Infertility after adoption has been devastating. It makes me love the babies that surround me even more. It makes the sicknesses of pregnancy worth it in the hopes a baby will come out of it at the end. Somehow the world keeps spinning, and I along with it.
Just a couple weeks ago, it was National Infertility Awareness Week. And that whole week struck me much harder than it ever has, since I've now realized this is a real thing I'm dealing with.
By some random chance, I found a woman on Instagram who battled with infertility and wrote some amazing things about her journey that resonate so much, and I want to share them. Her handle is @Huntersofhappiness
"One day I realized that the people that make insensitive comments did not realize that this was a real medical problem with a diagnosis and a treatment. They were unaware about what infertility really is and what it entails or didn't know what to say, so they said something silly."
I've blocked people on social media simply because of the things they say, thinking they are encouraging. My body is unique. And right now, it's broken and they can't figure out why. I am not your cousins sister's husband's ex-girlfriend who's going through the exact same thing. My infertility is mine and my husbands. It's our unique genes, my unique eggs and uterus. My story will never be the same as anyone else's. So please, for the love of all things sane, do not tell me some random advice because it may have worked for "Suzy."
"Hope is happiness. I remember the pain of our 2nd failed (pregnancy). It was crushing. Everything had gone perfectly. We had so much HOPE that it would work. I was angry and so sad. I remember thinking that the pain was so intense because I had been so hopeful. It was then that I decided the next month I would have no hope. I would plan or it to fail and then it wouldn't be as painful when it did. So that next month I did it. I had zero hope and got a negative result again. That month, I was miserable and so incredibly unhappy. I realized that hope is happiness. Sure, hope might make the day that your hope is crushed a little more painful, but the whole rest of the month was so much happier. We have to have hope."
This hit me so hard. After losing Houston one, I was just confused. When we got pregnant with Houston 2, and saw his heartbeat and watched him on the ultrasound, I was SO happy. He was right on track with my pregnancy with Ben, so I knew this would happen then. And then he died, and it was one of the worst pains I've ever felt. I hated everything in life. I hated Ben for leaving me. I hated Zach for not being able to save the baby. I hated myself so freaking much, I can't even describe it. I was so done with even trying for a baby, because all we ever did was try and try and fail and fail and it was shredding me to pieces.
When we got pregnant with Houston 3, I was more depressed than ever. I told myself "don't get attached, don't take pictures. It's going to die. That's what happens." I told myself that for weeks. I tried to never get excited. And then when he died on New Year's day in one of my favorite restaurants, the agony was just as real.
I've done it both ways, hopeful, and not hopeful. In the end the baby always dies. But how many more good days could there have been had I been happier, rather than staying under my rain cloud?
"Many hardships in life are an event. They happen, they are devastating, then you begin the grieving process; denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and eventually, acceptance. When you live with infertility, you go through the process every month, and often times, you don't even have time to get all the way through before your next cycle comes."
You might find me on a good day. You'll usually find me on a day where I'm faking it really well. Then there are some days where I can't even try. The pain is so real. Losing 4 children? How can I be expected to survive this? How can I ever accept it when I know that no peace can be found without reclamation, aka a new baby? I know what could potentially be the ultimate fix, and I'm destroying myself further to get to it.
"I'm sorry. I am asked on a pretty regular basis what people can say or do to help, comfort and support friends or family members going through infertility. The short answer is to say I'm sorry: I'm sorry you're going through this, I'm sorry you have to experience this pain and heartache, I'm sorry your baby is not in your arms, I'm sorry that this totally isn't fair.
It's simple but it's powerful. It validates the hardship of infertility while also expressing your sympathies. To those who have never experienced infertility themselves, they often have no clue what to say. I love you doesn't have to be a grand gesture. So many amazing friends and family sent me flowers, randomly dropped off care packages, gave me a thoughtful piece of jewelry, sent a card, a simple text or phone call."
When I lost Ben, my front door was heart-attacked by the LDS Singles ward, people I didn't even know but who knew about me thanks to my brother in law. I received so many cookies. They were so good, and they filled me up for days. And I was so grateful to those people. Receiving cookies literally made my day, that's how low I was. There were also a lot of flowers. And one amazing woman, Andrea, gave me a card too. It was one you would find under the loss/grief section of Hallmark. The words, though generated to sympathize with death, happened to be the perfect description for what I was going through. I read that card a thousand times, thinking to myself, "finally, someone sees that this adoption has completely destroyed me. It's like he died." The human mind is not equip to deal with adoption. It sees it as infant loss. What once was there is now gone. And even when I see him now, it is not something my brain can compute. He is not the 27 hours old baby I held in my arms. He's this totally different person who is nothing like me. He is their child, because mine died after I walked out of that hospital.
If that seems too cruel of me to say, I hope you never have to experience this pain. It is life-altering. It's never ending.
Motherhood is near to divinity.
I am a mother of 4 beautiful children. One day, I'll get my 3 Houston's back. But not the child who's loss continues to rip at my soul every day.
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