The Gifts of Infertility

The next month or two were very, very dark. I cried a great deal. It was a challenge to go through the day to day routine of taking care of Bill and the house. I didn’t go out very much. My happiest place was just lying in bed with Bill, holding him and him holding me. I wanted to stay there forever and cocoon with him. I was just existing. I was missing out on life. I wasn’t able to enjoy my family, my friends or any situation. I was simply going through the motions of surviving minute by minute. When you are in survival mode, there is nothing else that matters except getting through the next hour and sometimes the next minute. It takes all of your energy to put one foot in front of the other and to function as a seemingly sane person. I had no desire to see anyone or talk to anyone. I slept a great deal. That was the easiest way to deal with the day…be unconscious. I didn’t feel when I was sleeping. I felt no one could begin to understand how I was feeling and the intensity of my pain and sadness. Everything, and I mean everything, somehow reminded me of my barren and uncooperative body. From doing laundry that did not contain any baby clothes to driving a car that did not contain a car seat to cleaning a house that did not contain any baby furniture or toys, everything and every situation seemed to shout loudly and clearly, “You’re a failure!” The loneliness and emptiness had engulfed my whole being. I remember sitting in the waiting room of my ob/gyn office that April and looking around and noticing that all of the other women who were waiting were pregnant (or so it seemed). The walls began to close in, and I could feel myself fighting to keep my composure. I wanted to look at their pregnant bellies, but looking at them made my stomach sick and my heart ache. A young pregnant teenage girl sitting next to me was wobbling after her toddler and commenting to her mother how she wasn’t looking forward to “having another kid” to chase after. She herself was a child. She complained about her swollen ankles and her aching back and her lack of sleep. All of the other expectant mothers seemed to nod in agreement and aggravation. My heart was pounding and my face was hot. I wanted to stand up right in the middle of the room and scream at all of them, “Don’t you know how lucky you are? Don’t you realize what a gift you’ve been given? How can you sit there and complain? Don’t you know the pain I’ve been through and what I wouldn’t give to have those problems?” Well, of course, they didn’t. I could feel the tears welling up, and I tried with all I had to hold them back. The nurse came to the door and called my name. I stood up, walked into the hall, and burst into tears. I tried to explain through my sobbing what had upset me and why I was crying. The nurse just stood there looking at me, trying to figure out why this patient had lost it at the simple calling of her name. I guess she was finally able to put the pieces of broken words together, sort through my sobs, and get a grasp on my meltdown. She put her arm around me and hugged me for a while, letting me cry. She had been there through the past few years, and she knew my situation. She was very kind and comforting, but I felt like an absolute idiot. I was in a pit that I knew I could not climb out of by myself. “Save me, O God, for the waters have come up to my neck. I sink in the miry depths, where there is no foothold. I have come into the deep waters; the floods engulf me. I am worn out calling for help; my throat is parched. My eyes fail, looking for God.” Psalm 69:1-3