Reactions, Positivity, and Understanding

While visiting my friends and family in America (some with children, some with grandchildren, some without any), it was interesting to see people's reactions, responses, and comments if I chose to share my current struggle with infertility. I wasn't sure how I was going to deal with this situation - A bottle of wine in each hand? Mimosas every day at breakfast? How do you respond to a topic that consumes you when you're home but that is so difficult to discuss?

As I had guessed most people brought up the topic with me quite quickly. With more than five years of marriage, a new home and low-stress job, it looks like the perfect set-up for a family. As they eyed my very full wine glass, they would inquire, "So, are you thinking about starting a family?" and I would choose my response carefully. Usually something like, "Yep, we are trying pretty hard, but no luck so far!" Humor can make any topic seem normal. 

I had expected some of the normal responses for someone who is trying-but-not-succeeding: At least you're young! It'll happen when the time's right! Maybe you should adopt! You know all the ones I'm talking about. I had prepared myself for them as well, and mostly let them slide right over me without taking them to heart. No one is trying to be hurtful with their comments. People don't know how to react to a situation they have never encountered. They want to give advice, they want to give hope, they want you to be happy and positive and make THEM feel comfortable. And I get it - infertility is a pretty uncomfortable topic. Society has made it very taboo to talk about reproduction, and I also believe the explicit details of my journey are a private topic for trusted close friends and family (except, apparently, on this all-too-public blog, but that's something else entirely).  

So for a lot of my interactions with friends and family while on my visit to America, I lied. Instead of sharing how I really feel most of the time (hopeless, frustrated, angry, inadequate, and more...), I pulled on my brave-face mask and echo their sentiments and hide my real thoughts.  For the most part, people don't want to hear that you are not okay. They want the easy, comfortable, sanitized version. They want me to be positive and joyful like I normally am towards difficult situations in life. I can't really blame them, everyone has enough of their own troubles in their life - why do they need mine too?

One friend, however, really surprised me. Instead of a cliché comment, advice, reassurance, or positivity, she offered support and understanding. Instead of rushing to tell me how, "I would get there someday," or "It would all be alright," or telling me about her roommate's cousin's sister with PCOS who miraculously had a baby - she commiserated with me. 

"You must be so frustrated"
"It might never happen, I'm so sorry."
"I know what it's like to go through something difficult. I'm here if you ever need to talk about it"

And for that moment, I didn't feel like I was hiding behind a mask or pretending to be the sunny, positive, shiny me. I could just share my real thoughts and put everything out there on the table. I felt so free for the moment. When we said goodbye I gave her several big hugs. I don't think she even realized how important that conversation was for me. 

Everyone deals with infertility in their own way, and I don't think there is one right way to do it. I just know showing understanding and compassion instead of rushing to slap on a band-aid can do wonders for someone like me. And if you're reading this and struggling too - I understand, and I'm sorry for your frustration and difficulty. 

That Room

You know the one I'm talking about. When you were looking at moving into that house (or apartment), you thought it was perfect. It gave you room to grow. That special place that you imagined crib, a colorful mobile, and maybe a rocking chair. Where you would arrange tiny socks and shirts and pants into tiny drawers. Where you would sing soft songs and read good-night stories and rock-a-bye-baby. The meant-to-be room that's all too silent; the room that should be filled with laughing and giggles and smiles, and yes, lots of crying too.

That room that feels so empty, and yet you can't quite bear to do anything else useful with it. Maybe if you just sparsely furnish it, you think to yourself, it won't be so painful. Maybe if you leave room for that crib and changing table, then you know there's still space. You're not giving up on the nursery you've dreamed of, just making the most of today and using the space you have.

You push those feelings back, thinking of when you first saw that room and how excited you were to fill it with happiness, joy, shining eyes and chubby little cheeks. It will happen someday, you tell yourself. It might take longer than you planned, but it will happen. You try to be hopeful, try to ignore that room - or avoid going in it altogether. 

But that room is always there, silent, empty, and a constant reminder of what you don't have.