Wednesday, September 14, 2011

Sometimes, it's sneaky.

In general I would not use the word infertility in a sentence talking about myself.  While Jason and I have certainly not been able to get pregnant, I have never wrestled through doctor's appointments, endless poking with phone calls about number and levels, treatments of any sort, or the other long list of heartbreaking things I have watched some friends walk through.  We didn't get pregnant.  We adopted.  Most days, that is the entire story.
But every now and then some aspect of being unable to get pregnant sneaks up and smacks me pretty hard.  I don't know if it's because I'm surrounded by the announcement of pregnancies and new arrivals lately, if it's because it's the season that marks another year of not getting pregnant, if it's because I am remembering this time of year a few years ago with a little snuggle bug, or if it's all coincidence. 
Lately though, the last thing I want to hear about is birth.  I don't want to sit in a group of women recalling their stories about how long they were in labor.  I don't want to hear about how amazing it all was, or what it was like when the baby was handed to them.  I most definitely don't want to hear about what it is like to feel the baby moving and kicking inside of them.
I just don't quite mourn this the way most of the people I know do.  I seem to go through stages of mourning some small part of it.  Then I'm fine for a while.  And then there's something else.  I remember being bummed about, not knowing what a child with Jason and I's combination of genetics, would look like.  There was a time period where I was pretty sad that I couldn't give a child all of his or her nourishment through breast feeding.  For whatever reason this time period is the one where I am grieving what it would be like to carry a child and give birth.
I also know that while we were waiting on a baby, I had so many people hint at the fact that I seemed to be dealing with it 'wrong.'  I still wanted to be around children (not that it wasn't ever hard).  For whatever reason when I was having a really rough day I wanted to go walk through the baby section in a store, or go garage saling for baby stuff.  Sometimes I would sit on the floor in the nursery we had set up and finger all the tiny clothes, diapers, and shoes we had ready.
So right now, if you tell me about your pregnancy please don't think anything of it if my eyes get teary.  It's not that I'm not happy for people.  It's not even that I'm jealous; I wouldn't change the way God has made, or is making our family.  It's just that, I'm a little sad that I don't get to experience a life growing inside of me.

Still learning to accept my infertility,


  1. You know I totally get it. I wouldn't change my life right now, either. But still, sometimes...
    (word verification: fumplu. Which I think is the words that describes this feeling!)

  2. It's definitely a process. When my best friend got pregnant (history of female troubles, man troubles and basically was told not to even bother trying), she came to my house to tell me because she had to tell me, she had to look me in the eye to know I was okay. I cried but it was definitely tears of joy.