Yesterday—which happened to be the day Easter fell—marked a year since we had Olivia dedicated at our church. I wish I would have blogged about it, but the Risa last year seemed to have dropped the ball. So here are some quick photos from that day:
She was REALLY excited to get her presents.
I was baptized as a baby in a Lutheran church. We’ve been attending a non-denomination church for the last few years and they do baby dedications maybe 4 times a year.
I don’t even really remember the specific service that it got hard to be there for. At our previous church, I do remember attending a few when we were first married and had started trying. It didn’t bother me then. I’d sit there in the pew, smiling and pointing out all the cute babies.
Somewhere along the way, as I began taking Clomid to try to get pregnant, not long before my blog was started, I approached the altar after a service with Chris and asked someone to pray for us.
As time went by, I started avoiding baby dedications. And I carried guilt with that. I mean, it wasn’t like I blamed these parents for having kids when I couldn’t. Besides, I’m more mature now in my journey and I know the likelihood that at least 1 or 2 of these babies came from struggle. But seeing the line of people along the front of the church only proved to be a reminder (one of many) that my own arms were empty.
For years after, I carefully made other plans on the weekend in order to avoid Dedication Sunday. Even when I was pregnant, I looked down at my belly as the announcement was made for the following week and and still.
Still I didn’t belong. Still I was overwhelmed.
Olivia’s own dedication was hard. I was to stand up there and declare to the church that my daughter would be raised to know God. It was a promise I was to make to the church to raise her in a Christian household. Instead, I was distracted. Because Adam should have been dedicated too. Because I stood up there missing a baby. Because one of my friends and fellow infertility small group member stood next to me with her husband, holding a daughter, but grieving a son as well. Because holding my daughter up there in front of everyone, I couldn’t get it out of my head that somewhere out in that audience were other people experiencing infertility. People who looked at me and wished they could have been anywhere but sitting in church, watching a baby dedication. People who’s arms were still empty.
So I was torn between being happy for my little family and wanting to cry and get off the stage.
It was about two months ago, when I was hit smack in the face of infertility PTSD.
I haven’t been back to another dedication since Olivia’s. But two months ago, at church, when I walked into the room and saw the line up of parents and the tell-tale screen running a slideshow of the babies, I stopped. Right in the aisle where I was following Chris to get a seat, I stopped. And I tried to catch up to him, to whisper a breathless plea to make him leave with me. But he didn’t hear me and I ended up following him, forcing one foot in front of the other. We sat down, and I leaned over him, trying to make myself heard over the music.
“I didn’t know they were doing this today.”
He looked at me. “Did you want to leave?” And I felt so unbelievably ridiculous about the whole thing. My daughter was in the nursery. I survived infertility. I had a baby. And only the force of what seemed like God Himself was keeping my butt on that chair.
Because I was freaking out, you guys. My heart was hammering, and tears were coming to my eyes and I wanted to get out of there. I wanted to run out. I’ve never experienced anything like that, and it was awful. It’s like my body had completely seized control over the rational part of my mind and was preparing for an imminent bear attack.
I sat through the service, gripping Chris’s hand. I sat there as the parents walked on stage with their children. I sat there as names were introduced, and a message given—the same exact thing that happened last year as I stood up there with Chris. But now I just sat there, crying quietly to myself because the pain and ache and ridiculousness and anger of infertility was rushing back to me and there was nothing I could do to stop it.
People that say post traumatic stress after infertility doesn’t exist are probably fertile. And assholes. Because I’m here, telling you that it is very much a thing.
Church ended, we picked up Olivia, and as I sat in the car for the drive home, I texted my two friends who would understand better than anyone.
I didn’t know they were doing baby dedications. It kind of caught me off guard.
What I wanted to say was this: I still can’t seem to get it together, you guys.
I want to tell you a little more about my PTSD. Because hey, I’ve never shied away from brutal honesty on here, right? Right? But that could fill a book. So stay tuned.
P.S. Please excuse any typos. The baby was fussing in her crib and making me type faster.
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I completely agree that there is infertility PTSD. I just had this conversation with a friend of mine who has a daughter thanks to treatment and she feels strongly that it is a powerful thing, whether you resolve with a child or not. I am so sorry, that experience sounded so hard — both the dedication you were a part of and the panic of being there when you didn’t want to be this year. It is overwhelming. It brings back all those feelings. I used to avoid driving past our old local clinic because my heart would hammer when I got close to the street and saw the red brick buildings. It’s real. And I’m sorry you are experiencing it, but so glad that you are writing about it. Because you’re right, anyone who says that doesn’t exist is probably fertile or in major denial, and it feeds the myth that having a baby “erases” infertility. It doesn’t. That is a grief and a pain that stays with you forever and can trigger at any time. Sending you peace and love as you heal from this trigger, and the flood of feelings, especially as you start thinking about possibly starting this whole thing again. Love to you.
Author
Oh yes, driving around by my old clinic… that brings on some weird feelings too. Thank you so much for this comment. I so appreciate it.
Your feelings are absolutely valid, and that is a real thing. The pro-family/kids aspect of church can be super painful. It’s totally okay to skip out when you need to too. I have a lot of anxiety around church. It’s not all IF-related, but that’s part of the equation.
Author
It is. And I’m so thankful because for the last month, they’ve mentioned baby loss or infertility every time. I don’t know what’s going on, but I appreciate it.
On Mother’s Day, which used to be the worst, the preacher mentions infertility and loss as well which I am so glad to know they acknowledge it.
Author
I’m so happy our church is mentioning it more and more.
I believe it because I’ve experienced it, too. Different triggers, but I am suddenly panicking, even if I’m not still in the same situation or even the same person I was during the trauma. Life has changed, but certain situations have the ability to throw me backwards, emotionally. Sending a hug.
Author
Yes! Ugh, it sucks. I’m so glad I have people here who get it.
Different situation here too, but the same panic attack reaction – it’s a horrible feeling, and I’m so sorry you got hit with it. Sending lots of hugs too.
Author
Thank you! <3
Infertility PTSD is very real. I live with it and though the waves of panic and anxiety are far less and the triggers more well defined, when it hits it still leaves me reeling.
The first step in all of this is acknowledging you’re not crazy/selfish/cowardly/awful. You are none of these. But baby dedications may need to be avoided. Not because you’re awful but because it’s a trigger. It may not always be, but for now protecting your heart is the more important than others’ feelings.
Author
Agreed. At least for awhile.
Infetility is like the Hotel California; you can check out any time you like, but you can never leave. It hit me last Mother’s Day. I was pissed off because I kept osilating between feelings of ‘Finally! this is my day to celebrate!’ and ‘I can’t celebrate because I remember how shitty it is to be infertile on Mother’s Day’. It didn’t help that my Husband and my mother barely acknowledged that it was my first mother’s day, but my fertile friend Myrtle sent me a small gift. She may have been clueless when it came to dealing for infertility, but somehow she knew I would need support at that moment.
I think the other issue that hits at times other than PTSD is Survivor’s Guilt. Feeling like why was I so lucky when others still get shit on. I think back to the last scene in Saving Private Ryan, when Tom Hanks is telling Matt Damon to ‘earn it”
Author
Yes! Mother’s Day by far I have the hardest time with. And I think it’s a lot of survivor’s guilt.
Oh my goodness, yes. Infertility PTSD is absolutely real. I’m so sorry for your experience. I have experienced that myself many times, and the depth of the emotion always shocks me. I just don’t know if it’s something we’ll ever get “over,” you know? I think time will ease the sting, maybe. Thank you for sharing so openly.
Author
I think so, too. At least, I hope so.
First off I love seeing your baby in your arms. Its so beautiful! You are on of the bloggers I connected with when we were both knee deep in those trenches.
PTSD. Sigh. So I have 3 kids now and 1 more boy on ice (all boys over here.) the thing that triggers me is boy/girl twins that survive, but still, for the love of all things holy, PREGNANCY announcements! I think I lived in such fear of these dumb things popping up all over the place that when I hear one, my first honest gut reaction is jealousy and panic…then I remember I have 3 kids. It’s insane. I think you are right-its like our bodies just take over. I can control it now and reel it in, but it really is insane that that panicy sadness sneaks in. I am so grateful to be on this side though and I just want to hug all those around us fighting <3
Author
Right back at you, girl. And yes, I can SO imagine that pain of being triggered with B/G twins and pregnancy announcements. Our bodies TOTALLY take over and I hate how there’s no feeling of control over it.
Oh Risa, my friend, I’m so sorry you were blindsided by this at church. It’s so hard when our emotions take over and there’s nothing we can do about it. Big hugs from me!
Author
Aww thank you, friend!
I still avoid church on Mother’s Day. I like our church and we go every week but, like all the other well-intentioned churches I’ve belonged to in my life, the priest will ask all the mothers to stand so we can bless them.
He will go so far as to have all the women stand (which as an awkward teenager is brutal – side note). And I remember those times if being the childless woman standing there, pushing back the tears. And I can’t do it. I get it. Baptisms are held after masses so I don’t have to avoid them as you would, but I get it. And I will be enjoying my Mother’s Day at home this year.
Author
Oh that’s just so hard. That’s why I avoided going for so many years, but I’m grateful our church is getting better. Hugs friend.
I needed to read this as the past year in our coming up on 6 years and counting of infertility has made me wonder if I have some trauma from over 10 rounds of IVF and multiple rounds of fertility drugs, acupuncture, nutritionists etc ending in 2 back to back miscarriages with donor eggs this year. I’ve wondered over the past year if something has broken in me as I get anxious, angry, upset at situations and things I was able to ignore before.
I seem to now be physically unable to put myself in situations where new babies/ announcements/ talk of raising babies is plentiful. Especially with family on both sides. I simply can’t do it and when I do it’s like I’m frozen. I get angry over things I’ve no right to, sister in law having a baby at 44 after over 10 year struggle with fertility ( they had one after 5 years following IVF at 38), this recent one at 44 was a surprise, which sent me at having just turned 40 into a spiral of pulling out of donor eggs to go to nutritionists/ acupuncture and blaming myself, only now thinking they most likely did donor eggs but aren’t admitting it, and feeling angry at them.
Following this moved to donor eggs which resulted in two donor egg miscarriages. We are now contemplating signing up for new donor new cycle but I’m frozen with fear at more miscarriages, the end of the road and all our savings emptied. Donor went awol and I’m slightly relieved at space it’s giving. I’m 42 and if it worked now I’d be 43 having it feeling our ship has sailed. Feel sick, anxious and constantly on the watch for triggers to avoid them, becoming very reclusive, long post I know but yours hit home and tells me after 5 years my head and body are possibly reacting from trauma this year.
Author
Oh my gosh, Love. You have experienced so much trauma. I totally get the needing to avoid showers and kids’ birthday parties. I didn’t attend any of them after the first few were such disasters and even now, with having a child, I still have such a hard time. Sending you big virtual hugs. Please send me an email if you want to talk further. <3