I am so very hesitant to post this.
I’ve been weighing it up all weekend, trying to decide whether now is the right time or not. I think I’ve decided that there will never be a perfect time and I just have to trust that it reaches the right people.
Basically it’s something I angrily scrawled down late one night just before we started IVF. I want to be clear that time has softened the severity of pain I feel – yes, the pain still twinges and burns, but it is no longer agonising. I have had to learn to accept what has happened, and derive my happiness from other things. Some days I do better than others, but overall I am much, much, much happier.
When I read what I wrote five years ago, I almost can’t believe that it was me. There is so much resentment, pain, anger, disappointment and jealousy. It’s really not pretty! But I’m sharing something so personal and so raw in the hope that it helps articulate what failing to conceive for years feels like. Well, even more basic than that, I’m sharing what grieving can feel like.
It is my hope that this story is able to voice the pain that other couples are silently enduring right now.
It’s probably an uncomfortable read, especially if you’ve never seen this side of me before, and for that I apologise. Also, beware of the over-abundance of adjectives and melodrama; I was in the middle of a Literature degree at the time!
Ok – Brace yourselves!
27th December 2008
IVF. So this is how it begins. We have spent the last three years trying to come to terms with the whole thing. Infertility. That dirty, rotten, seldom-spoken, sympathy-ridden, gut-wrenchingly painful word. That word that consumes every breath, every thought, every growing belly, or rolling pram or playground or commercial or waking or sleeping.
Infertility. It is the demon child that grows within you, but only grows and grows and threatens to burst you apart from the womb to the heart. It is the devil inside that mocks, taunts, burns, throbs and feasts upon any moments of happiness. And, as each month slithers past that beast takes even more of you, even though you were quite sure there is nothing – no dream, want, need, or yearning – that it hasn’t already devoured. But, as surely as winter follows autumn, the pain can deepen. Suddenly, sharply and with increasingly regular intensity, the infertility tumour within you bursts forth like a volcano, spitting and spewing hate and hurt into the faces of all those around you. It takes all. It destroys the truest parts of you.
But, most of all, that awful monster within scrapes. Day and night. Long lazy summer afternoons and bone-chilling mornings. It writhes inside, grating its sharp yellowed claws along your insides. Dragging itself down your spine then tearing back up through your stomach, trying to fight its way out of your barren cage. But you know it can never be born. No. That gnawing pain, those tears that are only seconds from your eyes, they are yours alone to own, yours alone to carry.
How has three years passed? Three Christmases, three Easters, six birthdays, countless dreams.
“Don’t worry- you can have mine!” Well-meaning, insensitive friends tease. Or, “Are you sure you’re doing it right?” Oh, for goodness sake, sometimes I just want to hit people. And for the countless people that find it fit to remind me that, “Once I’ve got them, I’ll long for the days without them” – Thanks – but I think I would sacrifice any asset, any career, perky breasts or quiet nights for a touch of flesh I’ve made, tiny fingers reaching for me, cries of trust and longing, need and urgency, a toothless smile and those chubby, ticklish thighs that are mine. Mine.
But even as you think those greedy, guilty thoughts you can almost hear all those “real-life mothers” chuckling quietly with nostalgic sympathy for you. If only she knew, they tut. Those nappies, those screams, those rotten loud toys, the spoiled Pumpkin Patch jumpsuit that was just washed, those sexless screaming nights, every shopping trip, every girlfriend visit, every loss of liberty, every wanting hand, everything. If only she knew.
And, yes I agree, if only I did.
Phew! You made it through that roller-coaster of anguish! And so did I, thank God. And that’s what I really want to reiterate if you are grieving right now – you can make it through. I’m definitely not at the end of my journey yet, and I doubt I ever will be, but the intensity of the pain has decreased, and my strength has increased ten-fold.
Again, I thank you for being brave and open enough to walk alongside me and many other couples.