heartbeats and sacs and fetal poles. We talk NIPT. We talk dating and scans. We talk birth. I’ve helped them.
They’ve helped me too. I feel useful. I feel like I’m on a team. I have friends that understand, even if it’s through a different road. I know I have others cheering me on. I have others who wait with bated breath every time I take a test, and I have friends that hug me when it’s negative. I have friends, that when the time comes, will cry tears of joy when I get a positive and it sticks.
I’ve so often questioned “why?” I can’t help but think that maybe this is why. Maybe, I’ve been given this struggle so I can help others get through it. Maybe this is my mountain. Maybe this is my purpose. Maybe I’m here, struggling to move it, because I am moving it. Inch by inch, my mountain is moving. Where others have stood in fear, I have shown them how to put hands on this mountain and push.
The mountain is big. It’s tall. It blocks the sun and is so scary and looming. It’s terrifying. So many times
I have found myself sitting on the ground, staring up at the mountain. I have found myself defeated. I just stare at the infertility before me, how huge it is, and wonder if I will ever move it out of the way. It’s so difficult because since it is so big, I can’t see around it. I can’t see if I just have a couple more inches to go or if I still have miles stretching before me. Sometimes assume the latter, and I sit and cry. “It’s too big and I have too far to go!” And then I hear that soft voice in the back of my mind. “But do you? What if it’s just one more inch?” So I get back up and keep pushing.
I don’t know how far I have left to go, but I’m going to keep pushing. Mountains move.