Still here, still hopeful

A reader got in touch to say that couples trying for a baby need to hear they’re doing great too. We are very grateful to her for writing about her experience and letting us share it here. She has asked to remain anonymous.

Swirl

We’ve been trying to have a baby, my husband and I, and it’s not working. For nearly three years we’ve been at it: planning sex, taking tests, seeing doctors, taking temperatures, adjusting diets, avoiding alcohol, avoiding stress. We are exhausted. We are definitely stressed. We are bound so tight it’s sometimes hard to breathe.

It’s a situation made worse by the fact that nothing is technically ‘wrong’. There are a lot of reasons for infertility, but ours remains ‘unexplained.’ Everything should work, it just doesn’t. We haven’t been successful. We haven’t been lucky.

I remember what it felt like in the beginning, starting to try for a family. It was exciting and terrifying and we didn’t know what we were letting ourselves in for, but we wanted a baby. Our friends were settling down and starting to fall pregnant. We would do the same and be part of that community, guiding each other through the pitfalls of parenthood as our children grew up together.

That was the plan, anyway. Looking back a clear metaphor comes to mind. I see us sailing down a river along with our friends and colleagues, all of us in our separate couple-boats, waving to each other and having fun. As each couple falls pregnant their boat peels away, heading for the shore and we wave and laugh and keep going, keep sailing, waiting for the time when we will change course and return to land. As time passes more and more boats leave us and the river opens out into the sea. We start to feel nervous, helpless. We have no food or water, no life-jackets. No-one told us we might be away for a long time. No-one told us we might never return. The last boat peels away and we are left alone.

We are at sea now, my husband and I, sailing the calm mid-cycle waters, when hope is as intoxicating as love, and surviving the crashing end-of-cycle lows, when our boat is battered by wave after wave after wave. We are stuck here, sailing steadily onwards, too sad to face the thought of life without a child, too weary to think of IVF and the enormous pressures it brings.

We keep sailing, but we can no longer remember the land.

Aside from a few close family and friends, we don’t talk about our experience of trying for a baby. Part of it has to do with the language surrounding fertility. The first time someone labelled my condition as ‘unexplained infertility’ I immediately wanted to squirm away from it, as if something heavy had been placed on me. The word ‘infertile’ seemed so final and it presumed I was broken, defective. It took what precious hope I had and squashed it.

The other reason we don’t talk much about our experience is because of the pressure and awkwardness that comes with telling a person. Our situation reminds me of grief – it’s heavy and it doesn’t go away. People who ‘know’ see us after a month or two or six and nothing has changed, we are still here, going through the same things, making the same choices every day. It’s uncomfortable for them to deal with and inevitably, we receive a lot of advice. I am often told to ‘relax’ – that when I let go or just stop trying, it will happen. But when someone says that it makes me feel like I’ve failed again, because (according to them) the answer lies with me and I still can’t fall pregnant. I understand their intention is to comfort, fix, smooth over, but mine is a problem that can’t be fixed. And while positive thinking can be helpful, sometimes it feels like pressure. Sometimes it doesn’t work. Sometimes things are shit and you have to accept that.

Honestly, the most helpful thing people can do for me is not mention it, and when I bring it up, be ready with a hug and some love. I don’t need advice or excessive assurances – if this experience has taught me anything it’s that nothing is certain – I just need a friend. Someone who’s willing to be in those moments with me. Nothing more.

We are on a journey, my husband and I – a great, challenging, healing journey that will take us somewhere we’ve never been. It’s heart-breaking and hard – the hardest thing we’ve ever been through – but we are still here, still hopeful, still trying.

While we are alone in our situation, I know there are other women and couples going through the same thing. And I want to say to those people:

I see you out there, on your boat, riding the waves and staring out at the vast ocean. You’ve fought and yearned and picked your hopes up time and time again.
You are braver and stronger than you know.
Keep going. Keep going, wherever that might be.
You’re doing great. You’re doing really great.

Expectations of parenthood

Shannon
Shannon and her daughter

We are very lucky to have another guest post. This time by the lovely Shannon Taylor.

Shannon is a crafting, beginner vegie-patching, freelance writing mum of two, living with a muso hubby and a pug on Sydney’s northern beaches.

Swirl

I don’t know about you, but I don’t think anything can really prepare someone for first-time parenthood.

You know you’ll be tired. You know it’ll be hard. You know you’ll be sore. You know you will feel like you don’t know what you’re doing. You know you’ll be crazy in love with your baby and will do anything for it.

But no matter how much you expected to be tired, sore and clueless, and despite being totally crazy-in-love with your new baby, nothing quite matches the utter culture-shock of having a child of your own.

Now, I always was the maternal type. The one who, as a kid, mediated arguments, soothed boo-boos and make decisions when consulting a grown-up would have resulted in big-time big trouble.

As a teenager, I was the one who dealt with pissed-paralytic friends, broken hearts and friendship infractions. “You’re going to be such a good mum one day,” I’d always been told.

So when I became pregnant, I had no worries. I could do this! Motherhood would just come naturally to me. Mothering was what I did.

Parenting would be hard, for sure, probably the hardest thing I’d ever done. It would be relentless and I would be tired and my patience would be tested. My body would be weird.

But I would take it all in my stride, quietly and determinedly, like I had done pretty much everything in my life so far. Or so I expected.

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