Share with me how you define infertility.
Infertility is sobbing on the couch. It’s throwing your phone across the room, and then gaining just enough composure to stand up, retrieve your phone, and type out “congrats, I’m so happy for you” for the fourth time in two days.
Infertility is being that friend. The friend that no one wants to tell they’re pregnant. The one that they treat with oven mitts because you must have a sign stapled to your forehead that says “SENSITIVE FEELINGS AHEAD.”
Infertility is screening all TV shows/movies/books/etc through Google or friends before you dive in. It’s never wanting to see mention of pregnancy or babies when you least expect it.
Infertility is sitting on the sidelines. It’s watching all your friends being to try to conceive months or even years after you, find success, and then come back around for number two or three while you are still sitting, waiting, watching.
Infertility is desperation. It’s trying pomegranates, pineapple, avocado, sex upside down, Diva Cups, acupuncture and every variety of every Old Wives’ tale out there just in case.
Infertility is having a box hidden away, stuffed in a corner in a closet across the house. It’s having that box be full of onesies, booties, socks, books, toys, blankets, diapers….
Infertility is pulling the box down and rummaging through it. It’s holding the onesie to your face and sobbing till it’s soaked with your tears.
Infertility is pulling yourself together long enough to put the onesie back. It’s pulling a book out of the box, wrapping it up, and sending it on to a friend’s baby shower- the one you couldn’t bring yourself to attend.
Infertility is avoiding specific sections and aisles of department stores. It’s going into an unfamiliar store and stumbling upon the section and stopping in your tracks. It’s staring at the onesies, the bows, the cribs and feeling your heart crumble. It’s reaching out to touch the soft fabric of the blankets. It’s a lungful wishing.
Infertility is staring at the test you promised yourself you wouldn’t take and willing your eyes to see a line that isn’t there.
Infertility is throwing the strip away, only to dig it out hours later, praying you just were too tired to see the second line.
Infertility is being told a million reasons for why it’s your fault. It’s hearing “just relax,” “have faith,” “let go, let God.” It’s being told to “lose weight,” “try Plexus/MaryKay/Arbonne/whatever” “stop worrying.”
Infertility is a never-ending barrage about how you aren’t enough. Aren’t thin enough, healthy enough, faithful enough, relaxed enough.
Infertility is peeing on another stick. It’s seeing a positive and instead of immediate joy, it’s throwing up from the anxiety.
Infertility is questioning why you did this again… it’s wondering if you are capable of going through another loss.
Infertility is seeing the bright red blood days/weeks/months later and beating yourself up because you had allowed yourself to feel happy and why should you have when you knew this was going to happen?
Infertility is knowing how heavy empty arms really are. It’s saying goodbye to the baby that you only held for weeks inside, and never got to hold in your arms.
Infertility is writing blog post after blog pos about infertility hoping it’ll be your last before you can share good news… and it never is.