I’m always hesitant to read the public comments on my articles, especially the vulnerable ones — the ones where it could have an unpopular opinion — because while I’ve grown thicker skin through the years of writing publically, it can still be a jab to read something where you’ve just poured your heart out and someone thinks you’re basically an awful human being.
For what it’s worth, I’ve gotten much worse, you guys. I’ve gotten comments attacking the very core of who I am, comments that my daughter should never have been born (rude), comments that I’m mentally unstable (probably mostly true), comments that I’m a lazy pig (that memorable one was from an article years ago where I talked about how much I didn’t shower when Olivia was first born, so OK, that one was probably sort of accurate as well). So I’ve learned to take things with a grain of salt.
The comments on this article were mostly supportive, a lot coming from those who could directly relate to parenting after infertility. The article was discussing the fact that I’m a parent now, yet am still struggling with infertility. It was hard to write and I went through a few rounds of edits on my own so I wouldn’t come off as a total pathetic loser. **
But there was one comment that struck me, and I wanted to address it here, one because I like to overshare, and two, I don’t think I’ve talked too much about it on this blog. This is what she wrote (I’ve made the words bigger below):
“No no no no no! Just No!
Like so many women I went through the hell of infertility and the pain of an unsuccessful cycle. We got our beautiful little boy on our last attempt and the relief was overwhelming. We wanted to try again but found I was in heart failure and had to have my 3rd open heart surgery then that it was too risky for me to carry again.
I feel so incredibly blessed to have my boy by whatever means. There are women out there that have tried everything, exhausted their finances, put their body through hell and still don’t have a baby at the end of it.
The woman in this article has 2 children yet she’s still unhappy and is still dwelling on her situation. I don’t get it I’m afraid. I don’t think this woman has any idea how many other women have been through the same thing- the reality is so much more than she could imagine. Feeling sorry for yourself when you’ve got two beautiful children at the end of it all makes you sound entitled and ungrateful.
Honestly, I still get a little pang of wishing it was me when one of my friends announces another pregnancy but its nowhere near what it was before my son was here.
Learn to appreciate what you have. There are women who would give anything to be in your position.”
Again, I’ve been called much worse than “entitled and ungrateful.” The comment itself didn’t hurt me in the least. But it spurred up a lot of thoughts about this — ones I felt I needed to address.
I get where she’s coming from, really I do. I understand it most from the viewpoint of my life before Olivia. In fact, I can even think of my life in two parts: Before Infertility and After Infertility. That period of my life was hard. And that’s the most underenthused way I could possibly put it. (That’s probably not even a word, so we can add “moron” to the mix of things I’ve been called.)
Life was hard. Physically, I gained about 30 pounds from the stress eating and exercise restrictions during the five IVF cycles it took to stay pregnant. Mentally, I sucked at self-care and refused to see a therapist because I thought blogging was a form of therapy in and of itself. I was Gritting My Teeth Through It every single day. I lived and breathed infertility and infertility treatments. Many of you following along from the beginning know how obsessed focused I was on getting pregnant. It was the worst thing I had ever gone through. Nothing else came close. Because when you want a baby more than anything else in the world and you aren’t getting one despite every scientific breakthrough possible, it fucks you up in ways you could never imagine if you’ve never experienced it yourself.
And so I thought, if could just have a baby, everything will be OK.
All of this will be worth it if I could just stay pregnant.
Once I’m holding my baby, this fucking ridiculous nightmare will be over.
And then — I got pregnant. I stayed pregnant. And my entire pregnancy was a bewildered sort of holy shit skoanegfnvdsjngjekrhtu4hfdinkxfjgheulihiodvnhe for nine straight months. Because there was a part of me going into that last cycle that thought it wasn’t going to work. A part of me already making plans for how I would get through life without a child. I would have survived, of course. I would have gone on. But it was something I both couldn’t fathom, and yet felt myself already grieving from.
“I don’t think this woman has any idea how many other women have been through the same thing- the reality is so much more than she could imagine. Feeling sorry for yourself when you’ve got two beautiful children at the end of it all makes you sound entitled and ungrateful.”
But I think so many of things I’m still working through deals with exactly this. I’m never going to know exactly what it feels like had Olivia never came. But I know what it felt like for me to be facing the end of the road. Something I was incredulous about. We sunk tens of thousands of dollars into treatments, I wrecked my body, and even went as far as traveling across the country to try donor eggs and holy fuck, I STILL CAN’T GET PREGNANT. Entitled and ungrateful — I may be biased, but — I could never call myself those things. Hey! Listen, I’m so grateful. I’m so incredibly grateful every day beyond words for this miracle given to me. I remember many days, especially in the first year where I would stare at my daughter, tears blurring her image because I almost didn’t have those moments. Even now, when she crawls into my lap and I hold her, I’m struck with this sense of Wow. This is really my life now.
And then with that comes the hard stuff. The messy emotions of holding my daughter and still being unable to handle pregnancy announcements. The bitterness that’s still lingering when I hear about how someone got pregnant so easily.
This is my point I want to drive home. Infertility is a trauma. It’s an incredibly traumatic event and while some can bounce back when they have a baby, I’m willing to bet there’s plenty of people in my shoes. Struggling. Dealing with symptoms of PTSD. Not able to open a baby shower invite without a stab in their heart and then feel guilty because they got what they wanted and they can’t just be fucking grateful.
Yes, it’s possible to be both incredibly grateful for what you’ve been given, and still battle internal demons that infertility has left you with.
I wish I could say my life turned out like this commenter’s. I wish I could say I was healed when my daughter was placed on my chest. I wish I didn’t have to dwell on the craptastic feelings of lingering infertility. I wish with all my being that I could “just be grateful for what I have” and that’s it. Period. I wish that the six years of loss, negative cycles, anger, bitterness, grief, and unending desire for a baby just went away. Poof. How wonderful would that be?
The thing is, infertility doesn’t just go away. It just doesn’t. Of course, back in the day, I thought it would. I thought it would be a distant memory and it wouldn’t matter anymore. And I think you can’t possibly prepare for the messiness of being a parent after so much loss until you actually get there. The fact that some can heal and move on from that? Amazing.
But that’s not how it works for a lot of us. And I’ve talked with multiple therapists as a journalist on the trauma of infertility. It’s not talked about too much, but it’s out there. It’s real. And it matters.
Now that I’m pregnant with my second, I must look even more like an asshole. I mean, shit, I went from none to having TWO. Two beautiful little girls and I tell Chris all the time how in awe I am that this is actually my life.
But I’m still infertile. And no matter how many kids you have, those feelings may not go away. At least not for a while. Because infertility, when it comes down to it, takes away your choices for your family, whether you want one child or six.
For me, my journey is ending with the birth of this next baby. There will be no more. And while I’m so thankful for the two babies I was given, infertility is still there.
It’s there in the fact that I can laugh with my OB when he brings up the idea of birth control knowing what it took to get these babies.
It’s there in the fact that I’ve never once gotten pregnant on my own.
It’s there in the fact that I’m 33 years old and I will continue to have sex with my husband, knowing there’s no chance I’ll ever be pregnant again.
It’s there, you guys. And if this is you too, if these are feelings you share, you don’t need to feel guilty. You don’t need to feel bad that you have a child, or you’ve completed your family, or it took one IVF instead of seven and you’re struggling. Infertility is a bitch. And there’s no one-size-fits-all when it comes to “getting over it.” Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.
**I’ve also been called this in the comments section of an article as well.
Oh man Risa. I’m so glad you wrote this. Because this is me. I’m that “entitled and ungrateful” person the commenter is talking about. Because I have 5 kids, everyone assumes it was all easy for me, that it happens easily as soon as I want it to. Nevermind that if you do the math, it took 20 years to get them, those aren’t real good odds right there. Nevermind the struggles and the loss that happened.
It’s been almost a year since my last miscarriage. I’m 41. I know my 5th baby was my last. But I can’t seem to come to peace with that. When I sit and think about it, all those feelings of anger over the losses and the years of IF bubble up to the surface and I want to punch something. Because it wasn’t fair that I had 8 years of IF taken away from me and now I’ve just run out of time. That my last successful pregnancies were robbed of a lot of the joy thanks to loss, and how much I really wish I had a do-over.
For some reason yesterday was a really bad day for me, and I was triggered by someone I followed (past tense, I had to mute the account) on IG who was posting her 6-week pregnancy ultrasound with twins and all the joy it being her 7th and 8th babies and everything about it gutted me, from the excitement of her other kids, to getting that news on an early ultrasound as opposed to the doom I know, to not being afraid to talk about a pregnancy that early to the world because she has no idea what loss is like (not that I wish she did…just comparing knowing loss vs not).
Sorry to highjack your comment section here. It’s just that this post was timely and man, girl do I feel ya on this. I wish I could be different and just get over things. And I end up feeling broken all over again because I can’t.
(((Hugs)))
Thank you for this post and for your honesty! I’m currently in the trenches of infertility (just had my second egg retrieval) and probably my biggest worry is what life after infertility will be like. What if parenting is even harder? Will it all be worth it? How will this experience change me as a person? Your complex and vulnerable writing has helped me understand that it will be complicated and of course the trauma won’t just disappear if and when I become a parent. That commenter is wrong to dismiss you and fall into the trap of comparing your pain to someone else’s. Just because there are other women who don’t have success from IVF doesn’t mean your experience isn’t valid. Please keep writing about infertility and life afterwards…it means the world to someone like me.
I am glad you mentioned wondering ‘What if parenting is even harder?’. I was so focused on all of the treatments and just getting the baby that I had to stop myself to think about what life would be like if we actually got the baby. That’s a whole other ball of wax..whew! haha But it is good!! Prayers you get your baby soon 🙂
YES YES YES YES. “Infertility is trauma”. That point is everything. I am honestly not sure when the PTSD from infertility will go away for me. My husband casually announces pregnancy announcements to me and I have to remind him that, wait, those still aren’t easy for me. They still take my breath away, still stab me in the gut because that’s how I’ve been programmed to respond. Yes I have two kids and am pregnant with my third, but I have spent 12 years dealing with infertility, 7 of those years with negative tests month after month after month before we entered the incredibly rocky ups and downs of treatment and failed cycles and miscarriages, and that trauma was REAL. I am glad that some women, like the one who commented, don’t struggle with this as deeply as I do, but man, be kind to those who do. It is not fun to feel this way every time you see a pregnant woman or hear a new announcement! I am literally scared that I will still be jealous of pregnant women when I am 50, and I just so hope that it won’t be the case and I’ll be free of it (I should probably invest in some counseling to get there…)
Amen. Thank you for writing this.
I am different Rose from prior writer.
EACH PERSON GETS TO FEEL THEIR OWN FEELINGS. Other people need to learn to stop judging someone else’s feelings. A major mental health issue comes from being taught to stuff and ignore and not acknowledge one’s own feelings. We feel what we feel. YOU ARE BEING AUTHENTIC. That isn’t easy. But it is important.
Anyone who doesn’t feel like you do can go read some place else.
You were not boasting about your ‘perfect feelings”, you did not say ANYONE ELSE had those feelings, you simply said this was your personal reaction and your personal feelings. Feeling sometimes change over time and sometimes they do not change. In either case they are YOUR feelings and what and how you feel is not ever another person’s to judge. They can say THEIR experience or/and feelings are/were different; their feelings are what their feelings are. Feelings are not right or wrong. BUT, ACTIONS …. well, different topic. Taking actions to shame or blame or wrong foot another person … that reflects on the person acting not the person being acted upon.
I don’t even know where to start but every single person in this world is different which means we all have different feelings, thoughts and opinions. So there is nothing ungrateful or entitled at all about you in having YOUR OWN feelings. Stupidness ugh!
1st, that person sucks because everyone handles a similar situation differently and emotionally processes events differently but I think you are more the norm than someone that was just happy with what they got and moved one.
2nd infertility blows and no one understands unless they’ve been there.
3rd I am right there with you on the emotional toll of infertility is your life no matter how many kids you have. It also makes you parent differently. I have two beautiful girls after years of struggle and at 44 when you should be over baby fever, I’m still sad every month. Especially since my entire youth my cycle was totally f’d up and NOW it’s regular. WTF.
And finally, you are an awesome person, don’t doubt yourself and I can’t wait to see baby queso and her big sister together. {Hugs}
I have been reading your blog for quite a while now, and I have found it very soothing during my never-ending infertility journey. I never found you ungrateful – all the contrary! Yet I have mixed feelings about this last post of yours. So for once I am going to share my experience: I have a chronic autoimmune condition, I went through 7 IVF cycles with my eggs and (and so many frozen transfers I event forgot the exact number). I then moved to egg donor, we ended up with only 3 embryos. 2 were transferred, one implanted. My son was born at 28 weeks (I had a severe preclampsya). he spent 4 months in NICU, had all sort of problems including a stroke affecting the brain… he is now perfectly healthy ( the neurologists told us it was a miracle to have a total recovery in such desperate conditions). We recently tried to transfer the last embryo we had and the beta came out negative. And you know what? it sucks, but it sucks 1 million times less that with all my previous negative betas. Because now I have him, he’s my son, my miracle baby, he is real, he is with me and I am his mother. Yes, infertility is a trauma, yes everyone gets to feel their feeling differently and yes we remain infertile even after becoming mothers, but … if it works at least once, we become mothers, and that is a complete game changer. At least for me. No matter how much infertility traumatized me (and my path to motherhood was clearly not an easy one), I now am a mother. I made it. at least once. There are so many women out there who have gone through as much as me and still live in a empty house. Still are longing for what I have. Of course being very stressed/worried during your second viable pregnancy does not make you ungrateful. And no-one should feel guilty for being fertile or for having successful fertility treatments. However, to get over the PTSD that infertility leaves us with, I think we need to start by putting things in perspective. You will be infertile all your life, right? yet you have children. You wont get pregnant naturally, right? and yet you have children. You have depleted your bank account and put on weight, right? and yet you have children. which is a huuuuge achievement given your medical history. Sometimes we need to zoom out from our feelings and recognize that some problems are bigger than others and some struggles are harder than others. We need to learn how to dose our emotions and energy more wisely, focusing on the good things we have, rather than on those we want and still don’t have….
I think it’s the terms we use – infertility is a catchall for struggling to concieve but there are actually two pieces to it: (1) fear/potential of childlessness and (2) emotional trauma.
Sure, the fear of childlessness is now gone but the emotional trauma? Still all there, raging away.
Thank you for writing this! It’s so important to put a voice to this community.
I’m sorry about that comment. Boo. I’ve gotten a couple comments on my blog that hurt and bothered me. Yeah you can definitely bd both grateful and still have the wounds of infertility!
I don’t usually leave comments but wanted to be another voice of support. I get it. I have 3 boys through IVF – a singleton and twins – and I STILL struggle with being infertile sometimes. For me it has mostly been the fact that when people ask if I want a 4th (because apparently I MUST want a girl after 3 boys), I have the realization that even if I did want one more, it isn’t really an option because of the expense of IVF and the fact that my boys were born prematurely and we were told a subsequent pregnancy would more than likely also end in a premature birth (perhaps earlier and with less amazing long-term outcomes). It absolutely can co-exist for me; the gratitude for my 3 boys: what an amazing resolution! But also the sense of loss that none of this came easy, my pregnancies were fraught with worry and ended in premature deliveries and weeks (my first) and months (my twins) in the NICU.
Thank you for writing this! Humans are complex and very few of us live in the black and white world that apparently this commenter lives in. Gratitude co-exists among the other shiz we carry around.
After 2 years of infertility and failed IUI’s we were on our way to IVF (consents signed, just waiting for my period) and I shockingly found out I was pregnant. Of COURSE I was grateful, despite the fact that it turned me into a cliche (“see! You relaxed!” No no no no no). However, the challenge I’m getting now that my daughter is almost 1 is that every single person in my life assumes that since I got pregnant “naturally”, that it’ll be a piece of cake the 2nd time and the “it’s time for another!” or “when are you going to try for the 2nd?” comments are rolling in (which, please people – can’t this stuff just be between a girl and her husband?!). My family and friends and strangers have no idea how much these questions and comments paralyze me. Sure my journey wasn’t as long as other peoples, I didn’t have to do IVF, I do have my daughter, and I marvel at her and shout all the praises every.single.day but the thought of going back to what I call “the dark place” terrifies me. More than one doctor told us that the chances of us conceiving on our own were between 1-3%. Does my body know what to do now? Or is she simply a literal miracle? I simply don’t know and it drives me insane.
The point I’m trying to make is that no matter how long or hard the journey, if you’ve visited the dark place, that shit NEVER leaves you. I don’t have any illusion that I can space my kids however it pleases me. I don’t confidently use the words “When we have another…”. My crazy brain is already going down the rabbit hole of scenarios.
If anything, I think it effects you differently the second time around because now you DO know what you’re missing!
It NEVER leaves you. Ever. And I’d dare to say that because of that, I’m even MORE grateful for what I do have and a bit more compassionate to those facing it – no matter how many kids they currently have. <3
I’m late to this party, but reading that comment brought up a lot of thoughts and emotions. Honestly, despite the commenter claiming that she’s resolved and happy, it’s clear she’s not. I think this is something she’s telling herself in order to process that her family building was cut short prematurely. Her attacking you is her way of putting a band-aid on the trauma she’s experiencing and not processing. Honestly, it breaks my heart.
I agree with you that infertility is trauma. Being unable to conceive taps into something very primal. As much as we’d love to believe that healing comes with giving birth and taking home the baby we fought so hard for, the reality is it is also just a band-aid. Healing requires a ton of work and time.
Thinking of you as your process all of this. On still on this journey myself
I agree with Cristy- it is obvious that the woman says that she is okay, but clearly is not. We all process IF differently and all have different journeys. I’m sorry that she left such a sh*tty comment.
Post-infertility for me is not with a baby But I’ve always thought that it was unfair to insist that every infertile woman who has a baby should not be allowed to complain about the realities of their parenting life, to grieve what they lost, to wish it had been different. They/you shouldn’t have to be forever grateful. It’s just not realistic. (However, we do hope you remember what it is to feel grief, and remain open to the losses experienced by those who weren’t so lucky.)
Likewise, my life isn’t abject misery, any more than yours is 100% “happily ever after.” As you say, injury from earlier journeys travel with us. And even when we heal and blossom in our new lives, we are forever changed.