There is something about the world of infertility that can so often feel completely overwhelming.
Absolutely heartbreaking.
And totally isolating.
When you’re in the middle of it (facing down the doctors, and diagnosis, and treatments) it’s easy to get caught up in a thought stream of “me, me, me”. One where no matter what else you really know, you almost convince yourself that you’re the only person who has ever gone through this. The only one who has ever struggled to conceive. And the only one who has ever felt the cold slap in the face that is failure.
Infertility can leave you feeling more alone than anything else ever has or ever will again.
At least, it can if you let it.
One of the things I’ve learned over the last few years however, is how often I encounter people on a day to day basis who actually do “get” it. Whenever I start talking about my journey (my struggles), I’m always astounded by how often I find I’m talking to someone who understands. Not just in the internet world where we’re admittedly seeking each other out, but also in real life – where it’s easy to convince yourself that you’re the only one. Where the silence about what we’ve experienced only perpetuates that notion.
I was walking by the office of one of the higher ups at my company last week when I noticed a vase with lilies sitting on her table.
I am a sucker for lilies. Always have been. I’m pretty sure I could forgive just about anything if the apology came attached to it a bundle of lilies. If any man ever truly wants to woo me – that’s the way to do it.
But that’s beside the point.
The point is, I saw these lilies and I had to stop in her office to compliment them. To smell them. To admire them.
Have I mentioned how much I love lilies?
As I was gushing over her bouquet, I explained that I recently had a friend who went through IVF and that I sent her lilies on the day of her transfer after we had talked at length the day before about the bumps along the way that left her feeling less than confident. I had been disappointed to learn that they arrived almost completely closed up, but on the day she was set to fly home (right around the time those embies of hers would have been implanting), she sent me a video of those lilies.
Untitled from S.I.F. on Vimeo.
Almost all of them had bloomed over the days prior. As if they were coming to life along with those babies of hers.
Call me a sap, but I totally had to fight back tears at the symbolism of it all.
In the retelling of this story however, I realized how out of my comfort zone I had just stepped. This was a higher up exec I was speaking to. One I had worked with on a handful of occasions already, but not one I had ever entered into the realm of personal story telling with.
And I had just thrown out a bunch of terms to her that most “normal” people don’t fully understand or grasp at all.
Feeling stupid, I sheepishly stopped talking and turned away from the flowers to gauge her expression.
Only to find her looking at me with a completely enthralled expression on her face.
“Was it her first IVF?” she asked.
“Yes.” I replied.
“Did she get pregnant?” she further inquired.
“Yes.” I again responded.
“Wow.” She said. “That’s incredibly lucky.”
Sensing somehow that maybe she understood to some level what I was talking about (perhaps she had a sister or a friend who had gone through something similar?) I blurted out “I have another friend who just did IVF for the first time too – she’s also pregnant.”
“Wow.” She repeated, a look of awe on her face.
Again, there was something there. I can’t really explain it. This isn’t a topic of conversation I typically delve into with people I’m not close to – it certainly isn’t one I often bring up at work. But something told me to keep going.
“I did two rounds myself.” I continued. “But they both failed.”
Upon saying it, I self-consciously shoved my hands into my pockets - not wanting her to notice that my ring finger was bare. Those old fears of judgment at the hands of people who would never understand why I tried so hard to get pregnant as a single woman poking the back of my brain – causing excess worry because this woman is more than just a few rungs above me in the pecking order at my company. I couldn’t really afford her judgment.
Not that she had given me any indication up to that point that she would judge me – it was just old insecurities flying to the surface almost as quickly as the words flew out of my mouth.
I couldn’t figure out why I had just divulged so much.
But still… she was looking at me in awe.
“Come here.” She instructed, motioning for me to step behind her desk and look at her computer.
She closed everything out until only her screen saver remained – a picture of several young girls ready to head out for some team sporting event.
She pointed to the one on the end “That’s my daughter.” She said. “She’s 15 years old. She was the result of my 5th and final try. I had already started working on accepting the fact that I would never carry a child. When we saw her heartbeat, it was the most amazing feeling I had ever experienced. She’s my miracle.”
I was stunned. Shocked silent and choking back my own tears.
My own hope.
You never know who will understand. Infertility isn’t something we can see, although I think most of us believe that the scars it leaves behind are noticeable to all.
She went on to explain what a dark time that period in her life had been. How she had relied on organizations such as Resolve simply to feel some level of connection to others who “got” it.
I was reminded again of how lucky I am to live in an internet era.
How blessed I am to have friends who support me always – even those who have never actually been there. And especially those who have.
I’m lucky. Surrounded by a world of understanding and acceptance that I may not have so easily found 15 years ago.
We’re lucky – to live in a time when finding support for infertility is so much easier than it ever was before.
But still – there’s that silence. That shame. That voice in our head that tells us to keep our struggles private. Mocking us into obscurity in our own lives. Leaving us to feel alone, and scorned, and isolated in a world where we begin to believe that no one else could possibly understand.
Until we start talking about it. Until we realize how many voices out there have walked this path before. How many faces in our day to day lives really do get it.
So much so, that they too have been hiding away in their own silence.
You never know who’s been there. Who’s walked this path. Who’s felt this hurt.
You never know who’s carrying around this same silent shame.
And scars that feel so very visible to them, all while the rest of us are blind to the marks others are wearing.
Even as we ourselves are carrying around the same exact wounds.
You never know.
And there’s something about that simple fact that makes the isolation of it all suddenly seem so very unnecessary.
Because you never know.
But you’re never alone.
ADSPACE
