Everyone in my life is incredibly compassionate about this struggle. There are even a handful of people I know that have walked this same road. I wish I could articulate the deep, never-ceasing, excruciating pain that I feel each day. I desperately want someone to know exactly what I experience. All I can compare it to is suffering a wound so deep and so serious that it drains every ounce of your strength, all of your reserves, and saps you of any hope that you can move forward. I cannot compare this to the struggle of a mortally wounded soldier, but it is my emotional equivalent of warfare. And in the midst of this horrific, tragic, gut-wrenching pain, I am expected by everyone (even those who are compassionate and loving and caring and the most incredible people I know) to continue living life and moving forward and having hope. There are days where I lose the battle when I have to do something as simple as brush my teeth, never mind having to walk out the door, interact with other people, go to work, smile and nod that yes, I am doing well. Behind the facade I am face down in the dirt, drowning in a pool of my own blood. Those who have walked this road will know the complete sincerity of this statement. Those who have not, I appreciate your compassion and your acceptance that you simply cannot know how this feels until you have lived it for nearly one thousand sunrises and sunsets.
Simply leaving the house hurts. I go to the store and am surrounded by reminders of pregnancy, babies, toddlers, teenagers, grandparents-the ceaseless ebb and flow of divinely ordained life that I may never play a part in. I experience all of the emotional depth of that statement when I stand in the store behind someone buying a package of diapers. I clutch my nieces and nephews to me and breathe in their sweet smells and my heart bursts and I wonder if there is any way I can be saved. I seek to escape the pain of the day through sleep and am haunted by dreams of caressing my pregnant belly, of giving birth, of holding my daughter who already has a name and is fiercely loved, and wake up feeling like I was hurled out of a moving vehicle into oncoming traffic. And it never, ever ends.
I hurt everywhere. All the time. I understand how infertility leads to destructive behavior, ends marriages, wrecks families. I know why people choose to be numb.
People never know what to say. Those closest to me know that things like, "It will happen," or "Just be positive" or "your babies will come when it's time," will likely earn them a punch in the face and a sincere apology for breaking their nose. I think I have an advantage in that I am incredibly open (likely to a fault) about everything I am dealing with, so I do not hesitate to talk about feeling this way and people generally know when I am so low that not even a Harry Potter marathon can pull me out of the depths of despair. I think the best thing I have had someone say to me is simply, "I love you." That does more than anything when you are so emotionally obliterated that you can't seem to take another breath.
Living with infertility is a hell through which few will pass, when you consider the population of the world through all time. Yet it touches most of us in tangential ways. Six months of trying to shrink ovarian cysts and get my cycles under control was absolutely terrible, but it only required me to feel disappointment. Now, as we gear up for a cycle of treatment, I have to feel the worst thing I can imagine-hope. I believe in a mind-body connection. I need to have hope and faith that this will work. But taking drugs, injecting drugs, doing an insemination, taking more drugs, and then having your heart ripped out by a negative test is more than a heart can handle. And if you do back to back cycles, you begin the whole process over three days after your negative result. It is the highest and most hellish form of torture I have experienced. Hope and promise shatter and you get to stand in the broken glass, bleeding all over while people look at you and tell you to be hopeful all over again.
I am hopeful right now. I am responding well to my Femara treatment, started my Gonal-F injections today for the next three days, will be re-scanned on Friday, and will finish up with a few more shots this weekend before I trigger ovulation. The tentative IUI date is Sunday. But hope is most definitely tempered by experience and disappointment. My hope feels like the last gasp for air while I am drowning before I sink away into oblivion. But it is there, and it is mine.
I read two things last night that
stuck with me. The first was a re-reading of a series of short essays by
F. Scott Fitzgerald, a man who I believe lived his entire life in emotional
pain and agony. In "The Crack-Up," he penned, "and
in a real dark night of the soul it is always
three o’clock in the morning, day after day." And so it is three
o'clock in the morning for me, day after day.
The other was from the
scriptures, more specifically, the Book of Mormon. If you do not believe this
to be the revealed word of God, then perhaps accept this as a story that
illustrates a larger point about resilience. The leader of a small group of people was named
Jared, and as his people fled wickedness and crossed a great body of water in
small ships, their small quarters were illuminated by stones that had been
given light by the Lord. The wind blew furiously during their year-long
journey, and though they were tossed about relentlessly and frightened and
cried unto the Lord for stillness and peace, they were blown continually in the
direction of their destination, and they had light. And the wind never stopped
moving them in the right direction, and the people never stopped praising and
thanking the Lord. And they had light continually, even in trial and tempest
and through fear and anguish. And when they arrived on land again, they humbled
themselves before the Lord, shed tears of joy, and recognized His tender
mercies over them.
I am in a dark night of the soul. It is a night full of pain and fear.
But I have a small light. And I have the love of my husband, and my family, and
my friends, and my Father in Heaven. It doesn't change the fact that I hurt
like hell and on good days, the best I can do is drag myself an inch closer to
safety while I live with this open wound, but it does give the struggle a sense
of meaning. This wound will never go away. It may change form and become an old
wound, a scar, but it will mark my experiences forever. No pregnancy or
adoption or perhaps a life without children will nullify what I have experienced. But I
can own the pain and the experience and set myself up willingly for the punch in the gut
that I might have to take in two and a half weeks, as long as I know that the
pain and experience are mine to own and learn from.
Please, if you are inclined, say a prayer for us and those others that
live each day with an open wound in the deepest dark of the night, that we
might see the pinprick of light that will lead us on, and someday, lead us
home.
