Sunday, September 6, 2009

Infertility

Becca wrote this piece five and a half years ago after one of our latter miscarriages and when the feelings of hopelessness were coalescing into tangible darkness.  Obviously, the five brilliant lights that Providence would shine down into our lives had not crested the horizon and she needed an outlet--writing.

Stained
     It’s been dark for a long time. Not visibly dark, just the kind of dark that follows you like a shadow. I don’t know how to dispel the looming pain that covers me like a blanket. It’s a warm, comfortable feeling that validates my lonely reveries. If the darkness didn’t give me solace from the pain, if it wasn’t something I welcomed, the power of my dreams would be impotent. The obscurity provides me shelter from the impending storm. Moving on would prove me unfaithful and disloyal, able to find maternal intimacy elsewhere.
     I have always ached for a child. I know it’s not popular to say that now. As a smart, motivated, and successful woman, I should aspire to greatness. I’m not sure what the technical definition for greatness is, but I know that in these modern times, messy diapers, chunky vomit, and sleepless nights do not usually define transcendent achievement. But really, I just want to help guide the life of a little child. I want to take something completely innocent and malleable, and allow it to mold my jaded, critical, adult existence. I crave a little spirit like a war prisoner yearns for freedom. It’s all I can think about, it’s all I desire, and it thwarts my every step toward the future.
     The story begins when I was a little girl carrying around my Holly Hobbie doll. Several years later, when I would play house with my friends, I would insist that I be able to play the “mom” of the family. I taught my little brothers and sisters to add and subtract, their ABC’s and how to tie their shoes. One day my mother caught me yelling at my stuffed animals because I didn’t think they were trying “their best” in singing. From a very early age, I believed I was born to be a mother.
I didn’t really begin to believe that babies were a reality, until I received half of my dream: the adoring husband. It only made sense that the picket fence and babies would follow soon after. We met in college, were really close friends, but didn’t discover we were destined for each other until seven years later. We dated a short time, had an even shorter engagement, and got married on a June afternoon in San Diego. Our marriage was for eternity, and on that day, I was convinced I would have it all. I can still taste the bile of irony when I criticize myself for taking birth control for the first six months of our married lives. Maybe this is my punishment. For a brief amount of time, I implied that children would be an inconvenience to me.
     I can specifically remember one conversation my roommates and I had in college. It was quiet evening, we were all sitting around asking probing questions, hoping to discover the part in us we always try to hide. I was asked, “What is your worst fear?” I remember after many moments of thought, I responded, “That harm will come to one of my children and I could have prevented it; or, that I will be unable to have children.” But many of our worst fears never really come to fruition. In fact, we hope that by speaking aloud those fears we are somehow immunizing ourselves against their existence. Even that night, it never really occurred to me that I may not be able to have everything of which I deemed myself worthy.
     There is a statistic that 50% of pregnancies end in miscarriage. Most women never know it because the fertilized egg is shed without even a hint of its existence. How casual the process of life can be. It can begin and end without even so much as a thought from the woman carrying the child. And just as real, some women will carry those children to term, and never realize the great miracle they helped to create. Having progeny is just an inconvenient result of their negligent lust.
The first month we tried, I just assumed we would be pregnant. It seems so naïve to believe that now, but I just thought it would be that easy. How could 5 million sperm not find their way to one little egg? One of them was destined to make it… blood was always the end result. Every time I felt we were pregnant, I saw the crimson blemish. In the world of infertility, bleeding is a very poignant symbol of your struggle. The blood takes over, inviting the dark to enslave your anima, slaughtering all hope for another thirty days. It fits perfectly that after each month of hoping with all your heart that a miracle has occurred, that you are informed of your failure through the dark red stain that mottles the optimism you cherished all month.
     After several months of trying, I began to feel a dull, continuous pain in my left side that would accelerate into sharp, strong agony. I felt like my ovaries were being twisted like a water balloon until they would pop. I went to several doctors, who ran a few tests, and when they could find nothing wrong, they labeled my bowels as irritable. It wasn’t just my bowels that were irritable; it was every cell in my body. I couldn’t rid myself of this desperation that began to follow me around like a noisome shadow.
     Every month I was convinced we would be pregnant. I clung to this wish silently, because I knew my husband had given up hope, and I alone was left to carry us over the bridge of doubt. Twelve cycles of this longing and devastation began to take its toll on our faith. My husband and I were best friends in every way, but we could not bring ourselves to discuss our inability to conceive. We danced around the issue like political leaders in a debate, cavelling over inane issues while avoiding the major one. We each lived through our own hell, never dreaming of inviting the other one to dwell in such a dreary and despondent existence.
     Invariably after you’ve been married more than 10 days, the questions begin. Even in the most modern, feminist families, some Aunt Martha would turn to you and ask, “So, when are you going to start your family?” The questions seem fairly harmless until you’ve gone through agonizing months of trying. Suddenly, the question, “Do you and Brent want any children?” asked with a hint of judgment ignites a rage strong enough to justify murder of passion. You simply give your most forced smile and reply, “Yes, we want children.” Which can only follow, “When?” It’s so ironic that many Americans consider it inappropriate to discuss what goes on in the bedroom, but don’t shy away at all from asking about the products of that behavior.
     After a year of trying, I was late. This wasn’t too abnormal for me, but a sliver of hope pleaded that this be a sign. I convinced my husband to go with me to buy a test. He didn’t seem too interested in the adventure, as we had gone through this painful ordeal several times before; always to see one pink line and disappointment in its deepest form. We picked the test up at a Wal-Mart, as I watched a mother yelling, “shut-up” to her screaming child. My heart yearned to take that child and wrap my arms around her and whisper that it would all be okay.
     The haunting question that accompanies the dark shadow is whether or not my incapability to have a child is an indication of my weakness for caring for one. Logically, it sounds rash; emotionally, it makes perfect sense. It follows the theory of Darwin that if there were something inherently wrong with me, I would be unable to carry a child to term. I rack myself with questions when I watch the mom in Wal-Mart screaming, and wonder where I fall short.
     We got home from buying the test. While my husband was unloading the car, I inconspicuously peed on the stick and watched as two pink lines appeared in the testing window. I had never seen two lines, and it took a while for me to realize the significance of the moment. It’s funny how you’ll dream about a moment for so long, and then the actual moment is lost in confusion. My husband walked in and with my hands shaking, and eyes brimming over with tears, I showed him the positive test. He gave me little reaction. We had both waited for this moment for over a year, and he had nothing to say. I knew he didn’t believe that this miracle was really ours to keep. It was borrowed joy that would need to be returned in two weeks, just like a book from the library.
     I went back to harboring it all within myself. I would not be robbed of this euphoria I had only been able to imagine before this moment. I felt such a connection to this little life. It was my constant companion. Every decision I made was with consideration for this child. I began a routine of talking to my belly. I couldn’t help it. My heart felt so connected to this bundle of cells multiplying inside me. It validated the internal dialogue I had depended on for years; finally, I would have it all.
     My dreams began to crumble with the pink stain. I had been pregnant for several weeks, when I saw a hint of pink on the toilet paper. I knew at that moment that children would never come easily to me. The pink stain turned into red, like my bitterness evolving into anger. I had to lie down, the pain forcing me to permit the cramps to begin expelling life from my body. I began to feel that if I wanted this baby enough, I could will it to hang on. I could convince this child not to give up on me. I knew, logically, that miscarriages don’t happen this way, but at the same time, I needed to feel like I could do something to change fate, besides lay on my bed enduring the periodic spewing of my abdomen. Like someone clinging to a perilous dike, I desperately grasped onto the love I had for my baby, and supplicated it would be enough to save the little spirit. It wasn’t.
     The strange thing about miscarriage is that it’s not something you want to share with other people. There is always that empty silence separating the grieving from the ignorant. It feels worse to voice your pain, because they have nothing intelligent or even comforting to respond back, leaving you more hollow than you were before. In the life of a mother, however short that time might have been; the loss is a death. I was grieving the life of this baby, and yet I could not openly mourn the way a person would do if they had lost their mortal child. I needed to go back to work, and continue life as though nothing significant had taken place. Motherhood was given and taken away in such a fleeting moment. I was expected to still drop off the dry cleaning, teach six classes in a day, and turn in my term paper. Only I was aware of the blood trickling out, exorcising my body of all traces of life. Everything continued just as it was.
     My husband was stoic through the miscarriage, until he saw the grayish, rubbery form of a body that was our baby. It was a small blob, but you could see the head and make out the beginning growth of limbs. It’s a disturbing moment to look at your little life in the toilet like some dead fish. It doesn’t seem quite appropriate to dispose of the child through the sewer system. I remember my mother told me a story about my grandmother burying her miscarried baby in the backyard. While I look at my little baby in the toilet, I never understood my grandmother more than I did in that moment. My husband sobbed at the evidence of life that had grown from our love, and I think he began to see the pain I would carry every day for months.
     Apparently, you are more fertile after a miscarriage, and so by the next cycle, I was pregnant again. It seemed like maybe fertilization would not be the glaring issue it was our first year of trying. We were elated to replace the pain of one loss, with the joy of another life. I went to my doctor’s to receive any help he could give me in keeping this child. He seemed apathetic to my plight, and only insisted on performing a pap smear. Later in the afternoon, my husband and I walked along the shores of Newport Beach, hand in hand, connected in a way that was not possible before the first loss. I began to think it was meant to be. The first loss brought us together. Infertility would not be a taboo word anymore in our home. The easily discussed fertility would replace the distant word of infertility. We were able to cross the bridge of doubt, and keep a hold of each other in the process. He was more hopeful, more convinced of our worthiness to protect this child from harm.
     That afternoon, I saw the pink stain. I knew I could not survive this again. I didn’t mention it to Brent, because I couldn’t bear to destroy his sanguinity- I felt like we had worked so hard to develop it. I had insisted he recognize the hand of fate, and to embrace the endless possibilities. But, just like the last time, pink turned into deep red, and I was alone. My feelings were lethargic; I just couldn’t bring myself to feel rage or sadness. I only braced myself for the next cramp, and cringed at each painful expulsion from my body. Brent came home from work the following day, only to learn that we had lost Baby Number Two.
     Our pain became a third party in our home. It was this imaginary person walking around the house, irritating us both, but neither one of us acknowledging its existence. It was present in every conversation, at every meal, and in every expression of love to each other. It would haunt us with its presence, and conceding its existence would only give it more life. Like a bothersome relative, refusing to leave, we resented the presence of this ghost in our home. We knew that we could not find peace, until we were willing to cast the specter out. But by casting it out, it would seem we never wanted it all to begin with. So, we allowed the unwelcome guest to circle around us, like a vulture foraging for prey.
     That is when the darkness began to settle. It started as just a gray mist, but over the course of several months, it turned into a great pall of black smoke. Nobody around me could see the darkness, it was personal, belonging only to me; and I cherished it like a family heirloom. It was the only thing that gave voice to my prolonged grieving. To everyone, including my husband, the miscarriages were months ago, and it was time to dream again. We began the cycles of hope and failure, but the gravity of the emotions involved began to take its toll. I felt rage at every birth announcement and feigned joy at every pregnancy. Inside, I was a pressure cooker waiting to explode. My emotions were as elusive as a breeze, and I couldn’t define what they were or where they came from, which made me unable to combat them. When I couldn’t characterize my enemy, I made the enemy everyone. The pain in my left side returned. It was another daily reminder that things were not right, and excruciating pain would be my lot. I found a doctor that was able to diagnose the disease, and endometriosis became my constant companion. It was calming to put a name to the foe, and I welcomed the silent intruder. At least I knew what I was fighting.
     My husband and I were able to discuss the infertility for the first time in almost a year. Instead of saying “infertility” we could say “condition” and that took the blame and misunderstandings out of the equation. We were able to coalesce as one to battle the effects of the condition on my body. He was not my enemy; he was the one person who shared my deep hatred for the trespasser. The ghost coexisting in our house began to walk around us, instead of between us. I felt so relieved to know that adopting my husband’s peace didn’t insult the ghost of my baby; rather, it reverenced it.
     Infertility has been known to destroy marriages. I can see how the merry-go-round of disappointment will slowly begin to corrode the deep connection between a husband and wife. It was difficult to acknowledge that he was everything in my life, and yet this condition threatened our future. I knew I couldn’t let my desire for children demolish my already-established happiness. I began to feel like a gambler who had doubled his winnings and was searching to blow it all before he realized what he had won. I wasn’t willing to accept that I had hit the jackpot already, and that it was foolish to risk it all pining for more. I desired satisfaction. I wanted myself to see what I had, and to appreciate the beauty of my life. I had a husband who adored me. I had a friendship worth more to me than anything, and yet I was searching everywhere for the perfect life, and I couldn’t see all the beauty in front of me. It’s frightening to imagine all the joy that has been missed in the quest for perfection.
     The pain hasn’t stopped. My doctor recommended surgery, and I was convinced it would cure the infertility and pain. My doctor explained that surgery would extricate the displaced blood in my uterus and clear the pathway for children to be created. The month after my surgery, the pain was minimal, and I felt that finally I had found the magical cure. But, within weeks, the pain returned with a vengeance. I was writhing in agony, the surgery offering less than 3 weeks of alleviation. Surgery, treatments, and medication could not give me the relief I was searching for. My body is still a daily reminder of my difficulties to conceive and maintain a pregnancy.
     Modern medicine had failed me, and finally the dark had overpowered me beyond my ability to contain it. One evening, I cried myself to convulsions in the arms of my husband. I began to resent the darkness and its power over my existence. Like a deadly addiction, I abhorred my dependence on this vice. The darkness was no longer something that comforted me; it was destroying me. I was unable to fight the feeling I had coddled for so long.
     During this black time, I discovered I was pregnant. I had been drowning in my suffering for so long, that I felt unworthy to plan for new, innocent life. I carried that baby until I was convinced it was safe enough to dream. My husband and I attended weekly medical exams where we charted our baby’s growth through ultrasounds. We marveled at its little heartbeat, and we believed that this was really our little miracle. We were given it when all odds were against us; something greater than ourselves was involved. At nine weeks, blood and darkness again plagued my progress. I could feel the siren of pain calling for my soul, luring me to an abyss of doubts.
     It all comes down to a battle with myself. I cannot allow this pain to own me. And yet, it would be so easy to acquiesce to my grief. It’s such a battle everyday to recognize my role in peace. If I do not force myself to see the gifts in front of me, I will be unable to pull myself from the cold. I alone hold the power for freedom.
     So, I continue my battle against myself. The comforting darkness that gives voice to my racked emotions never melts with my desire for peace and happiness. I must give up one and embrace the other. Sometimes, I can’t decide which I want more. It seems logical to want the peace. But, in the world of grieving, there is something very tangible about the dark. It’s the one place you feel understood and valued. The darkness seems to understand you in a way that the light never could. But, I know the darkness will never free me. I’m a prisoner to its lure. I know that in order to escape, I must embrace the light. I must acknowledge that the light will not go where the dark determines to take me; it will only struggle to guide me back to peace.

2 comments:

  1. Thank you for sharing this with us. I always knew what a struggle you went through having children, but I didn't know as many of the details and hardships. I am so grateful that you finally had your wishes and dreams fulfilled (and then some!) You are the best mother I know and the one I hope to be like! Thanks again for sharing this!

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  2. I'm glad to know I'm not alone in a lot of the feelings I've had over my life. It's like reading myself when I see that you too had the "playing Mommy" experience as a kid... and I also had the "worst fear" conversation with a close friend in college. I think because of that, I can look at you now and remember that I still have some hope. :)

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