Last week, just before I woke up, I had a racy dream. It was the kind that – if I hadn’t had to get up for work – I would have coaxed Buddy out of sleep for some frisky cuddling and maybe a little somethin’ somethin’. Instead, my first thought was “ha, like that would happen.” By the time I got out of bed, I was near tears and stayed that way all day. You see, there’s just not a lot of sex going on in our house lately, and it’s been almost as emotionally difficult for me as the IF stuff has.
To be honest, we haven’t always been super active in the bedroom, even as newlyweds. We were always a twice a week couple, maybe more in the very early days. Sunday mornings especially used to be guaranteed to start off with some loving. But when it came to ovulation and my fertile week, we always got the job done with sex every other day or even every day. There was only one cycle I can think of where I counted our chances as zero because of bad timing. Still, outside my fertile week, our sex life was more about quality than quantity.
And then, we were given our MFI diagnosis. Since then, much has changed. We’ve gone the length of an entire “textbook” cycle without a single act of intimacy… on two occasions. Buddy isn’t interested in anything. He has no urges and no desires. I don’t know if it’s the blow to the ego or the suspected low testosterone (he’s supposed to schedule an appointment for testing by Friday) that’s driving it, or both, but it’s got me feeling downright undesired.
It’s a rough situation to be in. I love my husband more than anyone in the world, and wouldn’t want to not be having sex with anyone else. His mental and emotional well-being is of the utmost importance to me. I can only imagine how much the MFI diagnosis stung for him, and I’d do anything in my power to make that not hurt. That said, I still have urges, and I miss my sex life. I miss eye contact lasting a little longer, a kiss being a little deeper. I miss everything about seduction and foreplay and the act itself. I miss pleasing him and being pleased. I miss my Sunday morning sex. I miss my lover.
I know it could be easy for people to say “maybe something’s wrong in your marriage that you’re not owning up to.” It’s not the case. Nothing else is different. I still get many kisses and hugs each day. He still asks and listens about my day and praises my cooking. He helps with the dogs and cleans my car weekly. On the surface, life is unchanged. But behind the bedroom door, there’s a black hole of intimacy. He acknowledges it and feels awful about it. The rejection has been the most difficult thing. I’ve tried all I can think of to get things going, and the lack of interest is really hard. I try very hard not to blame him because I know he doesn’t want it to be this way, but sometimes it’s all I can do to not want to shout, “just suck it up and let’s do this!” It’s sometimes hard not to withhold non-sexual affection and cop an attitude when I feel my intimate needs aren’t being met, but that would be hurtful and my intention is never to hurt my husband.
We’re 4 weeks from our second anniversary, and this year has certainly been harder than the first. IF has taken away a lot of the bliss that was supposed to come with that relatively easy second year (our first year was amazing, BTW, but if it was supposed to be the hardest, this one should have been like walking on a cloud). I didn’t imagine a year ago that I’d be feeling so lonely, on top of everything else. I never expected that rather than engaging in morning sex, I’d be preoccupied with mourning sex.
Monday, September 19, 2011
Thursday, September 8, 2011
Childfree vs. Childless
I recently posted on the board on The Knot that I frequented very regularly when Buddy and I were engaged. An old reg noticed my forum signature - which has similar info to the sidebar with our diagnoses - and asked what it meant. I believe my response was something along the lines of "it means we have are having a difficult time getting pregnant and due to some other circumstances, we're currently moving on and trying to come to terms with a childfree life." A pretty decent, yet shallow, explanation for someone not familiar with fertility, and it seemed to be enough of an explanation for her, as she expressed condolences and the discussion moved on.
A bit later, I checked back, and another old reg - one who I've never had a conflict with yet we're not really friendly, either - said that "childfree" isn't the proper word to use for our circumstance and that we're instead "childless." I explained that there is a board on The Bump that was labeled "Child Free Not by Choice" and that the phrasing had been chosen - from what I remember - to reflect that though the posters there wanted children, they were unable to do so, and thus "enjoy" the merits (extra disposable income, uninterrupted sleep, freedom to travel, etc) of a childfree life. I believe that "childless" was avoided as it implied there was something lacking or negative in the connotation.
The old reg counter-pointed that those who were truly "childfree" were so because they chose the lifestyle and didn't feel there was anything lacking in not having children. To couples who are in this way childfree, the term emphasizes the free choice to not have/raise a family, and should only be used for couples in their situation, and not for couples in mine. I respected her opinion and explanation and promised to be mindful of my terminology.
Here's the thing, while I don't disagree with her, it's very hard to refer to ourselves as "childless." It feels so negative, and so permanent. It makes me think of a sad couple who've missed out on life with children and haven't had any joys to balance the sorrow. Though we are sad now, I have hope that with time, life without children will feel fulfilling. I think we'll always feel as though we're missing something, and perhaps even the "childfree" couples will have moments where it can be admitted that the presence of a child could add to the experience. I don't know. I've never not wanted them, and this old reg has never wanted them and/or had problems having them. I can't truly understand her view, and she can't understand mine.
I just feel it's kind of a sensitive subject, but I get that it's more than just a difference of semantics. I may get flamed for this, but it reminds me somewhat of the use of the term "marriage" among gay couples. There are the staunchly conservative and heterosexual couples who, like the old reg, feel the term should be theirs and theirs alone because of the way it's defined somewhere (in the case of "marriage," the Bible is cited). On the other hand, there are the committed and loving gay couples who, like me feel that their feelings are every bit as legit and see the end result is the same, so the label should be as well. This might be a stretch, but I do see some similarity in the two situations.
I haven't decided how I really feel about it. On the one hand, I want to be respectful of the "childfree" couples and the of their lifestyle, and on the other hand, I want the right to label us as we see fit. I feel that at some point, every couple without children has to make a decision about their "childfree" life. For some, it's prior to marriage (I assume) and is just a way of life from day 1. For others, it's a decision made often after testing and treatments and hours of thinking and thousands of dollars and tears shed to not move forward and to move on. In the end, none of use have children, and we're all in the same boat. I feel it can be transitional. At this time, we are "childless." Once we make our final decision, don't we become "childfree," since we made a free choice to accept the hand that's been dealt and make the most of it?
What do you think about the "childfree" vs. "childless" distinction? How do you define those couples who are with out children but not for lack of trying and wanting?
A bit later, I checked back, and another old reg - one who I've never had a conflict with yet we're not really friendly, either - said that "childfree" isn't the proper word to use for our circumstance and that we're instead "childless." I explained that there is a board on The Bump that was labeled "Child Free Not by Choice" and that the phrasing had been chosen - from what I remember - to reflect that though the posters there wanted children, they were unable to do so, and thus "enjoy" the merits (extra disposable income, uninterrupted sleep, freedom to travel, etc) of a childfree life. I believe that "childless" was avoided as it implied there was something lacking or negative in the connotation.
The old reg counter-pointed that those who were truly "childfree" were so because they chose the lifestyle and didn't feel there was anything lacking in not having children. To couples who are in this way childfree, the term emphasizes the free choice to not have/raise a family, and should only be used for couples in their situation, and not for couples in mine. I respected her opinion and explanation and promised to be mindful of my terminology.
Here's the thing, while I don't disagree with her, it's very hard to refer to ourselves as "childless." It feels so negative, and so permanent. It makes me think of a sad couple who've missed out on life with children and haven't had any joys to balance the sorrow. Though we are sad now, I have hope that with time, life without children will feel fulfilling. I think we'll always feel as though we're missing something, and perhaps even the "childfree" couples will have moments where it can be admitted that the presence of a child could add to the experience. I don't know. I've never not wanted them, and this old reg has never wanted them and/or had problems having them. I can't truly understand her view, and she can't understand mine.
I just feel it's kind of a sensitive subject, but I get that it's more than just a difference of semantics. I may get flamed for this, but it reminds me somewhat of the use of the term "marriage" among gay couples. There are the staunchly conservative and heterosexual couples who, like the old reg, feel the term should be theirs and theirs alone because of the way it's defined somewhere (in the case of "marriage," the Bible is cited). On the other hand, there are the committed and loving gay couples who, like me feel that their feelings are every bit as legit and see the end result is the same, so the label should be as well. This might be a stretch, but I do see some similarity in the two situations.
I haven't decided how I really feel about it. On the one hand, I want to be respectful of the "childfree" couples and the of their lifestyle, and on the other hand, I want the right to label us as we see fit. I feel that at some point, every couple without children has to make a decision about their "childfree" life. For some, it's prior to marriage (I assume) and is just a way of life from day 1. For others, it's a decision made often after testing and treatments and hours of thinking and thousands of dollars and tears shed to not move forward and to move on. In the end, none of use have children, and we're all in the same boat. I feel it can be transitional. At this time, we are "childless." Once we make our final decision, don't we become "childfree," since we made a free choice to accept the hand that's been dealt and make the most of it?
What do you think about the "childfree" vs. "childless" distinction? How do you define those couples who are with out children but not for lack of trying and wanting?
Monday, August 29, 2011
A letter to my friends
I've written this letter over the past couple of weeks, and it's essentially what I wish I could say to my friends when they ask about when we're starting a family, how things are going, etc. It's basically everything I wish I could say if I had the time and their attention, and if I felt brave enough to be truly honest with my friends about what's in my head.
Dear Friend,
I may or may not have shared this with you, but Buddy and I have a sort of secret. We are two of 7 million Americans (one in eight couples) with fertility issues. Both of us are affected – not only do we each have our own issue, but even if it was just one of us, we’d still be in the same place. One of us can’t make a baby without the other, so we’re in this together. We’ve been through testing, we have diagnoses. We have a realistic understanding of our options and our chances. What’s going on isn’t a result of not relaxing or not doing something right or not wanting or praying hard enough. It isn’t about timing, positions, or old wives’ tales. It can’t be fixed by adopting or not trying. I know it seems that everyone knows someone who got pregnant when they stopped trying or started the adoption process, but it’s not the case for everyone. Adoption is not in our cards, nor is IVF. Buddy and I have made a decision we feel is right for us - as hard as it may be - for the time being, and that’s to not move forward with any testing or treatment. Because of fear of miscarriage made more likely by my issue, we are actively avoiding pregnancy while not in the care of a specialist. We are in full agreement in this decision, and it’s a necessary break to get us to a point where we can re-evaluate if we will be trying again.
Please understand that though we made this decision together, it wasn’t easy and it’s still very raw. There is a lot of grief in our home right now. Our hearts are heavy. My emotions are intense and irrational at times. There are good days and awful days. I want you to know, friend, that despite all this, I am happy for you as you grow your family. I am excited for you as you announce your pregnancy, and I look forward to spoiling your child and seeing you as a mom. That said, it isn’t easy for me to watch you experience things I long for. I fear I won’t get to tell my husband we’re expecting, see the ultrasound, hear the heartbeat. I may never get to decorate a nursery, feel the baby move, or give birth and hear that first tiny cry. My husband may never be a father, and my parents may never have grandchildren that aren’t my sister’s kids. So while I am happy for you, dear friend, my heart aches when I see your announcements on Facebook. Baby shower invitations make tears spring to my eyes. Pictures and videos of your little one, though sweet and appreciated, often make a lump rise in my throat. Little moments and glimpses into your life as a mom-to-be can make a good day go bad in a matter of seconds through no fault of your own.
My goal through all of this has been to grieve privately, and celebrate your joy publicly. It doesn’t always work that way, though. While I may not appear sad when you show me pictures or share something cute your husband said about the baby, inside I’m just holding it together. I would never want to take away from your moment. I will not skip baby showers, and I will not dismiss you as a friend for having what I desire. But sometimes, I need time. Sometimes, I may cry – know that if I do so in front of you, it means I trust you with my feelings of grief. Please understand that if I have to walk away or take a day to myself, it isn’t because I don’t love you. It’s because I need that for me. I’m constantly torn between not wanting to be handled with kid gloves, and needing some sensitivity. I don’t want you to not feel free to express your joy and share this experience with me, but I need you to know that sometimes it’s too much and I need a minute, an hour, a day to hash it out. I’m very conscious of my fear of becoming jealous or “bitter.” I’m not asking you to change how you express your happiness and share your family experiences, just to have a little awareness and understanding of how I may react if my emotions get to me. Because it truly is a case of “it’s not you, it’s me.”
There may be times when I withdraw into myself. I go through periods of days or even a week or two where the safest place for my emotions is within me. I may not call to hang out, or talk or text. I may be vague on Facebook. I may just be generally distant. It doesn’t mean I don’t want to talk to you or hang out, I just feel that I lack the energy and motivation to make the effort. I want to spend time with you, chat, and have lunch. Sometimes, though, I feel that I’m experiencing more reminders of our infertility and keeping to myself means less opportunities for that to happen. Sometimes, not talking about IF is achieved by not talking, period. So please, don’t mistake my distance for lack of care. Your friendship is still important to me. I’m just being guarded, and I’ll come around if you just give me time.
I value you, friend. I’m excited for you, and happy for your family. That happiness for you is a distinct emotion from my sadness, yet the former often reminds me of the latter. I will do my best to be a supportive and loving friend as you prepare for and experience motherhood. Just please understand that I am mourning something I never had, and even if Buddy and I are successful in having a baby one day, this will have forever changed us. We’ve already had to accept many changes since we started trying to start a family. I fear that everything will change, in fact, including my friendship with you. I worry immensely that you being a mom and raising your family will create a divide between us. I don’t want to lose my friends, too. I don’t want to be left out and left behind. Both Buddy and I want to be special people in your kids’ lives and spoil them and love them, as we know you would do for our children.
Thank you for being a supportive and wonderful part of my life.
Always,
Brooke
Dear Friend,
I may or may not have shared this with you, but Buddy and I have a sort of secret. We are two of 7 million Americans (one in eight couples) with fertility issues. Both of us are affected – not only do we each have our own issue, but even if it was just one of us, we’d still be in the same place. One of us can’t make a baby without the other, so we’re in this together. We’ve been through testing, we have diagnoses. We have a realistic understanding of our options and our chances. What’s going on isn’t a result of not relaxing or not doing something right or not wanting or praying hard enough. It isn’t about timing, positions, or old wives’ tales. It can’t be fixed by adopting or not trying. I know it seems that everyone knows someone who got pregnant when they stopped trying or started the adoption process, but it’s not the case for everyone. Adoption is not in our cards, nor is IVF. Buddy and I have made a decision we feel is right for us - as hard as it may be - for the time being, and that’s to not move forward with any testing or treatment. Because of fear of miscarriage made more likely by my issue, we are actively avoiding pregnancy while not in the care of a specialist. We are in full agreement in this decision, and it’s a necessary break to get us to a point where we can re-evaluate if we will be trying again.
Please understand that though we made this decision together, it wasn’t easy and it’s still very raw. There is a lot of grief in our home right now. Our hearts are heavy. My emotions are intense and irrational at times. There are good days and awful days. I want you to know, friend, that despite all this, I am happy for you as you grow your family. I am excited for you as you announce your pregnancy, and I look forward to spoiling your child and seeing you as a mom. That said, it isn’t easy for me to watch you experience things I long for. I fear I won’t get to tell my husband we’re expecting, see the ultrasound, hear the heartbeat. I may never get to decorate a nursery, feel the baby move, or give birth and hear that first tiny cry. My husband may never be a father, and my parents may never have grandchildren that aren’t my sister’s kids. So while I am happy for you, dear friend, my heart aches when I see your announcements on Facebook. Baby shower invitations make tears spring to my eyes. Pictures and videos of your little one, though sweet and appreciated, often make a lump rise in my throat. Little moments and glimpses into your life as a mom-to-be can make a good day go bad in a matter of seconds through no fault of your own.
My goal through all of this has been to grieve privately, and celebrate your joy publicly. It doesn’t always work that way, though. While I may not appear sad when you show me pictures or share something cute your husband said about the baby, inside I’m just holding it together. I would never want to take away from your moment. I will not skip baby showers, and I will not dismiss you as a friend for having what I desire. But sometimes, I need time. Sometimes, I may cry – know that if I do so in front of you, it means I trust you with my feelings of grief. Please understand that if I have to walk away or take a day to myself, it isn’t because I don’t love you. It’s because I need that for me. I’m constantly torn between not wanting to be handled with kid gloves, and needing some sensitivity. I don’t want you to not feel free to express your joy and share this experience with me, but I need you to know that sometimes it’s too much and I need a minute, an hour, a day to hash it out. I’m very conscious of my fear of becoming jealous or “bitter.” I’m not asking you to change how you express your happiness and share your family experiences, just to have a little awareness and understanding of how I may react if my emotions get to me. Because it truly is a case of “it’s not you, it’s me.”
There may be times when I withdraw into myself. I go through periods of days or even a week or two where the safest place for my emotions is within me. I may not call to hang out, or talk or text. I may be vague on Facebook. I may just be generally distant. It doesn’t mean I don’t want to talk to you or hang out, I just feel that I lack the energy and motivation to make the effort. I want to spend time with you, chat, and have lunch. Sometimes, though, I feel that I’m experiencing more reminders of our infertility and keeping to myself means less opportunities for that to happen. Sometimes, not talking about IF is achieved by not talking, period. So please, don’t mistake my distance for lack of care. Your friendship is still important to me. I’m just being guarded, and I’ll come around if you just give me time.
I value you, friend. I’m excited for you, and happy for your family. That happiness for you is a distinct emotion from my sadness, yet the former often reminds me of the latter. I will do my best to be a supportive and loving friend as you prepare for and experience motherhood. Just please understand that I am mourning something I never had, and even if Buddy and I are successful in having a baby one day, this will have forever changed us. We’ve already had to accept many changes since we started trying to start a family. I fear that everything will change, in fact, including my friendship with you. I worry immensely that you being a mom and raising your family will create a divide between us. I don’t want to lose my friends, too. I don’t want to be left out and left behind. Both Buddy and I want to be special people in your kids’ lives and spoil them and love them, as we know you would do for our children.
Thank you for being a supportive and wonderful part of my life.
Always,
Brooke
Wednesday, August 24, 2011
Calm
After the ridiculous emotional roller coaster of last week, this week has been remarkably calm. Last week, I was a ball of anger, crying at the drop of a hat, and barely able to even think of anything baby related without a lump in my throat.
This week is totally different, and for no apparent reason. Despite 4 pregnancy announcements on the Bump, an ultrasound pick from one of my dearest friends, and an emails of "hilarious" baby expressions photos, I managed to keep my cool. Sure it had me a little "ugh, this is too much for Monday before 9am" but it didn't get to me in a way that ruined my day. It's getting through those things that reminds me that I'm still with it and able to be happy for others and compartmentalize my sadness.
I also contacted a counselor. I've been thinking about it for a while, and finally pulled the trigger. However, you know how you can hear someone's voice on the phone and not feel very comforted? Yeah, I have that going on. We've been playing phone tag, so I haven't actually had a conversation with her, but I feel like her voice mails are very abrupt and... I don't know. Maybe she's just not the right counselor for me. Or maybe I'm not as ready as I thought I was. Maybe I'm worried all those emotions from last week will come flooding back if she asks me what's wrong. Last week sucked, and I don't want to go back there purposefully. I want to stay in this calm, even if it means not moving forward with getting this all off my chest.
I like the calm. It's been missing from our lives for a while. For 15 months, we were focused on mostly one thing. Over the last 6 of those months, fear and feelings of failure crept in and took hold. Sadness, panic and anger followed. While I still feel sadness, I don't feel like that delicate person I was for the last few months. I know it may not last. I know nothing is certain or set in stone, so I know that there will be other episodes of emotional instability. But for now, I just want to enjoy this calm feeling I have.
This week is totally different, and for no apparent reason. Despite 4 pregnancy announcements on the Bump, an ultrasound pick from one of my dearest friends, and an emails of "hilarious" baby expressions photos, I managed to keep my cool. Sure it had me a little "ugh, this is too much for Monday before 9am" but it didn't get to me in a way that ruined my day. It's getting through those things that reminds me that I'm still with it and able to be happy for others and compartmentalize my sadness.
I also contacted a counselor. I've been thinking about it for a while, and finally pulled the trigger. However, you know how you can hear someone's voice on the phone and not feel very comforted? Yeah, I have that going on. We've been playing phone tag, so I haven't actually had a conversation with her, but I feel like her voice mails are very abrupt and... I don't know. Maybe she's just not the right counselor for me. Or maybe I'm not as ready as I thought I was. Maybe I'm worried all those emotions from last week will come flooding back if she asks me what's wrong. Last week sucked, and I don't want to go back there purposefully. I want to stay in this calm, even if it means not moving forward with getting this all off my chest.
I like the calm. It's been missing from our lives for a while. For 15 months, we were focused on mostly one thing. Over the last 6 of those months, fear and feelings of failure crept in and took hold. Sadness, panic and anger followed. While I still feel sadness, I don't feel like that delicate person I was for the last few months. I know it may not last. I know nothing is certain or set in stone, so I know that there will be other episodes of emotional instability. But for now, I just want to enjoy this calm feeling I have.
Wednesday, August 17, 2011
Tonight, I wept
I cried. I sobbed. I wept.
I wept for my husband, who very well may never be a father. His kind and loving soul, his beautiful blue eyes, his perfect smile, his humor. Things that may never be passed down, exuded in a tiny mini-me or a female representation. No little person to share the mischevious glimmer in their eye as they cleverly prepare to pull the best practical joke ever. No huge fan of burritos made of spaghetti. My husband will likely not be a dad. It's so very different from our wedding day and before, when we envisioned an idealic family of four... painting, creating, riding, swimming, laughing. He'd be an amazing dad, and an amazing partner to a mom, which is different than husband to a wife. He'd be the most supportive dad-to-be, procuring the objects of my cravings, rubbing my back, making sure every groan and ache was taken care of. When the baby came, he'd get up early, taking care of the 2am feeding, kissing us good-bye as he shlumped off to work at 7, bleary eyed and exhausted. To support us. He'd be the one to teach our little one to ride a bike, to crack a joke, to blow kisses. He'd be... incredible. I wept for him.
I wept for my dad. He's so excited to someday be a Grandpa. And he will, but pretty much not from me. There may be no rendition of me sitting next to him in overalls and pigtails at Rose Canyon Lake, waiting hours for the tiny fish to bite. When I was little, he'd play baseball with me in the front yard. I'd make him crawl the bases so that I couldn't be beat. He taught me to shoot, he taught me to drive. He taught me 5-card draw and 7-card stud, betting with uncooked pasta. These are memories and traditions that will likely end with me.
I wept for me. Long hard sobs. A decision made and agreed upon that means that we'll just let things be. A decision that means there's only a 5% chance the guest room will ever be anything more than the home of my craft and baking supplies. I wept for feeling awful for not being able to fix it. A string of IUI and IVF failures among Bumpies not nearly outweighed by successes. A group of friends, strangers, peers, fellow IF strugglers whom I had the highest of hopes for. I sobbed for them and their sadness. Seeing the darkness outweighing the light made the weight lay heavily on my heart to continue with anything. We're admitting defeat by fear and hesitation, and accepting that at least for the long time being, that we're done. I wept for what I just may never have.
Tonight, I wept.
I wept for my husband, who very well may never be a father. His kind and loving soul, his beautiful blue eyes, his perfect smile, his humor. Things that may never be passed down, exuded in a tiny mini-me or a female representation. No little person to share the mischevious glimmer in their eye as they cleverly prepare to pull the best practical joke ever. No huge fan of burritos made of spaghetti. My husband will likely not be a dad. It's so very different from our wedding day and before, when we envisioned an idealic family of four... painting, creating, riding, swimming, laughing. He'd be an amazing dad, and an amazing partner to a mom, which is different than husband to a wife. He'd be the most supportive dad-to-be, procuring the objects of my cravings, rubbing my back, making sure every groan and ache was taken care of. When the baby came, he'd get up early, taking care of the 2am feeding, kissing us good-bye as he shlumped off to work at 7, bleary eyed and exhausted. To support us. He'd be the one to teach our little one to ride a bike, to crack a joke, to blow kisses. He'd be... incredible. I wept for him.
I wept for my dad. He's so excited to someday be a Grandpa. And he will, but pretty much not from me. There may be no rendition of me sitting next to him in overalls and pigtails at Rose Canyon Lake, waiting hours for the tiny fish to bite. When I was little, he'd play baseball with me in the front yard. I'd make him crawl the bases so that I couldn't be beat. He taught me to shoot, he taught me to drive. He taught me 5-card draw and 7-card stud, betting with uncooked pasta. These are memories and traditions that will likely end with me.
I wept for me. Long hard sobs. A decision made and agreed upon that means that we'll just let things be. A decision that means there's only a 5% chance the guest room will ever be anything more than the home of my craft and baking supplies. I wept for feeling awful for not being able to fix it. A string of IUI and IVF failures among Bumpies not nearly outweighed by successes. A group of friends, strangers, peers, fellow IF strugglers whom I had the highest of hopes for. I sobbed for them and their sadness. Seeing the darkness outweighing the light made the weight lay heavily on my heart to continue with anything. We're admitting defeat by fear and hesitation, and accepting that at least for the long time being, that we're done. I wept for what I just may never have.
Tonight, I wept.
Tuesday, August 9, 2011
Taking a rest
This is a difficult day, followed by a stressful couple of months. In talking to Buddy last night, we decided to give things a rest for the indefinite future. A lot went into the decision. Some things I agree with, others I don't. However, I can't proceed without him, and he can't without me, so if taking a break is what's right for him (and us) then I'm on board.
His back has bothered him since high school, when he played football. Since I've known him, he's suffered from back aches, some times minor discomfort, sometimes full-on pain that requires him to get up from the dinner table. Things were better after moving from the apartment - he wasn't spending as much time driving, one of the major sources of pain. However, he's been in discomfort more and more often. He visited a chiropractor and then a specialist earlier this year, and though he didn't return, x-rays indicated degenerative disk problems. The solution - according to him (I know nothing about it) - is surgery. Unfortunately, we only have so many resources, and we just can't handle the cost of surgery and recovery AND infertility treatments. Neither of us can see going on with treatment if he's in pain and wants to do something about his back first. I've always said I wanted him to enjoy fatherhood, and back pain would be a hindrance to that.
He's also very upset about the SA results. At first he seemed hopeful for improvement, but that hope seems to be waning. I try not to push, because he's a guy who doesn't talk about feelings easily, but his comments indicate a deep hurt and guilt for our troubles. He's said "what's the point?" in regard to having another SA done in October as we'd planned. The truth is, he may be right, considering how much improvement needs to be made and the percentage of men who experience the increase in counts we'd need for IUI. As many times as I can tell him that it's worth it to try, I don't think he's willing to face the possibility of another "failure." It's a feeling I relate to all too well. Lately, I've had thoughts of walking away from all this for a bit and even just moving on. Call it self-preservation, I suppose. I'm not a risk taker by nature (neither is Buddy) and the thought of spending a lot of time, money, and emotion on IF treatments (and even just his potential treatments to get to the IF treatment phase) and still coming up empty-handed is very daunting.
Essentially, we're in the same place, and expressing it in both similar and different ways. We need a break. We need to focus on his health (and mine, but I think my needs are more mental and emotional) and take the time to regain confidence to face our race again, if the decision comes to that. I honestly don't know how I feel. I'm very sad, but I also know that we are thoughtful people who make good decisions. The break from thinking about the next SA and the results and what do we do next will hopefully be a relief. We're lucky to have a strong and happy marriage, and hopefully we'll be able to spend a weekend away and spend time thinking of other things.
His back has bothered him since high school, when he played football. Since I've known him, he's suffered from back aches, some times minor discomfort, sometimes full-on pain that requires him to get up from the dinner table. Things were better after moving from the apartment - he wasn't spending as much time driving, one of the major sources of pain. However, he's been in discomfort more and more often. He visited a chiropractor and then a specialist earlier this year, and though he didn't return, x-rays indicated degenerative disk problems. The solution - according to him (I know nothing about it) - is surgery. Unfortunately, we only have so many resources, and we just can't handle the cost of surgery and recovery AND infertility treatments. Neither of us can see going on with treatment if he's in pain and wants to do something about his back first. I've always said I wanted him to enjoy fatherhood, and back pain would be a hindrance to that.
He's also very upset about the SA results. At first he seemed hopeful for improvement, but that hope seems to be waning. I try not to push, because he's a guy who doesn't talk about feelings easily, but his comments indicate a deep hurt and guilt for our troubles. He's said "what's the point?" in regard to having another SA done in October as we'd planned. The truth is, he may be right, considering how much improvement needs to be made and the percentage of men who experience the increase in counts we'd need for IUI. As many times as I can tell him that it's worth it to try, I don't think he's willing to face the possibility of another "failure." It's a feeling I relate to all too well. Lately, I've had thoughts of walking away from all this for a bit and even just moving on. Call it self-preservation, I suppose. I'm not a risk taker by nature (neither is Buddy) and the thought of spending a lot of time, money, and emotion on IF treatments (and even just his potential treatments to get to the IF treatment phase) and still coming up empty-handed is very daunting.
Essentially, we're in the same place, and expressing it in both similar and different ways. We need a break. We need to focus on his health (and mine, but I think my needs are more mental and emotional) and take the time to regain confidence to face our race again, if the decision comes to that. I honestly don't know how I feel. I'm very sad, but I also know that we are thoughtful people who make good decisions. The break from thinking about the next SA and the results and what do we do next will hopefully be a relief. We're lucky to have a strong and happy marriage, and hopefully we'll be able to spend a weekend away and spend time thinking of other things.
Monday, August 1, 2011
"Just" adopt
It seems as though one of the things that comes up frequently for couples having trouble with fertility is adoption. When my mother-in-law found out 8 months into trying that it had been that long, she said "well, you could just adopt if it doesn't work." The simplicity with which she said it surprised me. "Just" adopt. As though it's the end-all, cure-all to what ails my uterus. For any couple struggling with infertility, adoption is something that will be brought up by the well-intentioned at least once. I should preface this whole post with the fact that I respect what any couple chooses for themselves. By the same token, I hope for respect in expressing our views on the subject.
I read on a message board that someone had posted the following excerpt from Adopting After Infertility by Pat Johnson:
"... there are multiple losses which are a consequence of permanent infertility: 1) control over many aspects of life; 2) individual genetic continuity linking past and future; 3) the joint conception of a child with one's life partner; 4) the physical satisfactions of pregnancy and birth; 5) the emotional gratifications of pregnancy and birth; and 6) the opportunity to parent."
It was a very poignant passage for me, and sums up how I feel pretty well. Though pregnancy is only 40 weeks of motherhood, it's an important part for me. I have always dreamt of pregnancy, from discovering its existence, to telling our families, seeing the flash of the heartbeat on the ultrasound, feeling the first kicks, finding out the sex. Though labor and delivery are terrifying, I want the experience of bringing a child into the world. I want to have those first moments as a brand new family with Buddy, and to learn to breastfeed and waddle to the car at the hospital for our first ride home together. Though they're all a "stage" in the grand scheme of child-rearing, they are things I dream of and long for just as much as teaching our kids to swim or ride a bike, and watching them go off to kindergarten and prom and college. They are things I mourn when I think about the possibility of life without a biological child. Adoption doesn't fill those voids.
Adoption is also a costly endeavor, both financially and emotionally. Adoption comes with many legal and financial costs. I can't even begin to tally the financial costs when medical expenses, legal paperwork, and other aspects are added up. Emotionally, I think it would be more difficult than IVF. With infant adoption, we'd have to be chosen by a birth mom. That means we'd have to convince someone with just a few pictures and paragraphs that we are the best fit to take care of their newborn. The thought is incredibly humbling, and I think it would feel devastating to wait month after month and not be chosen. If we were chosen, we'd both be paranoid the whole time that the bio mom would change her mind. I think we'd worry about that for a long time even after we brought any baby home. It just sounds emotionally exhausting. We just agree that it's not the route we want to go.
There is more to it than simply the emotional and financial burdens. The truth is, and the shortest answer is, that we don't feel called to do it. I wrote a piece for a fabulously supportive group blog the day after we found out about Buddy's SA, and more than one commenter replied that I should at least consider adoption, because that's how they became a family either by adopting or by being adopted. While that's all well and great for them, it's just not for us. I realize there are children that need to be fostered and adopted and they desperately want to be a part of a family. But I also feel like there's this unspoken (or maybe it is spoken, since it's suggested so often) that we, as a couple dealing with infertility, are expected to adopt, like it's our job or that it simply comes with the hand we've been dealt. I resent that and don't think this is fair. Biological parents who have their own children aren't expected to adopt the children in need, why are we? Why are we made to feel selfish for voicing that we would chose a child-free life over adoption?
We all have our choices to make. It isn't an easy one. None of this is easy, but "just" adopting isn't the path we want, and we feel we have a right to have that choice be respected.
Edited to Add: As I posted this link to Twitter, I was answered almost immediately by a new mom and fellow blogger that had seen ridiculous debates on a message board we both frequented about how not pursuing adoption equals not wanting a child enough. I have to say that want isn't even a factor. We want a baby more than anything in the world. However, that also has to be balanced with what we can afford financially and emotionally. This is also why we've ruled out IVF. Trust me, if IUI doesn't work, I wonder if some day we'll look back and wonder if we limited ourselves. But we also know that we have to set limits, mostly for our sanity. As easy as IVF and adoption have been made to sound, we're not the only couple who've had to set these limits. The costs of IVF and adoption are prohibitive for many couples. Not to mention, we can't run this race forever. At some point, we have to create our own finish line so that we can move on with life. For us, that's IVF and adoption.
I read on a message board that someone had posted the following excerpt from Adopting After Infertility by Pat Johnson:
"... there are multiple losses which are a consequence of permanent infertility: 1) control over many aspects of life; 2) individual genetic continuity linking past and future; 3) the joint conception of a child with one's life partner; 4) the physical satisfactions of pregnancy and birth; 5) the emotional gratifications of pregnancy and birth; and 6) the opportunity to parent."
It was a very poignant passage for me, and sums up how I feel pretty well. Though pregnancy is only 40 weeks of motherhood, it's an important part for me. I have always dreamt of pregnancy, from discovering its existence, to telling our families, seeing the flash of the heartbeat on the ultrasound, feeling the first kicks, finding out the sex. Though labor and delivery are terrifying, I want the experience of bringing a child into the world. I want to have those first moments as a brand new family with Buddy, and to learn to breastfeed and waddle to the car at the hospital for our first ride home together. Though they're all a "stage" in the grand scheme of child-rearing, they are things I dream of and long for just as much as teaching our kids to swim or ride a bike, and watching them go off to kindergarten and prom and college. They are things I mourn when I think about the possibility of life without a biological child. Adoption doesn't fill those voids.
Adoption is also a costly endeavor, both financially and emotionally. Adoption comes with many legal and financial costs. I can't even begin to tally the financial costs when medical expenses, legal paperwork, and other aspects are added up. Emotionally, I think it would be more difficult than IVF. With infant adoption, we'd have to be chosen by a birth mom. That means we'd have to convince someone with just a few pictures and paragraphs that we are the best fit to take care of their newborn. The thought is incredibly humbling, and I think it would feel devastating to wait month after month and not be chosen. If we were chosen, we'd both be paranoid the whole time that the bio mom would change her mind. I think we'd worry about that for a long time even after we brought any baby home. It just sounds emotionally exhausting. We just agree that it's not the route we want to go.
There is more to it than simply the emotional and financial burdens. The truth is, and the shortest answer is, that we don't feel called to do it. I wrote a piece for a fabulously supportive group blog the day after we found out about Buddy's SA, and more than one commenter replied that I should at least consider adoption, because that's how they became a family either by adopting or by being adopted. While that's all well and great for them, it's just not for us. I realize there are children that need to be fostered and adopted and they desperately want to be a part of a family. But I also feel like there's this unspoken (or maybe it is spoken, since it's suggested so often) that we, as a couple dealing with infertility, are expected to adopt, like it's our job or that it simply comes with the hand we've been dealt. I resent that and don't think this is fair. Biological parents who have their own children aren't expected to adopt the children in need, why are we? Why are we made to feel selfish for voicing that we would chose a child-free life over adoption?
We all have our choices to make. It isn't an easy one. None of this is easy, but "just" adopting isn't the path we want, and we feel we have a right to have that choice be respected.
Edited to Add: As I posted this link to Twitter, I was answered almost immediately by a new mom and fellow blogger that had seen ridiculous debates on a message board we both frequented about how not pursuing adoption equals not wanting a child enough. I have to say that want isn't even a factor. We want a baby more than anything in the world. However, that also has to be balanced with what we can afford financially and emotionally. This is also why we've ruled out IVF. Trust me, if IUI doesn't work, I wonder if some day we'll look back and wonder if we limited ourselves. But we also know that we have to set limits, mostly for our sanity. As easy as IVF and adoption have been made to sound, we're not the only couple who've had to set these limits. The costs of IVF and adoption are prohibitive for many couples. Not to mention, we can't run this race forever. At some point, we have to create our own finish line so that we can move on with life. For us, that's IVF and adoption.
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