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***here is my disclaimer before you read this post – after you read it, you may find yourself thinking
A) Really? ANOTHER post on infertility? I thought she moved on, why can’t she get over this?
B) Wow, Erica is in a really bad place, she needs to get some professional help.
C) Boy, Erica is really self-centered. Doesn’t she see how great her life is, and yet here she is being overly dramatic…
Here are my short answers to the above questions:
A) Yes, another post on infertility. The grief process is not linear, and sometimes I may be doing okay, and other times I may really be struggling. Right now, I’m struggling.
B) I am getting help – I have a therapist and am also planning to meet with my doctor about taking medicine for deprssion/anxiety.
C) I do recognize that I have many wonderful things in my life to be thankful for. That doesn’t make this hurt any less. My grief is valid.
Lastly, there is no pressure to read the rest of this post if you’re not in the headspace to do so, or if your empathy muscles feel particularly weak at the moment. Writing this was helpful for me, and I thought I’d put it out there just in case it’s helpful for someone else.
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As exciting as it is for me to feel that I’ve very much healed from a traumatic experience with postpartum depression back in 2016, that victory feels overshadowed right now by what feels like a losing battle with grief.
I thought I was moving on. I thought I was healing from this. So why is it hurting so much again?
Back in January, I decided it was time to move on from the dream of having another child. It really felt like the right decision at the time. And I think it was.
I started pursuing other dreams and interests. I began training for a half marathon (I’m up to 8 miles now!), I got more involved in my church and in local community events, and it was all very good.
But last month, a last little bit of naive hope came bubbling back up to the surface, and I began to wonder if maybe, just maybe, it could be possible for pregnancy to happen for us? What if we just casually decided to try again? What if, what if, what if???
I made a deal with myself: we could begin casually trying for a baby again if (and only if) I could keep my cool during the process. There was no need for me to convince myself that I was pregnant, there was no need to think that every little symptom meant something, and I definitely wouldn’t get all upset when my period started. I would go into it, knowing our chances were slim to none, and that would be okay.
You would think after living with myself for over 36 years that I would know that there was no way I could be casual about this. And no surprise, I definitely was not!
I am ashamed to confess how quickly I devolved into past habits. In two weeks’ time, I convinced myself I was pregnant, went out and bought brand new (expensive!) pregnancy tests, and was devastated when the results were negative. Immediately, all the bitterness and rage came back. And I couldn’t believe it. How was I back in exactly the same place I had been 6 months ago? I thought I had processed this grief, I thought I had moved on!
Maybe I never really moved on, maybe I just deferred my grief and pain for a while.
I’m honestly scared to face the ultimate decision of permanently moving on. Right now, I continue to try to defer that moment by telling myself “I’m only 36, I have a few more years.”
Will it get easier then? Or do you just live with this constant pain all the time? And how do you do that gracefully?
In the past month, I’ve had four friends that have become pregnant. One of them with their first, three of them with their second child. And to be honest, it hurts. It hurts a lot.
Part of the grief I’m dealing with right now is loneliness. I feel like I’m just standing on the sidelines watching everyone else move on to the next phase of their life. But I’m stuck here, maybe forever, in infertility-land.
I know (when I use the rational and logical part of my brain) that I’m not alone, that I’m not the only one grieving right now, and I know that I have a lot to be grateful for.
But it still hurts. And I don’t even know who to share that with anymore.
When I talk about my struggle to my friends who don’t have any kids, I feel like a total jerk. I’m lamenting not having more than one kid, and they are struggling to get pregnant with their first.
When I talk to my friends who do have more than one kid, I feel like they don’t get it anymore – they’ve moved on and are celebrating the newest addition(s) to their family. They’re planning baby showers, or decorating their nurseries, or getting up in the middle of the night to feed their newborns… or they’re ferrying their children around to ballet, soccer, and tuba lessons, and they just don’t have as much time to grab coffee with a Debbie Downer like me anymore.
And I’ve recently found myself getting more and more anxious around my other friends who have an only child – I’m constantly bracing myself for the moment they are going to tell me they’re pregnant again – I know it’s coming, I just don’t know when.
(***I know I am probably not giving my friends enough credit – my husband reminded me that just because someone is not in an identical situation as me, it does not mean they can’t empathize and be a good support. I know that rationally, but the emotional parts of me don’t always believe it.)
So where does that leave me? I guess it leaves me here, writing this blog post and trying to find healthy ways to process through these feelings.
I’ve found it hard to find a support group for secondary infertility – everyone you meet who is in that boat potentially becomes a liability. Maybe you meet someone who is struggling like you, and it’s great and they totally understand, but then one day you get the text: “Hey, I’ve got some news…” And you find yourself plastering on a fake smile and saying how excited you are for them, even if you’re not. And then you feel like a bad person because you’re not, but you don’t know how to change that.
I’ve got a list of people I’m praying for who are desiring to have a baby – and if I’m truly honest with myself, one of my biggest fears is that one day I’ll cross off all the names on that list, except for mine. And after watching everyone else finally get their heart’s desire, I’ll be left all alone to continue to experience the pain and grief of infertility.
I found a few other blog posts on the pain and grief of secondary infertility (shared below) that were very validating for me to read. My hope is that this post will offer one more reminder to those struggling with secondary infertility that you are not alone. You don’t need to “just get over it.” You’re not “weird” for having strong feelings. ❤
Threads of Anxiety 