Life on the other side

I've been thinking a lot about infertility and its impact on my life. Recently I found this site and I wished I had found it back when I was ttc Camden or after my miscarriage or when we were trying for Easton. I didn't start this blog until Camden was about 8 months old and I haven't fully shared my infertility story on this blog (coming in the next few weeks). When I was going through the infertility, I had a small support group, but one by one those girls got pregnant until I was mainly alone. I wished and wished for a bigger support group, which I have since discovered exists in this great world of blogs, but I knew nothing of blogging at the time. I'm so glad it exists now because I would never want another infertile person to feel as alone as I did during that time. At the worst of it, I just wanted somebody, anybody, to understand what a toll being infertile can take on a person's body and soul. I can say with certainty that infertility has been the hardest thing I have gone through to date and it still defines who I am as a woman and person.

Now I find myself on the other side. I have been blessed with two beautiful little boys - two boys that, at one point, I was told might never exist without major medical intervention. At one point I believed they would never exist and that I would never be a mother. Yet here they are. They complete me in ways I never thought possible. I often feel like I was born to be their mother; they are the reason I exist. They have brought more meaning, more light, more joy to my life than I ever expected. I would do anything for those two boys. There is not a day that I don't thank my Heavenly Father for these children.

It's a weird dichotomy. I have children, yet still define myself as infertile. Even though I am the mother of two, even though I have created, carried, and birthed two children, I still see myself as infertile. Not a day goes by that I do not think of myself as an infertile woman. But to anybody just meeting me, to anybody who does not know my background, I am a lucky mother of two. Most likely, they see me as a fertile being. They see the blessings I have received. They see the two children at my feet. They haven't seen the trial or the pain.

The more children I have, the more removed I am from the infertile world. Not necessarily by choice, but by the circumstance of being a mother. How is another infertile woman to know that I struggled, that I feel like I was granted two miracles? How is another infertile woman to relate to me when they are still going through the struggle to get a child? I know that 5 years ago I would have scoffed at such woman, who, with two children at their feet, told me they knew of my pain. I knew they could never imagine the pain and hurt I felt because they were blessed. Now I am that person I so dreaded not that many years ago.

I wonder where I fit in now. I still feel part of that infertile world, but yet I am also so far removed by the very nature of having children. Do other infertile people read my posts and then scoff because I do have children? My goal since having children has been to hopefully give hope to somebody else in the same situation, for somebody seeking for a happy ending story. But does that happy ending story hurt more than it helps? I don't know.

I know that I am not done having children. I also know that for each child I try for, fertilty medications will be involved. It's a fact - I rarely, if ever, ovulate on my own. I have PCOS. So by that definition, I am still infertile. Yet I also know what doses of medication will work for me. I know I have been pregnant three times now as a results of those medications, and that two of those pregnancies have resulted in living children. So by that definition, I am a mother.

Every day I think of infertility, in much the same way that a person who has survived cancer thinks about cancer. (No, the two are not equal and I don't mean to offend anybody in that comparison, but just like cancer changes ones live forever, so does infertility in a different way). I often wish that I could wear a shirt that proclaims, "These children are the result of years of trying, heartache, testing, medications, loss, more medications, and more trying" so that people, especially those who may resent me for my children (as I so often resented others), will know what a small bit of what I went through to get these children. I want people to know that I remember the pain so clearly; I remember the heartache, the longing, and the hurt. I want to reach out to those who are struggling and let them know there is life on the other side. I never want to get so far removed from the infertile world that I forget what it is like to struggle.

Reflections on Mother's Day

Mother's Day was a hard day for me for many years. I belong to a religion in which family plays a central role. Because of that, services on Mother's Day really emphasize mothers and motherhood. During the years of infertility, this day was the most painful of any in the year. It was one more reminder that I was not a mother and may never be a mother. At the end of sacrament meeting each Mother's Day, all women over the age of 18 were invited to stand a receive a gift. Although meant for all women, it was another stab in the heart and I resented it. The day became so painful for me that it was easier not to attend church on that day. I would stay home and wallow in my sadness over missing the joys of motherhood. Even the promises of motherhood in the next life did nothing to soothe my pain.

Although I am a mother now and I enjoy the home aspects of Mother's day (a special breakfast, extra cuddles with Cam, etc), the church issue is still hard for me to deal with. I know there are women in that audience hurting over not being a mother or their feelings of failure as a mother. Each year, in spite of motherhood, I still have dread over attending church on this day. I go to church on this day now, but I am very aware of how things are worded and the pain they may be causing others. I want to hug each one of those hurting women and tell them I am so sorry for their pain and heartache. Even with the title of mother now, I cringe at some of the comments made yearly in a church setting.

This year at church, the comments at church annoyed me as usual. I knew the pain they would cause to women out there struggling with infertility and the heartbreak. But for me, there was a small moment of healing meant for my heart alone.

After Sunday School, I went to the bathroom while Mark went and picked up Camden from nursery. As I came into the chapel to meet my family, I heard Camden calling for "Mama." As soon as he saw me, he ran up to me, calling my name, and handed me a blue piece of card stock. On it was a little poem about hand prints and there was his little hand print. The nursery workers had the kids make these for their mother's. Brave women that they are, they dipped each child's hand in black paint and placed it on the paper. And even more amazingly, there was no trace of black paint on Camden's skin or church clothing. It thoroughly touched me the effort put in by these women to make these small tokens for the mother's of the children 3 and under. And even more touching was Cam's excitement in presenting me this paper. He was so proud of himself! I cried as its simple beauty touched my soul. In that moment, a bit of healing came over me and the pain of Mother's Day at church lessened to a degree for me alone.

I know that day was hard for many women. I understand and I empathize. I am so, so sorry for anybody struggling through infertility and its pain. I am grateful, however, that for a brief moment I could see the beauty of such a day in a day that has been painful for so many years. I am grateful for that small moment of healing. I hope I never forget how Mother's Day can be a painful reminder for many women. But I also hope I never forget the moment my heart received a small moment of healing on this day. My hope for you, if you are struggling through this, is that you can find healing on that particular day as well.

A sense of failure

I started my second round of Clomid since the miscarriage. Sigh. Why does it make me feel like such a failure? Every time I go to pick up my prescription, a feeling of humiliation comes over me. Every time I start taking the pills, the same thing happens. I felt humiliated when I lost my baby too and could hardly talk about it to others because of the huge feeling of failure. I guess it's the reality that my body doesn't work the way it should and that getting pregnant may never be an easy thing. Others do it all the time on their own, but I have to depend on medications to even have a chance to try to get pregnant. I've ovulated twice on my own in the almost seven years I've been married. The rest are all chemical induced ovulations. While I am very grateful there are medications and I don't have to take the super expensive ones, it's a sense of failure each time. It's a feeling of being betrayed by my body.

People tell me if I lose weight, I'll get pregnant easily. After all it happened to them or to somebody they know. I am working on losing weight. I've lost 14 pounds in the past two months and I weigh less now that I did when I got pregnant with Camden. But even then, weight loss doesn't always work. Both times I have ovulated on my own have been right as I start eating well and exercising. But it doesn't continue into the next cycle. It seems to be a one shot deal. I know weight loss will help with fertility, as well as so much psychological crap, but it doesn't mean it will be the cure all. I could lose 40 pounds and still have to take medications, so I hate such generalizations that because I am heavy, that's the reason I can't get pregnant.

I've realized my biggest struggle this time around. I don't doubt this time that I will get pregnant. That was my issue before, but I've now been pregnant twice (even though only one resulted in a baby). My issue is timing. I have an idea in my head how far apart I want my children. Camden is almost 2 and I really wanted my children about two years apart. But I'm realizing that my time frame is not the Lord's time frame. I know I will have more children. That is not a doubt in my mind at all. I'm just frustrated that it is not happening when I want it to. I also realize that as long as I am doing everything I possibly can to try to get pregnant, the rest is in the Lord's hands. He knows the longing of my heart. He knows how much I want this for me, for our family, for Camden. And just like He sent Camden at just the right time, He'll send the next one at just the right time. If I am doing all I can, I have to leave the rest up to him. I know by taking the medications, continuing to lose weight, and timing sex the best we can, that I am doing all I possibly can and trust the Lord will take care of the rest when the time comes. My problem is I am not a patient person. I want things when I want them and I want it now! LOL! I've got to learn to accept a time frame that is not my own.

Before Camden, I looked at those who had one child and complained because they didn't have a second one and I mocked them in my head thinking at least they have one! I always thought if I had one, I would never complain again and I would be completely satisfied. And now I find myself on the other side of wanting a second child so desperately and aching because it isn't happening. I now regret my previous judgments. I'm so grateful I have Camden. He is truly a blessing and light in my life. Every day I delight and take joy in him. He amazes me with everything he does and learns. I look at him in awe, wondering how we created a little person so beautiful, so smart, so funny, and so amazing in so many ways. He is truly a blessing and a miracle. Because he is so incredible to us, we want another. And so we wait, and pray, and trust, and take the medications again, in spite of the sense of failure that comes by having to do so, and hope that this time around, the Lord's timing will match our desire.

The real me coming out of hiding

I've been thinking a lot lately about my blog and who I am as a blogger. Why am I blogging and what do I hope to get out of it? Am I seeking comments and validation from other readers or am I writing for myself? Do I want to try to be witty and lighthearted or serious and thoughtful? Will talking about certain topics near and dear to me cause this blog to become a depressing place to be or will it feel more real to me? I don't know the answers yet. I have to come realize, however, that I need to let the real me out a bit more.

Last year, I blogged regularly and always had something to say. I've had several long blog silences over the summer and the subsequent months. I can blame it on being busy, laziness, illness or a million other things, but the truth is, the silences come when I am in the middle of things I'm not sure how to talk about or not quite ready to talk about.

Over the summer, the silences came because we were in the midst of trying for our second child and I wasn't sure if I wanted to share the ups and downs with the Internet world. I did that the first time through on different message boards and it became a huge source of pain as one person after another got pregnant when I didn't. In the fall the silences came because I was pregnant, but not quite ready to share. I knew my news would bring others pain and I was afraid I would miscarry, looking like a fool who shared too soon. Over the holidays, the silences came because of the miscarriage and the feeling I had that I should "be over it already." I have so many friends who have been through worse, so what right did I have to still be sad for myself (and I still think that)?

I'm not hiding behind the silences anymore. Although it is painful to share at times, infertility is so much a part of who I am and defines my life on almost a daily basis. I have gained so much from reading other infertility blogs. Their stories encourage and inspire me. I found some dear blogging friends by searching "LDS" and "infertility", leading me to women of my faith going through the same thing. I don't want to hide that part of me anymore. I don't want to hide the pain and tears that sometimes come with this journey of trying to add another child to our family. At the same time, I don't want to become just another infertility blog. I don't want to be angst-y and whiny and only talk about that. I still don't know how much I will share and how often about this infertility beast, but my hope is that I can incorporate my traditional postings in with the daily struggle with infertility. I hope that I can be a resource or in some way help others struggling with the same thing, like I have been helped by so many others.

I'm also hoping that those of you who are pregnant, who read my blog, will continue to do so. As I have said before, I am fine with pregnant people. This is a trial in my life. Each of us have different trials. You should not feel guilty if you are pregnant of if you get pregnant easily. It does not make me like you any less or make me stop reading your blog. Please don't let it be a reason you stop visiting mine.

Up until about a month ago, I was doing really well with everything. I was at peace with the miscarriage and ready to try again, but not feeling a real sense of urgency to add another. But since then, the ache to have another child has become almost physical. It is on my mind daily, almost hourly. The longing for a second child never goes away. Sometimes I feel guilty because I have one beautiful child already and there are some who haven't even been blessed with that yet. And sometimes I feel guilty that I am not satisfied with just having Camden.

I can't describe it, but it's a constant, ever present desire to have another child. I want it with every fiber of my being. I want it for me, for our family, and for Camden. I so want him to have a sibling. I so want to go through that baby stage again. And so, I'm willing to step on the roller coaster that is infertility and ride it, will all its encompassing pain, heartache, hope, fear, joy, and tears. I don't know how long it will take. I don't know when it will happen. But I will share bits and pieces until I have another child. And I do have the faith and trust that it will happen. Now the wait and the journey begins - again.