In honor of Valentine's Day

Before I begin this post, you should know that these words are not all mine. In fact, most of them are not. This post was created after several wonderful nesties spoke of the important stuff, both big and small, that their spouses do to help them survive and manage this adventure called infertility. So here goes…




This is for our other halves…our husbands, partners and lovers. Infertility is one hell of a ride and, without you, we may have demanded to be let off this crazy roller coaster early. While nobody can be all of the things on this list all of the time, you sure are a lot of them…

This is for the ones who join us on the couch for the sobfest. They listen for as long as we need and manage to say exactly what we need to hear.

The ones who exude positivity.

The ones who bring us Cheetos….or whatever else may be the snack du jour.

The ones who ask the doctor questions other men can’t even imagine speaking aloud.

The ones who cook for us on the nights we’d just as soon starve than get off the couch.

The ones who arrange their work and social schedules around injections, even when we could easily give ourselves the shot.

The ones who support our dreams.

The ones who aren’t embarrassed to talk to others about infertility.

The ones who know how to read our charts.

The ones who don’t speak of their fear of needles even though we know it’s true.

The ones who keep a cool head when our heads have exploded.

The ones who get up early after working late just to go with us to have blood drawn or an ultrasound.

The ones with the endless supply of hugs.

The ones who never laugh at any of the kooky ideas we’re willing to try to get pregnant.

The ones who are all too familiar with the sterile cup.

The ones who answer the phone when we know it's news from the RE's office and we just can't bear to hear it firsthand.

The ones who never comment on the extra mileage on the car because the RE’s office is an hour drive one way.

The ones who feel sad about our bruises.

The ones who are our endless cheerleaders.

The ones who don’t ever want us to feel alone on this crazy journey.

The ones who make us laugh…and laugh…and laugh.

The ones who show up for the IUIs.

The ones who know when the only thing they can do is hug us.

The ones who come to the endless appointments.

The ones who show up at those appointments with their questions written down ahead of time.

The ones who remind us to take our temp.

The ones who know just when to bring us flowers.

The ones who don’t point out when we’re having an irrational moment.

The ones who have the serious talks even when we know they don’t want to.

The ones who visit the dirty magazines room without complaint.

The ones who take their vitamins.

The ones who watch their alcohol and caffeine intake.

The ones who tell us we’re beautiful, regardless of our infertility weight gain.

The ones who bring us a little something special when we get our periods.

The ones who weather the moodiness of infertility meds like a champ.

The ones who love us unconditionally even though we feel “broken”.

The ones who don’t complain.

The ones who know when to cuddle up next to us for the pity party and when we need our space.

The ones who pack the igloo cooler for the day when we’re on bedrest.

The ones who are always there.

The ones who would rather be infertile with us than fertile with someone else.

The ones who will do whatever it takes.

The ones who one day will be the most amazing fathers.





Need something added to the list? Leave a comment and I'll be sure to do some editing.

Imposter!

Mr. Jaguar and I went to a 30th birthday party for a friend this past weekend. Besides the couple hosting the party, we weren't good friends with anybody there. It didn't really matter though, we had a nice time just the same.

But here's the thing. I was one of three visibly pregnant women there. Instead of being the infertile, unpregnant woman surrounded by bellies, I was one of the bellies. And the truth is, I felt like a fraud. It was like I was waiting for someone to come over and pull the pillow out from under my shirt and wave it around in the air all while shouting, "She's a fraud! The belly's a fake! She's an imposter! She's really infertile!" It amazes me how I can simultaneously feel so pregnant and unpregnant so often. It's been 26 weeks, I'm making all the preparations for our son to arrive and half the time I still can't believe there's a real, living baby inside me.

As I sat around chatting at the party, I found myself rewinding back in my head, recalling snippets of conversation from each woman throughout the evening in an attempt to be sure I wasn't in the room with another infertile, unintentionally but inevitably hurting her with my big bump. I was pretty sure that I was the only infertile gal at the shindig, but I couldn't shake the nagging worry that someone in the room was aching over three, joyful bellies. As the night wore on and pregnancies were discussed, I openly spoke about our infertility treatments, both for myself and for any shadow infertiles who may have been in the vicinity. I speak for myself for selfish reasons of alleviating self-imposed guilt but also to help lessen the stigma so many in our society place on infertility. I speak for others who, for whatever reasons of their own, haven't found or don't feel comfortable to use their voice and so that they know they're not alone in their quest for motherhood.

The whole night got me thinking about my niche as an infertile but pregnant woman. In counseling months ago, my therapist told me that I'm no longer infertile because I'm pregnant now. Infertile is simply a state of being. To be pregnant means that I'm therefore no longer infertile. You can't be both. I corrected her, informing her that my infertility is a huge part of me and it will remain that way regardless of the state of my uterus. And honestly, I wouldn't want to drop my infertility by the side of the road and just drive off. My infertility has been a journey with many lessons, both painful and rewarding.

About a year and a half ago, I participated in the Breast Cancer 3-Day. For those of you not familiar with it, it's a 60 mile walk over 3 days. Each walker is required to raise at least $2,900 to even show up. Just getting there is a project and, well, actually finishing all 60 miles is a major feat. Past walkers had explained to me what the weekend would be like beforehand, but there's no way to do it justice. It's one of those things that you just have to do for yourself to really "get it". Over the 3 days, I couldn't believe the support that everyone provided one another. The socks and bandaids that were passed around, the ice that was split up among water bottles when it briefly ran short in the 90 degree heat, the words of encouragement and the complete strangers that showed up along the course with signs cheering us on and giving out treats. I cried like a baby over those 3 days, sometimes from pain and exhaustion but often from being so overwhelmed by others' support.

At the end of the walk, we all meet in this large field. And then we wait. And we wait. And we wait. And that's fine because we're completely exhausted anyway so we're content with the idea of sitting for a while and most of us are probably just relieved we don't have to walk anywhere else. But why are we all waiting? Because closing ceremonies don't start until everybody gets there. So we wait by the finish line and we cheer for each walker as they cross over. Then we wait even longer. Why? Because we're waiting for the very last walker to finish. There are frequent announcements about how far away the final walker is from the finish line. Nobody's in a rush, nobody's frustrated. We just wait patiently.

And then she turns the corner and you can see her in the distance approaching. She's not walking alone though. Because every safety volunteer that has monitored the course for the last three days, greeting us with warm smiles and encouraging us, is there with her, forming a protective semi-circle around her as she takes her final steps. The crowd all gathers closer at the finish line as whispers that, "She's here," spread through the throngs of people.

The crowd goes wild for her. And, as I look around, I'm surrounded by a sea of tears and cheers as we welcome the last woman over the finish line. Complete strangers line up to hug her and congratulate her on getting there.

Pregnant and infertile can be mucky territory. We have a huge, bumpy barrier that now, in many ways, separates us from our other, infertile sisters. This issue comes up often on the Nest as women move from the infertility boards to "Success After Infertility" board. We want to remain active on the infertility boards. We've forged many friendships there and want to offer the same support that others have given us along the way. But at the same time, we know that some days the pregnancy tickers in our posts are the last thing someone needs to see. Our u/s pic might be too much for another infertile woman on a good day, let alone a bad one. Sometimes our words of hope, no matter how heartfelt, sting a bit. And that's just the way it is. And we understand. Because we were there, too.

But know one thing. Infertility is a lot like the 3 Day. As each infertile woman crosses over the finish line, the infertile sisters who have crossed before her are right there. Waiting, with open arms, cheering and shedding tears of joy for each woman to cross the finish line. And this is where we will remain, until our very last sister crosses over.

Wobbling watermelon

Johnny: (approaches Billy and Baby) Hey cous, what's she doing here?

Billy: She came with me...she's with me.

Baby: I carried a watermelon.

(Johnny, unimpressed, exits scene to go dance with Penny)

Baby: (in digust) I carried a watermelon??!!

While I'm not actually carrying a watermelon, it sure looks like I am. This pic is from 25 weeks and 3 days, just a few days ago. Sorry, it's blurry. I didn't notice until just now. I actually think my body's a little funny looking in this picture.

Everybody keeps asking me lately how I'm feeling and, for the most part, I try to keep my answers peppy, but the truth is that my back pain is getting worse and worse. I'm having many moments of hobbling around briefly before I can get walking normally. I'm basically just trying to ignore it, but this is becoming a tougher and tougher task. It makes me feel very geriatric.

In related, very exciting news....we have 100 days left until we meet our son! That's right, 180 days down and 100 days to go. I can't believe it.

Much better than a crockpot

I've been thinking for a long time about how I would like to thank the staff at my RE's office. They really are amazing and I can't imagine what it would have been like to go through all of the stress of infertility without them there supporting me along the way.

So how do you thank people for a kid?

An Edible Arrangement? Healthy and delicious (provided you spring for the chocolate covered strawberries), but insufficient. Cookies? Yummy, but still insufficient. Sincere, handwritten note? Thoughtful and genuine, so let's give it a whirl.

I attempted this note several times to no avail. I sat in front of a blank piece of stationery wrestling with my words. I thought back to the many thank you notes I wrote throughout my life, especially around the time of my wedding.

There was the crockpot......Thank you so much for the baby! I can't wait to try it out once our new kitchen is set up!

The towels....Thank you so much for the wonderful baby! It's so soft and matches our bathroom perfectly!

The check...Thank you so much for your very generous baby. Joe and I will put it towards renovating our new bedroom.

The frame....Thank you so much for the beautiful baby. Every time we look at it, we will think of you.

Hmmm....this isn't quite working out the way I planned. How do you actually thank someone for your child? For starting your family? For the gift of life? For making a dream come true? The bottom line is there are no sufficient words in the English language, nor is there a tangible gift that can be purchased at Macy's that sums up my feelings about the impending arrival of our son.

So I continue to think on it and I've still got nothing, until I remember my post about my first RE visit titled, "A Day of Hope". The last bit of it goes like this:

"I was, and continue to be, overwhelmed that people take on the job of reproductive endocrinologist. This includes the nurses and office staff. I am in awe of them. I try to imagine being in their shoes, giving the news to a hopeful couple that a procedure has failed, taking the call from a pregnant woman who has begun bleeding, holding the hand of a woman trying again after yet another miscarriage. I bear the weight of only my own story while they shoulder the burden of so many women's heartbreaking journeys.

Without a doubt, they are doing God's work."

Deciding that this was the best I could come up with in terms of articulating my gratitude, I print out the entire post, write a note at the bottom explaining how there really are no words that can capture my thankfulness for the work they do every day, for my son that is on the way and for the support they provided me along the journey. I get in the car to drop it off along with my left over injectables to donate which are now resting on a bag of frozen edamame.

I head in the office to find three women, who bring an automatic smile to my face, chatting around the front counter. We catch up for a minute or so while I hand over my meds. One tells me how she saw our IUI pic on my blog! I had completely forgotten that I told her about the blog and was touched to see that she not only read it, but had continued to read it since that picture was posted fairly recently.

And then I hand over the letter. I quickly realize that this is going to be tougher than I anticipated. I stumble over a sentence or two, saying something to the effect of, "This is my attempt at saying thank you."

and then I say, ".....I have to go now because I'm going to cry." Maybe I kinda waved after that. I don't know. But I left because I was definitely starting to cry.

I made it about five steps out of the office before it hits me that I didn't hug them. These women who were so wonderful to me, so supportive of me and so happy for me when I finally got my positive. I turn on my heels, rush back in and say, "I didn't hug you" and, in full-on-tears, dole out proper hugs while thanking them for everything.

Eloquent? No. Dignified? Not quite. But sincere? Yeah, definitely sincere.

I'd like to take a moment to welcome....

my second chin. Welcome to the world, little friend. I think you're completely overrated.

Public Service Announcement for sharing your pregnancy news with infertiles

Dear Infertile Abby,
I just found out that I'm seven weeks pregnant! My husband and I are thrilled and shocked! It was a complete surprise. We weren't even trying. My issue is that I have a very good friend who has been trying to get pregnant for a very long time and is going through infertility treatments. What's the best way to share my news with her? I think it's best that they hear the news from us in private. We're thinking of inviting them over for dinner and telling them then.
Thanks,
Fertile Fran

Dear Fertile Fran,
Are you high? It's called e-mail. If you don't have a computer, it's called a phone. Your friend's probably going to cry and doesn't feel like doing it in front of you and your husband. It'll just make her feel like a shmuck.
Take care,
Infertile Abby

This situation has reared its ugly head.....again. When my friend lured me to her house with the promise of sunny weather and a barbecue, I unfortunately responded to her pregnancy announcement by getting inebriated and crying on her front curb for about an hour before coming in to fail at faking enthusiasm throughout the rest of the evening (link here). This time, it happened to a good friend. Just two weeks after her 3rd IVF cycle had to be cancelled, her brother and sister-in-law felt the need to come over to visit and share their "big news". And it broke my heart.

Now here's the thing. I get what fertile people are thinking. I do. I really do. In their head, they have this vision of a sit-down where they gently and thoughtfully share the news of their pregnancy and then maybe place a hand on the infertile's knee, tell us how they know it will happen for us and that God has a plan for us or something to that effect. They think we'd be crushed to hear the news from someone else rather than directly from the source. And e-mail or phone? Instant message? No way! In most other situations, it's considered tacky or rude to share big news in these manners. I understand where you're coming from and that you have good intentions. I really truly do.

But here's the thing. You're wrong. I hate to break it to you, but for 99% of infertile people, you're wrong.

Let's change the scenario a little bit because infertility is something that is so difficult to connect with unless it's touched your own life. Let's talk about homes. Most everybody can understand that your home is your safe haven, a place where you find comfort. It's filled with memories. Most of us put a lot of effort into creating a home.

Now imagine my house just burned down. Or that I lost my home to foreclosure. You, on the other hand, have just sealed the deal on your custom-built McMansion. You're understandably thrilled. You want to shout your news from the rooftops. And that's cool. I'd want share it with the world, too. However, would you invite me over to share the news with me personally? Do I have to hear your news right before I sit down to enjoy a meal with you? A meal that maybe I was looking forward to as a nice distraction and a chance to get away from the stress of dealing with losing my home?

It doesn't seem so important, or even appropriate, that I hear the news directly from the horse's mouth, does it? In fact, maybe it would be better to hear it from someone I'm close with like my sister or my mom. Because I'm probably going to get upset. I'm not getting upset because I don't think you deserve your dream home or don't want you to have it. It's not personal (most of the time). But my first, second, maybe even third emotion is probably not going to be happiness for you. It's sadness for myself.

Your joy is a reminder that I'm in the process of losing a dream. Your news is a reminder that I am broken. Your granted wish is a reminder of my unanswered prayers.

Please stop telling us your news in person. It hurts us. Not because we don't love you. Because we do and we don't our pain to take away from any part of your joy. So give us a little time. Please. Send us the e-mail or give us a ring. And then give us some time. We really are happy for you. It's just that, for many of us, our dreams are now ashes scattered around our feet.

How do I measure a year?

I dragged myself to the gym a couple days ago and forced myself to walk on a treadmill. I felt husky as I crawled along at a snail's pace in order to maintain any sense of a reasonable amount of breath, but oh well. At least I was there.

I read for a while as I walked and then flipped through my Ipod for a bit, trying to find a song that would make the time pass more quickly. I settled on one and enjoyed the few minutes until it faded out. And then "Seasons of Love" came on. And out of nowhere, I was totally and completely overwhelmed by what this year has brought me. Like tears streaming down my face while walking to nowhere. Like trying really hard to keep from shifting into "the ugly cry". Luckily I go to this new and oddly trendy gym (in my defense, it's close to my house). In their trendiness, it's really dark in there so I don't think anyone knew I was a wreck. Also and on a complete sidenote, there's loud techno music playing all.the.time.

So why was I crying? Because it suddenly hit me all at once how much has happened in a year. This is the year that the elephant called infertility meandered into my living room with a surprising quietness, settling down next to me until I eventually noticed him. The year when my gyno checked the box "infertility" under reason for visit. The year of Clomid tears. The year when so many people I love got pregnant when I could not and I felt jealousy and even resentment at times. The year of waiting and waiting and checking and checking for my period. The year I was labeled PCOS. The year of the nearly season long cycle. The year I had to let go of the notion of conceiving a child in our bed. The year of often shutting people out. The year of needing my husband's hugs more than ever before. The year of spending a lot of time on my couch. The year that my husband jabbed me with needles repeatedly. The year when nurses jabbed me with needles repeatedly. The year when sometimes people said the completely wrong thing to me about my infertility. The year when some people said just the right thing about my infertility. The year of seeing one pink line. The year of endless doctor's office copays. The year I questioned if I am meant to be a mom. The year of shedding tears of self pity. The year of often feeling like a failure. The year I met so many of my wonderful, infertile sisters who bless my life in ways they don't even know. The year of shedding tears for those infertile sisters' struggles and losses.

But this is also the year my husband and I battled our way through infertility. The year when I saw two pink lines and was so baffled I didn't even celebrate. The year that I got to videotape the moment my husband saw 10 pink lines, 2 for each of the 5 tests all lined up, and did celebrate. The year I had searing hyperstimulation pains that I was sure were a miscarriage. The year the hyperstimulation resulted in 3 weeks of bedrest. The year I struggled to find my niche among other women with my new label of infertile but pregnant. The year I cried tears of joy as many of my infertile sisters climbed over the invisible infertility wall with me. The year I got the bag of samples for the mommies-to-be. The year my body seems to be changing at the speed of light. The year we rushed to the ER when I was bleeding. The year we got the call that there was a problem with our ultrasound. The year that we got the news that we're having a boy. The year that my son is kicking me from me the inside out. The year that my husband got to feel the baby kick. The year that we became a mom and a dad. This is the year we made it to the other side and, honestly, after more than 21 weeks on the other side, it still often does seem real to me.

This was my year...of infertility and so much more. What a year it's been.