A little while ago, I got a survey in the mail from Shady Grove. It was being sent out to participants in the Shared Egg Donor Program that they started about 2005-ish. In short, an egg donor takes all the meds, the eggs are retrieved, and then two or more recipients split the bounty. Which is exactly what another lady and I did in April 2006. I was the donor and one of the recipients, and doing it that way cost us only $6500 including medication, vs. $15,000 not including medication. Yep, our lovely insurance didn't cover us, so this was a huge blessing. (grrr...mumble...growl...darn insurance...)
Anyway, the survey was just a follow-up: seeing how I was doing emotionally, if I would ever be open to my little grown-up eggs contacting me...but it totally brought to mind that I probably have another little child or more out there somewhere. This is something I think about occasionally. This child. Not MY child, but someone who might have my smile, or who might hate okra (is that genetic?), or who will be blessed with wonderfully horrible eyesight. And I'm not pining for this child. I don't feel like he or she or they belong to me, but it's just a weird feeling. And I hope that their mom and dad are good to them and love them and sit down beside them to read books or be a horsey for the 254th time that day. And then I remember that the woman I gave half my eggs to was someone like me. Someone who was aching for a little one of her own, someone who had been poked and prodded and despaired, but kept trying and hoping and praying. I hope she was praying. I hope they are a family who knows the Lord, I hope the little children biologically linked to me grow up with a love for the Savior.
Yeah, sometimes that makes me pause, realizing I probably sent them to a non-LDS home, and I'm a little bit sad. But (and this doesn't even need to be said) there are wonderful people and families who are not LDS, and I can only try harder to be a better missionary so that everyone, including those little children who are not mine but are part of me, will have a chance to know the joys of the restored gospel.
Officially, the church discourages donation of sperm and eggs, but ultimately it's a matter between husband, wife, and the Lord. And we prayed. A lot. And fasted. And talked to our church leaders. Never once did we feel hesitant about doing this. It may not be for everyone, but it was right for us. I asked my nurse, after we found out we were carrying the twins, "I know you can't tell me details, or anything, but, can you tell me if it even worked for the other woman???" She paused. "I can't tell you anything. But...(dramatic pause)...thank you VERY MUCH." Hmmm...okay, in writing, that really means nothing, but trust me...if you heard the way she said it, you'd know that at that point things were going pretty well for my secret recipient. And that felt good. It definitely felt good to not have to go into debt up to our eyeballs, but helping another couple like us to have their own little squirming, pooping, gurgling, cooing kiddo turned out to feel even better.
Sunday, August 31, 2008
Saturday, August 30, 2008
Time to Stretch
When I lived in the West several years ago, my aunt and grandmother once came for a visit. My grandmother travelled on a mini side trip to Denver for a couple of days while my aunt stayed behind. We hadn’t been alone like this since I used to visit her in San Francisco. Although we had had very few heart-to-heart talks once I reached adulthood, we must have shared a mutual vulnerability at the time because we had some very good conversation in those few, short days.
My aunt has never been married. That has its own set of complicated issues, which she had dealt with and gotten over. I was mid-testing for infertility and we both admitted to being on the receiving end of the particular kind of merciless pity only Mormons can toss out to each other. But she shared a wonderfully epiphanic thought with me that I have never forgotten.
The same kind of person, she said, who asks you when you are finally going to get married is the same person who asks when you are finally going to have your first kid after you’re married. It’s the same kind of person who will ask when you’re going to have your second kid, or your third, or when your kids are going to go to BYU and when are your kids going to get married. It’s an et cetera that will not end. You can come up with whatever honest or flippant answer you like, but there will always be that kind of person around. And they will always confront you with questions like that, at which you could possibly take offense.
Once she realized that those questions weren’t actually about her, she laughed it off and ignored those kinds of people. She did exactly what she had done before: live. She got on with her life.
I loved her wisdom. I had worked through most of my initial bitterness at being infertile by the time she cemented what I had gradually been realizing—that I had been in power the entire time, and that the choices I was left with could be enacted by only one person… me. It didn’t matter how wide my realm of action was. I would stretch myself to the very edges of it.
My aunt has never been married. That has its own set of complicated issues, which she had dealt with and gotten over. I was mid-testing for infertility and we both admitted to being on the receiving end of the particular kind of merciless pity only Mormons can toss out to each other. But she shared a wonderfully epiphanic thought with me that I have never forgotten.
The same kind of person, she said, who asks you when you are finally going to get married is the same person who asks when you are finally going to have your first kid after you’re married. It’s the same kind of person who will ask when you’re going to have your second kid, or your third, or when your kids are going to go to BYU and when are your kids going to get married. It’s an et cetera that will not end. You can come up with whatever honest or flippant answer you like, but there will always be that kind of person around. And they will always confront you with questions like that, at which you could possibly take offense.
Once she realized that those questions weren’t actually about her, she laughed it off and ignored those kinds of people. She did exactly what she had done before: live. She got on with her life.
I loved her wisdom. I had worked through most of my initial bitterness at being infertile by the time she cemented what I had gradually been realizing—that I had been in power the entire time, and that the choices I was left with could be enacted by only one person… me. It didn’t matter how wide my realm of action was. I would stretch myself to the very edges of it.
You Know You're Infertile When...
The thermometer gets more action than your husband does in your desperate attempts to keep your basal temperature registering high.
You have a kind of pregnant-woman magnetism. If there is a pregnant woman within a 2 mile radius, she will run into you.
You have actually offered to let the doctor insert a permanent hose in your arm for all the blood testing.
No matter what month it is or when you last had sex, you know what your due date would be without doing any calculations.
You have a pregnancy radar - you always know when an old friend who hasn't talked to you in years will be emailing you to tell you she's expecting.
You could give a seminar on evaluating cervical fluid.
You've lost any vestiges of doctor's office-related modesty. For all you care they can bring in the whole staff to have a peek at you.
You keep a pregnancy test in the house, just in case.
You've perfected the zone-out technique at baby showers, and can ooh and ahh over baby clothes while thinking about what you are going to have for dinner.
And you can read a list like this and nod your head in agreement the whole time.
You have a kind of pregnant-woman magnetism. If there is a pregnant woman within a 2 mile radius, she will run into you.
You have actually offered to let the doctor insert a permanent hose in your arm for all the blood testing.
No matter what month it is or when you last had sex, you know what your due date would be without doing any calculations.
You have a pregnancy radar - you always know when an old friend who hasn't talked to you in years will be emailing you to tell you she's expecting.
You could give a seminar on evaluating cervical fluid.
You've lost any vestiges of doctor's office-related modesty. For all you care they can bring in the whole staff to have a peek at you.
You keep a pregnancy test in the house, just in case.
You've perfected the zone-out technique at baby showers, and can ooh and ahh over baby clothes while thinking about what you are going to have for dinner.
And you can read a list like this and nod your head in agreement the whole time.
Thursday, August 28, 2008
The Power Of Knowing And Doing
Julie's post has got me thinking about when the infertility struggle was hardest for my husband and me. There have been so many moments of sadness, so many heart-wrenching experiences. But even with all we have been through, I would still say that it was hardest when we didn't know what the problem was. After round one of testing was completed and the results were inconclusive, the frustration and despair were overwhelming. If we could just know what the problem was, we could deal with it and move on. But not knowing just left us hanging, cursing our bodies for not doing their God-given job and allowing us to become parents.
So with the standard I-don't-know-what-your-problem-is-so-here-is-a-prescription-for-clomid farewell from my gynecologist, we sought help from a specialist. After just one visit and a repeat of a test that looked "off" to him, he was able to give us a diagnosis. It was an other-worldly experience, hearing him tell us we would never be able to have a baby naturally. I remember listening to him, and watching his mouth move, but it was like everything was in slow motion. I had floated out of my body and was just a silent observer of a life-changing event that was happening to someone else. Obviously it couldn't possibly be happening to us.
We only had about thirty seconds to absorb what he told us. He laid it out in surprisingly few, blunt, words - our only option was IVF. He asked us what we wanted to do, not even leaving the room to allow us time to talk it over. But even without discussing it, we both knew what course we needed to take. A new hope kindled itself in our hearts, and stirred a feeling of excitement and nervousness we had not felt since we first started trying for a baby. The hope of becoming parents was tangible again. It didn't feel like a far-off thing that only happened to other people. We could reach out and grab it. Yes, it would be difficult. Yes, it would be painful. It would be emotionally and spiritually draining. But it could be our miracle.
And so we moved forward, feeling energized and renewed - we could actually do something about this. Instead of sitting on the sidelines hoping desperately for a baby, we could actively do something that would allow that miracle to take place. We were empowered again.
I often think of infertility as being a gospel principle in the same vein as being saved by grace after all we can do. Yes, we could have done nothing, and waited for a natural conception. Many people believe that fertility treatment is interfering with the divine pattern of things, and that all you can do is pray and hope. But I believe that the Lord gave us a way to achieve our goal, and I think, expected us to do everything within our power to have a child, to prove to Him how willing we were to become parents. Only then would He give us our miracle.
And now as we prepare to embark on this journey again, I am reminded of this power of knowing and doing. And I'm hoping for a miracle once more.
So with the standard I-don't-know-what-your-problem-is-so-here-is-a-prescription-for-clomid farewell from my gynecologist, we sought help from a specialist. After just one visit and a repeat of a test that looked "off" to him, he was able to give us a diagnosis. It was an other-worldly experience, hearing him tell us we would never be able to have a baby naturally. I remember listening to him, and watching his mouth move, but it was like everything was in slow motion. I had floated out of my body and was just a silent observer of a life-changing event that was happening to someone else. Obviously it couldn't possibly be happening to us.
We only had about thirty seconds to absorb what he told us. He laid it out in surprisingly few, blunt, words - our only option was IVF. He asked us what we wanted to do, not even leaving the room to allow us time to talk it over. But even without discussing it, we both knew what course we needed to take. A new hope kindled itself in our hearts, and stirred a feeling of excitement and nervousness we had not felt since we first started trying for a baby. The hope of becoming parents was tangible again. It didn't feel like a far-off thing that only happened to other people. We could reach out and grab it. Yes, it would be difficult. Yes, it would be painful. It would be emotionally and spiritually draining. But it could be our miracle.
And so we moved forward, feeling energized and renewed - we could actually do something about this. Instead of sitting on the sidelines hoping desperately for a baby, we could actively do something that would allow that miracle to take place. We were empowered again.
I often think of infertility as being a gospel principle in the same vein as being saved by grace after all we can do. Yes, we could have done nothing, and waited for a natural conception. Many people believe that fertility treatment is interfering with the divine pattern of things, and that all you can do is pray and hope. But I believe that the Lord gave us a way to achieve our goal, and I think, expected us to do everything within our power to have a child, to prove to Him how willing we were to become parents. Only then would He give us our miracle.
And now as we prepare to embark on this journey again, I am reminded of this power of knowing and doing. And I'm hoping for a miracle once more.
When
During my endometriosis battle, a sister-in-law gave birth to the first grandson. She had struggled with PCOS since age 13. After she married, her gynecologist informed her she would never be able to have children. Undaunted, she switched gynecologists. Her new gynecologist ran tests and pondered the PCOS, then told my sister-in-law that he thought it wouldn’t be a problem for her to get pregnant. After half a year of Clomid, she did get pregnant.
Despite knowing of her wrestle with PCOS, I was still sorrowed. I tried to glory in her success, but secretly, the childish reaction was stronger: she had a baby and I didn’t. We always try to rise above our human responses to act better than we really feel—every other church lesson has something along the lines of this theme. And I was happy for her. Yet… {Insert lips in a Charlie Brown squiggly line here.} So now I was dealing with being happy for my sister-in-law, being ambivalently miserable, and on top of that feeling guilty because I couldn’t rise above being the “natural man.” Being LDS and infertile is great, ain’t it?
The inevitable invitation to go to the hospital to visit my sister-in-law came. I went—just for her. I wanted to congratulate her, because really, having PCOS and being able to have a baby really is cause to celebrate. She looked great, and I felt myself soften into a sincere joy for her as I hugged her. Then, came something I wasn’t prepared for.
My other sister-in-law picked up the baby and plonked him in my arms.
Uh… I could feel myself pausing. Since I had discovered my having endometriosis, I had avoided babies to protect myself emotionally; it just seemed easier than dealing with the unavoidable sadness of getting attached to something I couldn’t have. There he lay in my arms, dozing serenely in blue blankets. I looked into his face and braced myself to feel bitterness or resentment or dejection or something like that. But I didn’t. My soul was quieted and I felt peace peel off of him and seep into me.
Does the story end happily? Of course, not. Without the bitterness and angst at which I am so good feeling, all my fight was gone. I was drained. I couldn’t fight any more. What was left was the melancholy. I handed my nephew back to my sister-in-law and smiled emptily. Over the next few days, I couldn’t stop myself from thinking one thing.
When? When will it be my turn?
Despite knowing of her wrestle with PCOS, I was still sorrowed. I tried to glory in her success, but secretly, the childish reaction was stronger: she had a baby and I didn’t. We always try to rise above our human responses to act better than we really feel—every other church lesson has something along the lines of this theme. And I was happy for her. Yet… {Insert lips in a Charlie Brown squiggly line here.} So now I was dealing with being happy for my sister-in-law, being ambivalently miserable, and on top of that feeling guilty because I couldn’t rise above being the “natural man.” Being LDS and infertile is great, ain’t it?
The inevitable invitation to go to the hospital to visit my sister-in-law came. I went—just for her. I wanted to congratulate her, because really, having PCOS and being able to have a baby really is cause to celebrate. She looked great, and I felt myself soften into a sincere joy for her as I hugged her. Then, came something I wasn’t prepared for.
My other sister-in-law picked up the baby and plonked him in my arms.
Uh… I could feel myself pausing. Since I had discovered my having endometriosis, I had avoided babies to protect myself emotionally; it just seemed easier than dealing with the unavoidable sadness of getting attached to something I couldn’t have. There he lay in my arms, dozing serenely in blue blankets. I looked into his face and braced myself to feel bitterness or resentment or dejection or something like that. But I didn’t. My soul was quieted and I felt peace peel off of him and seep into me.
Does the story end happily? Of course, not. Without the bitterness and angst at which I am so good feeling, all my fight was gone. I was drained. I couldn’t fight any more. What was left was the melancholy. I handed my nephew back to my sister-in-law and smiled emptily. Over the next few days, I couldn’t stop myself from thinking one thing.
When? When will it be my turn?
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
Most Painful Experiences
I was thinking last night about the most painful physical experiences I've had. And I was able to narrow it down to three:
1. Miscarriage
2. HSG
3. Labor
For those of you who may be wondering why I placed "labor" last on the list, well, God bless the anesthesiologist. Enough said.
Notice how all three of these experiences involve my uterus.
Now, as for most painful emotional experiences:
1. Being told we would never have a baby naturally
2. Failed IVF cycle
3. Miscarriage
Again, all three involving my uterus.
Do I sense a theme here?
1. Miscarriage
2. HSG
3. Labor
For those of you who may be wondering why I placed "labor" last on the list, well, God bless the anesthesiologist. Enough said.
Notice how all three of these experiences involve my uterus.
Now, as for most painful emotional experiences:
1. Being told we would never have a baby naturally
2. Failed IVF cycle
3. Miscarriage
Again, all three involving my uterus.
Do I sense a theme here?
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
The Cure For Infertility
There's a cure for infertility - haven't you heard?! It's so obvious. All you need to do is RELAX. That's right. It's all in your head. If you would just relax then you would get pregnant. (Even a nurse at my doctor's office told me this! Nevermind the actual documented physical problem preventing pregnancy. Apparently all those tests were in my head too...)
Seriously, people, however well-intentioned, give the most ridiculous advice. It seems like they think, hey, it was so easy for me to get pregnant that surely you are doing something wrong! Just do it this way, and you will have a baby.
By far my favorite piece of advice I received was from someone who suggested I have my womb "cleaned out" through my feet using reflexology. (I didn't realize my womb needed cleaning. As it was it had gone unoccupied for 25 years. Maybe she thought it was dusty?)
And of course there was the advice that I should just have more sex/less sex/use more lubricant/use less lubricant/try the missionary position/try another position/elevate my hips after sex/lie on my stomach after sex/try acupuncture/try a fertility dance/try to keep my sanity with all the unsolicited advice...
As an aside, this brings up an interesting point. Everyone automatically assumes that infertility is a woman's problem. No one seems to realize that nearly 30% of infertility cases are caused by male-factor. And an additional 30% are a combination of male and female infertility. So ladies, get your husband tested!
Seriously, people, however well-intentioned, give the most ridiculous advice. It seems like they think, hey, it was so easy for me to get pregnant that surely you are doing something wrong! Just do it this way, and you will have a baby.
By far my favorite piece of advice I received was from someone who suggested I have my womb "cleaned out" through my feet using reflexology. (I didn't realize my womb needed cleaning. As it was it had gone unoccupied for 25 years. Maybe she thought it was dusty?)
And of course there was the advice that I should just have more sex/less sex/use more lubricant/use less lubricant/try the missionary position/try another position/elevate my hips after sex/lie on my stomach after sex/try acupuncture/try a fertility dance/try to keep my sanity with all the unsolicited advice...
As an aside, this brings up an interesting point. Everyone automatically assumes that infertility is a woman's problem. No one seems to realize that nearly 30% of infertility cases are caused by male-factor. And an additional 30% are a combination of male and female infertility. So ladies, get your husband tested!
Monday, August 25, 2008
Crumple
I hated Mother's Day.
I hated the romanticized lip service people spat out when they extolled their mothers and pretended they never got yelled at. I rolled my eyes when people got misty in their's over rose-colored events and umpteen boo-boos kissed with the miraculously healing maternal smile elixir. I closed my eyes in exasperation to their stories of sacrifice against all odds in insurmountable storms while blind, starving, with broken legs and needing a manicure.
Why? Because I wasn't a mother.
Because I sat at church, Sunday in and Sunday out, listening to dozens of talks on families and eternity and Mother's Day tear fests and baby blessings clenching my jaw while endometriosis cysts ate my ovaries with cruel, excruciating teeth. Because I had been to the gynecologist and he had actually clicked his tongue at me while wielding the sonogram wand. Because on some red days I couldn't even rise from bed to face the day without unfolding from painful attacks that curled me into a fetal ball. Because I would not face merciless comments or pity. Because I wanted to cradle my own baby in my arms and couldn't.
One Mother's Day coincided with the worst possible event that can happen on that day for a woman who wanted children and couldn't have them: a baby blessing. I got up and left the chapel. The emotional upheaval and pain dealing with infertility was as bad as the physical agony of endometriosis flaring. I sat on the foyer couch, loving my waterproof makeup for its ability to hide my anguish, and wondered about my strength dealing with this challenge. I wanted to be accessible to the Spirit, but some days it seemed that my heart was just turning to stone.
Heavenly Father has an ironic sense of humor (points submitted: the giraffe, the armadillo, letting us call a bird "Blue-Footed Booby"). Sometimes He answers prayers with a "Yes." Sometimes He answers prayers with a "Not yet." And sometimes He answers prayers with an "I have something better for you." Most of the time, I fought against His "Not yet." But being the perfect diplomat, He knew how to handle sending me emotional resusitation just when I needed it. On the verge of giving up hope on that Mother's Day, somehow a trickle kept my heart alive. I would again emerge from being crumpled to blaze ahead.
Again.
And Again.
I hated the romanticized lip service people spat out when they extolled their mothers and pretended they never got yelled at. I rolled my eyes when people got misty in their's over rose-colored events and umpteen boo-boos kissed with the miraculously healing maternal smile elixir. I closed my eyes in exasperation to their stories of sacrifice against all odds in insurmountable storms while blind, starving, with broken legs and needing a manicure.
Why? Because I wasn't a mother.
Because I sat at church, Sunday in and Sunday out, listening to dozens of talks on families and eternity and Mother's Day tear fests and baby blessings clenching my jaw while endometriosis cysts ate my ovaries with cruel, excruciating teeth. Because I had been to the gynecologist and he had actually clicked his tongue at me while wielding the sonogram wand. Because on some red days I couldn't even rise from bed to face the day without unfolding from painful attacks that curled me into a fetal ball. Because I would not face merciless comments or pity. Because I wanted to cradle my own baby in my arms and couldn't.
One Mother's Day coincided with the worst possible event that can happen on that day for a woman who wanted children and couldn't have them: a baby blessing. I got up and left the chapel. The emotional upheaval and pain dealing with infertility was as bad as the physical agony of endometriosis flaring. I sat on the foyer couch, loving my waterproof makeup for its ability to hide my anguish, and wondered about my strength dealing with this challenge. I wanted to be accessible to the Spirit, but some days it seemed that my heart was just turning to stone.
Heavenly Father has an ironic sense of humor (points submitted: the giraffe, the armadillo, letting us call a bird "Blue-Footed Booby"). Sometimes He answers prayers with a "Yes." Sometimes He answers prayers with a "Not yet." And sometimes He answers prayers with an "I have something better for you." Most of the time, I fought against His "Not yet." But being the perfect diplomat, He knew how to handle sending me emotional resusitation just when I needed it. On the verge of giving up hope on that Mother's Day, somehow a trickle kept my heart alive. I would again emerge from being crumpled to blaze ahead.
Again.
And Again.
Sunday, August 24, 2008
The Ache Is Back
After my recent miscarriage I thought I would never recover to the point where I could swallow the idea of fertility treatment again. All those doctor appointments and needles, accompanied by the usual hormonal and emotional insanity. The very thought made my heart race, and gave me the all-too familiar feeling of a large concrete block sliding into my stomach.
Of course I can't say I am completely free of that feeling, but at least the pool of despair I have been swimming in for the last two months has evaporated to the point that I can at least put my feet on the ground.
And that primal ache for a baby has replaced the throbbing depression that has overwhelmed me, and it has given me hope. Hope of the future, of trying again and being rewarded, and the knowledge that I will be able to handle the disappointment if it doesn't work.
Here we go again.
Of course I can't say I am completely free of that feeling, but at least the pool of despair I have been swimming in for the last two months has evaporated to the point that I can at least put my feet on the ground.
And that primal ache for a baby has replaced the throbbing depression that has overwhelmed me, and it has given me hope. Hope of the future, of trying again and being rewarded, and the knowledge that I will be able to handle the disappointment if it doesn't work.
Here we go again.
Saturday, August 23, 2008
Empathy
In her comments to my last post, Fiona mentioned that her experience with infertility has made her more empathetic. This is a subject I have been pondering a lot lately. In fact, I already had a post titled "Empathy" half-written. So I thought I would share some of my thoughts.
As I was chatting with a friend the other day about having babies, she told me of a friend of hers who has had 7 miscarriages. Even though I don't know this woman, my heart hurts for her. Having been through one miscarriage myself, I cannot imagine the pain of it happening 7 times. It suddenly made me think that my fertility problems are not so bad. We have had one unsuccessful IVF, one successful IVF, and one miscarriage. But the idea of having the hope of 7 babies, and then losing each and every one, well, it's mind-boggling.
My experience with infertility has changed the way I look at the world. I find myself trying to be more aware when I'm teaching Relief Society lessons, or talking to my visiting teachees, or just chatting with a casual acquaintance. I recognize more now how painful different trials must be - being single must be very difficult, or losing a family member, going through a divorce, losing a job, having a life-threatening illness - the list goes on. There are a million things I never thought about before, but now I am very aware of the pain they can cause in the lives of other people. And that surely must be one of the reasons the Lord gives us trials. He wants us to be able to have empathy for others. Or, I guess you could say, charity. When you've had pain in your own life, it's easier to recognize it in other people, and it's easier to know what you can do to help them.
And I guess it's a good lesson for us to pay attention to those little promptings to do something for someone. You never know when you will be the person who is the answer to a prayer.
As I was chatting with a friend the other day about having babies, she told me of a friend of hers who has had 7 miscarriages. Even though I don't know this woman, my heart hurts for her. Having been through one miscarriage myself, I cannot imagine the pain of it happening 7 times. It suddenly made me think that my fertility problems are not so bad. We have had one unsuccessful IVF, one successful IVF, and one miscarriage. But the idea of having the hope of 7 babies, and then losing each and every one, well, it's mind-boggling.
My experience with infertility has changed the way I look at the world. I find myself trying to be more aware when I'm teaching Relief Society lessons, or talking to my visiting teachees, or just chatting with a casual acquaintance. I recognize more now how painful different trials must be - being single must be very difficult, or losing a family member, going through a divorce, losing a job, having a life-threatening illness - the list goes on. There are a million things I never thought about before, but now I am very aware of the pain they can cause in the lives of other people. And that surely must be one of the reasons the Lord gives us trials. He wants us to be able to have empathy for others. Or, I guess you could say, charity. When you've had pain in your own life, it's easier to recognize it in other people, and it's easier to know what you can do to help them.
And I guess it's a good lesson for us to pay attention to those little promptings to do something for someone. You never know when you will be the person who is the answer to a prayer.
Complaining
One of the funny things about life is that one person can be completely bitter about an issue they are dealing with, and at the same time look at someone else complaining about a different issue and think "Gee, why are you complaining so much about that? Why aren't you just grateful for what you have?"
So with that in mind, I'm going to go ahead and say that it really, really annoys me when people complain about pregnancy. I'm not talking about the I-feel-terrible-I-wish-I-felt-better stuff. I'm talking about the I-hate-being-pregnant-why-are-we-having-another-baby kind of griping. It makes me want to scream.
I have an acquaintance who would often complain about pregnancy in this manner, even while knowing I was struggling with infertility. Every time she would say, "Why are we having another baby?" I would have to bite my tongue so I wouldn't make some snotty reply. It was just so hard for me to watch this woman, who could have a baby whenever she felt like it, complain about what a burden pregnancy was, and how much she hated it, and how overwhelmed she was going to be when the baby arrived. I just wanted to tell her to shut up. (Though I am proud to say that I never did... to her face anyway. I never said I was perfect).
Anytime someone complains about being pregnant I want to say, "I'll trade places with you. I would give anything to have another baby. And obviously you just don't appreciate what you have."
But it makes me wonder what sort of things I have that people think I don't appreciate.
So with that in mind, I'm going to go ahead and say that it really, really annoys me when people complain about pregnancy. I'm not talking about the I-feel-terrible-I-wish-I-felt-better stuff. I'm talking about the I-hate-being-pregnant-why-are-we-having-another-baby kind of griping. It makes me want to scream.
I have an acquaintance who would often complain about pregnancy in this manner, even while knowing I was struggling with infertility. Every time she would say, "Why are we having another baby?" I would have to bite my tongue so I wouldn't make some snotty reply. It was just so hard for me to watch this woman, who could have a baby whenever she felt like it, complain about what a burden pregnancy was, and how much she hated it, and how overwhelmed she was going to be when the baby arrived. I just wanted to tell her to shut up. (Though I am proud to say that I never did... to her face anyway. I never said I was perfect).
Anytime someone complains about being pregnant I want to say, "I'll trade places with you. I would give anything to have another baby. And obviously you just don't appreciate what you have."
But it makes me wonder what sort of things I have that people think I don't appreciate.
Friday, August 22, 2008
I Don't Get It
I think a lot about the inequities of reproducing. I'm not talking about how the burden is almost completely on the woman - that's a subject for another post. I'm talking about how one woman can have 7 children by batting her eyelashes at her husband, while another has had 7 miscarriages, and another can't have children at all. Or how drug addicts and teenagers seem to be able to pop out a lot of unwanted babies, even when you factor in the staggering number of abortions that take place each year.
Partly I have to remind myself it's just part of the whole consequences thing. One of the consequences of sex is pregnancy, and the Lord won't interfere with that, even though it means sending babies to some pretty bad situations. But it's maddening to see these little babies being born to horrible situations (or being aborted) when there are so many good, faithful people out there who would give anything to be parents.
Like I said, I just don't get it.
Partly I have to remind myself it's just part of the whole consequences thing. One of the consequences of sex is pregnancy, and the Lord won't interfere with that, even though it means sending babies to some pretty bad situations. But it's maddening to see these little babies being born to horrible situations (or being aborted) when there are so many good, faithful people out there who would give anything to be parents.
Like I said, I just don't get it.
Tuesday, August 19, 2008
Science Vs. Nature
After announcing to the world they were "trying to get pregnant" and how much fun they were having in the process (um, thanks for sharing...), it has been revealed that Rebecca Romijn and Jerry O'Connell are expecting twins.
"The twins were conceived without the help of in vitro fertilization or the fertility drug Clomid," a source close to the couple says."
Well, congratulations to them! And that's great that they didn't have to resort to fertility treatment. But this brings up something that I come across on a regular basis, and I can't figure out why it's such a hot-button issue:
I have a friend who was lucky enough to be blessed with natural twins. She is a great mom, and really enjoys her little boys, but she gets really defensive and offended when people ask if she and her husband did IVF or used fertility drugs. Now, just to be clear, I don't think anyone should be asking anyone how their babies were conceived, but that is beside the point. Instead of saying "None of your business" and walking away, she tries to defend her "honor" by explaining that her babies are a mother-nature special.
And then we have "news" articles about people like Rebecca Romijn and Jerry O'Connell, making sure everyone knows they did not need assistance in creating their little bundles of joy.
I am just not sure why this little piece of information matters. In my never-to-be-humble opinion, there is absolutely nothing to be ashamed of in having to seek fertility treatment. If you can't have a baby the regular way, who cares? And if you can, again, who cares?
We treat naturally-conceived twins like they are a badge of honor. (Look at what great reproductive systems their parents have - they were able to have twins without any help!) It seems we have lost sight of the fact that conception of babies is a private matter, and every baby is a miracle, no matter how much scientific interference may have been required for them to be born.
"The twins were conceived without the help of in vitro fertilization or the fertility drug Clomid," a source close to the couple says."
Well, congratulations to them! And that's great that they didn't have to resort to fertility treatment. But this brings up something that I come across on a regular basis, and I can't figure out why it's such a hot-button issue:
I have a friend who was lucky enough to be blessed with natural twins. She is a great mom, and really enjoys her little boys, but she gets really defensive and offended when people ask if she and her husband did IVF or used fertility drugs. Now, just to be clear, I don't think anyone should be asking anyone how their babies were conceived, but that is beside the point. Instead of saying "None of your business" and walking away, she tries to defend her "honor" by explaining that her babies are a mother-nature special.
And then we have "news" articles about people like Rebecca Romijn and Jerry O'Connell, making sure everyone knows they did not need assistance in creating their little bundles of joy.
I am just not sure why this little piece of information matters. In my never-to-be-humble opinion, there is absolutely nothing to be ashamed of in having to seek fertility treatment. If you can't have a baby the regular way, who cares? And if you can, again, who cares?
We treat naturally-conceived twins like they are a badge of honor. (Look at what great reproductive systems their parents have - they were able to have twins without any help!) It seems we have lost sight of the fact that conception of babies is a private matter, and every baby is a miracle, no matter how much scientific interference may have been required for them to be born.
Monday, August 18, 2008
Recipe For Babies
The recipe for making babies is simple:
1 Handsome Returned Missionary
1 Lovely Young Woman
1 Temple Wedding
1 Er, "Rendezvous" In The Bedroom
Combine all ingredients, in order listed. Wait nine months. Remove from oven.
Yields: 1 Baby
It's that simple to have a baby, right? Right??!!!!
We wish.
Welcome to our blog. We are a group of friends who have all dealt with the heartbreak of infertility. It is a lonely thing, especially when you are a member of the LDS Church, a religion that emphasizes the importance of having children. But it is a proven fact that dealing with infertility is easier when you have a friend who can relate to you, lift you up when you are down, strengthen your faith, and make snarky comments about the pregnant nineteen-year old you saw at the grocery store.
We hope you enjoy our blog.
1 Handsome Returned Missionary
1 Lovely Young Woman
1 Temple Wedding
1 Er, "Rendezvous" In The Bedroom
Combine all ingredients, in order listed. Wait nine months. Remove from oven.
Yields: 1 Baby
It's that simple to have a baby, right? Right??!!!!
We wish.
Welcome to our blog. We are a group of friends who have all dealt with the heartbreak of infertility. It is a lonely thing, especially when you are a member of the LDS Church, a religion that emphasizes the importance of having children. But it is a proven fact that dealing with infertility is easier when you have a friend who can relate to you, lift you up when you are down, strengthen your faith, and make snarky comments about the pregnant nineteen-year old you saw at the grocery store.
We hope you enjoy our blog.
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