WHY I WENT THROUGH INFERTILITY

Why did I go through infertility? It’s a question I’ve asked myself innumerable times. In the almost four years we spent trying to conceive, I cried in a lot of bathrooms, I lost friends, my marriage and faith were put to the test. So, why? Why did I have to go through all of that?

In the beginning, I thought I was going to be some kind of voice for the disease of infertility. A veritable light bulb turned on over my head the day I thought of blogging about it, legitimately believing this was a new and genius idea.

Turns out there are lots of infertility bloggers, and there have been for quite some time. The well-known infertility blogger Stirrup Queens maintains a blog roll listing some 3,196 blogs on the subject (and no, mine isn’t one of them). There are infertility bloggers who have done it longer, who do it better, who have done more research and advocacy, who are much more open about their journeys, and who are more committed to keeping their blogs updated regularly.

No doubt I have my little audience, both online and in person, and my story is important, as all infertility stories are. But I never had the total transparency, self-discipline or big-picture thinking to make my blog stand out and really make a difference. Nor did I ever fully “come out” on social media, participate in any awareness walks or facilitate a support group. The most I did was apply to be a contributor to a widely read infertility blog, and I never even got a response.

For the most part, I obsessed in my own head about my misery and tortured a small group of intimate friends with the details of the rise/crash-and-burn of hope I endured month after month.

Before I finally got pregnant, I also liked to believe that if I ever did conceive, I would be a better parent because of my experience of infertility. The thinking goes something like this: Because I waited so long for the parenting experience, I will be more grateful, present, patient, _____________, _____________ — you get the idea.

Even after Elin was born, I must have hung on to this thought, because I found myself expressing it in so many words to a friend. This friend has two young children whom she conceived easily, and we were discussing the topic of whether or not to go back to work. “I just feel like, after trying to conceive this baby for four years, it would be crazy to go back and barely see her,” I said.

As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I realized how superior and offensive they sounded. The decision of whether to work or stay home is an agonizing one for any new mother, regardless of how long she tried for a baby, just as every mom I know is extremely grateful for her child and tries her best to be loving, patient and engaged.

Another outcome of infertility, I hoped, would be my ability to give hope to other women experiencing it. After all, I got my happy ending — despite my deep fear and half-certainty that it “would never happen” — so it was possible for others to also find their resolution.

The problem with this line of thinking is that conception is no respecter of persons; there is no rhyme or reason to whom she smiles upon. Just because I got what I was longing for doesn’t mean anyone else will.

This came home to roost for me when an old high school acquaintance reached out over a private Facebook message. She had seen my birth announcement and accompanying hash tag, #IVFmiracle, and confided that she, too, was going through infertility and considering IVF as a course of action. Being the big believer that I am, I strongly encouraged her to pursue it. It seemed divine: My bravery in attempting IVF and finding success would in turn give someone else the courage to try it and have the child she otherwise would never have had.

Unlike me, this person openly shared her journey on Facebook: She documented every injection, retrieval, transfer, blood draw, fear and hope. I liked every update, holding my breath and praying she would get a positive.

It wasn’t to be. They had transferred their only two embryos without success and had no more money for additional attempts.

I sent my condolences, assured her I was praying for her and admired her. But it felt so hollow and thin. Of course, her decision to try IVF was hers, but in the aftermath, I could see no purpose or redemption in my own infertility experience, only her heartache.

Why did I go through infertility? I can’t say my faith is stronger (I still grapple with doubts and questions). I can’t say my marriage is stronger (we’ll never get back those years of sex-as-duty/chore/means to an end/reminder of our damaged reproductive systems). Maybe I’m a little stronger, a little more empathetic, but at the same time I still wrestle with bitterness every time I hear someone talk with cavalier certainty about their “next child.”

Anyone who goes through infertility will have to find their own reasons, their own explanations, their own morals of the story.

For me, the answer is in the tiny face I see every morning: the particulars of her deep blue eyes and soft, transparent lashes. How pink her skin is and the fluttering movements of her long little fingers. The faint dimple when she smiles, the subtle way her nose is upturned. Her round belly, her feathery hair, her cheeks for days.

It’s in the exact sounds she makes when she coos and jabbers, the demanding cries that let me know she’s serious about wanting out of the crib. It’s how she loves to lie on her play mat and gaze up at her hanging toys, eyes shining. How she never seems to want to miss a minute and gets mad the second she senses the approach of naptime. It’s how opinionated she is even at 12 weeks, detesting tummy time, splashing her legs curiously in the bath. How she reaches her tiny hand to my lips for a kiss.

For all I don’t understand about the years I spent lost in the fog and trauma of infertility, I know one thing for sure: If I hadn’t gone through it, I wouldn’t have had the exact human being who is Elin Reese. I would never have known her, this perfect, squishy, unique, individual baby who is a combination of one particular sperm injected by hand into one particular egg in a laboratory. She is worth every tear, worth every penny we spent, worth our long wait. Her very life is why I went through infertility.