A few weeks ago I was given the opportunity to write about a subject near and dear to my heart. I was originally asked to write about relationships, but I thought “what the heck do I know about relationships?” When I requested permission to write instead about friendships, I was given the immediate go-ahead. If you want to read what I came up with about some of those bonds that I never want to see break, you can do so here. I’m actually kind of proud of it!
(Community discussion in need of your input: Breaking Up With Friends)
Being friends with someone who is struggling with infertility isn’t easy. We are moody, and sensitive, and raw 90% of the time. This was true of me before the hormone therapy; it is even truer now. My friends never really know what is going to make me cry, and they are never really sure what side of me they are going to get when we hang out.
Yet, they are still here. They are still calling. They haven’t given up on me.
Going through this struggle made it very clear to me who my true friends were. In the beginning, when I had no diagnosis and every pain sent me flying to the emergency room (endlessly ruining plans), my friends could be separated into two different categories: Those who thought I was being a drama queen, and those who knew right along with me that something was really wrong. I can’t tell you how many times I heard from people that so and so was questioning my true illness; that what’s her name was calling me a hypochondriac.
Let me be clear: I have never been a hypochondriac in my life. Prior to this situation, I hadn’t been to the doctor for anything beyond broken bones and stitches (and my donations) in years. Years. I didn’t even have health insurance for a long time, and it wasn’t something I was too concerned about. In fact, I just got health insurance for the first time since I was 22 about 2 months before I started having problems. I thank God for that blessing every day.
Hearing that the people who are closest to you are questioning you and whether or not you are truly suffering is devastating. I don’t know if I could ever fully explain the betrayal I felt over that – especially since it made me question myself.
Do you want to know the truth though? I feel for those people. I was a train wreck over those 7 months between pain and diagnosis; knowing something was wrong but not getting any answers. I can’t say that I wouldn’t react the same way to someone whose doctor kept sending them away. I would like to think that I wouldn’t but I honestly don’t know. I’m sure there were countless times when they felt like this:
(Don’t you just love that song? Save Ferris makes me want to dance on my bed in my skivvies and do some shout outs to all the “takers” I’ve had in my life!)
I would assume that now, looking back, they kind of feel like jerks – because I would feel like a jerk if I knew I had questioned someone who had always been there for me.
But even since the diagnosis, I haven’t always been the easiest person to be friends with. I haven’t always been fun to be around, and I haven’t always been able to put other people first in the way that used to be my style. My friends who had gotten used to my being a constant giver have had to step back and realize that I can’t be that person to them right now; that some days I need to take care of me. I need to separate myself from negativity and cold words, and I need to surround myself with positivity and warmth. I don't have a whole lot of room for those who can't support me in that right now.
Here’s the thing though: my good friends (my true friends); they are still here. They are still laughing with me when I laugh and crying with me when I cry. They aren’t afraid to ask the tough questions, and they aren’t scared to tell me what they think. Of course, as much as they will speak their minds to me – they would tear the heads off of anyone who said the same thing about me when I wasn’t there to defend myself. My friends force me to get up and wipe my butt off, but they are still there when I fall again.
I am insanely lucky.
The trick is that they don’t push me. They get that some days I need to talk, and some days I need to pretend like nothing is wrong. They don’t push me. They don’t try to negate my feelings by offering solutions and a slew of “if I were you I would just….” They don’t immediately graze over my issues and move on to their own simply because they don’t know what to say. Even though they have no idea what I am going through (because none of them have ever been where I am now); they listen, they support, and then they move on when they know I am ready to do so. They are always there when I need them, and they know that sometimes they have to tell me when they need me – because I am slightly less observant and more self involved lately. They get that, and when they need me, they ask.
They get me. They love me. They are cheering me on.
For those of you with friends battling infertility: give them time. It isn’t always easy to be around someone in our little club, but we still love you; we still need you. If you can just stand by us and not give up, someday (maybe even someday soon) we will go back to resembling that other version of ourselves.
That version of a woman who hadn’t yet let infertility ruin her ability to be a good friend.
ADSPACE
