Archives for posts with tag: Infertility

So, seeing as nothing is going on right now in The Land That Babies Forgot, I thought I’d write about how this process has affected our relationship, with “our” being J and I, not you and I, dear blog readers.

A heads-up to all of you new to the wonderful world of IF: you will start to look at sex as something that results in disappointment. It becomes a chore that no one really wants to do anymore because really, what the hell is the point? There’s nothing like a year’s worth of BFNs to kill your drive, and trust me, mine is toast.

I know this process has strained our relationship. I love J more than anything in the world, but I can see that I’m snippier than I used to be, a lot more miserable than I used to be, and way less tender than I used to be. He says nothing about any of this, and has become really good at keeping his mouth shut when I go on psycho rants about all the reasons why I hate everything all the time. He’s a great husband.

It’s so clich├ęd, but adversity has a funny way of making strong relationships stronger. I wouldn’t trade J in for anyone, especially during this shitty time and seeing how he’s dealt with it. Through all of my negativity, he is a constant source of optimism and of hope, and that in turn gives me hope (though I’d never admit it). I know what we have is a blessing, and I’m also very aware that many people would give anything for a relationship like ours. That’s something worth thinking about when I get all Debbie Downer.

Anyway, enough cheeseball for one night.

-Love-filled Regular Van.

 

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My mum came to see me a few days after I heard that our first month of medically supervised/assisted baby-making didn’t take. I think it’s pretty safe to say that I’ve been pretty freaking miserable since that phone call with the pregnancy results. I called J right after hearing, of course, and couldn’t talk through my crying. I called my mum after I hung up with J, and pretty much repeated the whole thing.

I have the best mum in the world, let me just put that out there early in this post so there are no misunderstandings. She lives an hour and a half away, but is perpetually ready to drop whatever she is doing to be by my side, should I need it. I figured everyone’s mum is like this, but as I get older, I’m realizing that’s not the case.

So she came to see me, and we went out for dinner. I kind of spazzed on her, and I’m sure I freaked her out when I started talking about how my experience being incapable of conceiving is like a continuation of an on-going battle I’ve had with my body and body image that started when I was pretty young.

She chalked up my emotional rant to “all those hormones” the doctor’s had me on. I think this was her way of expressing her incapacity to deal with what I was telling her.

I have always either hated my body to the point that I could hardly look at myself in the mirror, or tolerate it enough to not feel ill if I happened to catch a glimpse of it. Medically, I don’t think I’ve ever been overweight, but I’m always aware of how much thinner everyone else seems.

I hate that I’m like this. I majored in Semiotics and minored in Women’s Studies–I know how media is constructed and how messages are created. I can speak critically about this, but that doesn’t change how I feel about myself. I wish I looked like a model, and I have a hard time accepting that I never will. The fact that I don’t reflects a deep rooted sense of failure and guilt that I don’t measure up and am intrinsically flawed. Not being able to conceive is just another level, another piece of proof that my body is a failure.

I know this isn’t rational. I know it’s not helpful to think like this, or even productive, but there it is.

My body and I just can’t seem to get it together. I thought that at this stage in my life, early 30s, married, I would have come to terms with body image, and I think maybe I was starting to get there. I started gaining weight last year, maybe 10 pounds. I chalked it up to a crazy schedule that had me commuting at lunch time as I was working between two schools. I didn’t eat lunch last year. Like, at all. With my recent thyroid results looking slightly elevated, I’m thinking now that weight gain had more to do with hypothyroidism, but that doesn’t change how I look. I feel like a huge frigging whale, which is only aggravated by the seemingly weekly question by co-workers: “Are you pregnant?”.

No. Apparently, my body can’t get pregnant. So I’m just getting fat. Thanks so much for asking.

For the past year of trying to conceive, I’ve felt trapped inside of a body I hate that doesn’t even work how it’s supposed to. I’m afraid to try to lose weight in case that adds to the problems we’re already having with trying to make a baby. J’s been told repeatedly that he has super sperm: this issue is all me.

That’s a lot of weight to carry around. Pun intended.

-Jumbo-sized Regular Van.

It’s been a while.

Like, a year a while.

I had absolutely no idea when I started this blog that a year later, here we’d be. I wish I had written more during the past year, but it’s been rough. This process has been the most challenging experience of my life, but I feel ready to write about it now, and part of me feels like I need to get it out.

We had an appointment at the CReATe Fertility Clinic in Toronto earlier this week, and though the lead up to the appointment was stress-inducing, I feel excited and hopeful about the future for the first time in a really long time. That appointment has made me feel ready and able to share what’s been going on.

Before I describe what’s happened, I have to say how much all of this has sucked. There’s no other way to put it. Okay, I guess there are other ways of putting it, but they all involve a whole lot of expletives, and I’m trying to keep those to a minimum. I’ve spent too long crying my eyes out, feeling miserable and totally hopeless. Facebook was intolerable, as it seemed every single frigging person in the world was getting pregnant except for me. People were having their second, their third, and it all just made me cry. I couldn’t talk about it without busting into tears, yet had a hard time thinking about anything else, so it would ultimately come up in conversation with those close to me.

I feel ashamed of the way I treated my friends who were pregnant or had just given birth. I genuinely felt happy for them, but I also felt angry and sorry for myself that it was them who got to experience it and not me. The lowest point was bailing on a meeting with friends who were days away from giving birth. I couldn’t face it.

I’m sure at that point in my life, I would have been diagnosed with depression, had I sought out professional help. I feel a lot better now, after our appointment at the fertility clinic.

So here’s where we’re at: We’re a couple who needs some help. We’ve tried it on our own for the amount of time that warrants a “primary fertility” diagnosis, and we’re now in the process of taking the necessary steps to try to get this train out of the station (no sexual innuendo intended there).

Our doctor at CReATe is fantastic, and instantly eased my mind. I held it together during our first appointment, which I was really proud of. I’ll write about our appointments in further posts in an effort to lay out our experience for those who may be going through the same things.

My advice for others who are traveling a similar path to us is to be easy on yourself. Cry when you need to, talk when you need to, and address your feelings, as difficult as that is sometimes. You’ll be told at least a bazillion times to “just relax” by very well-meaning people who have zero idea how stressful that is to hear. The reality is, though, people have no idea the emotional rollercoaster this process is until they’ve been through it.

-Miserable Regular Van.