First and foremost, you don’t know how much it means to me to know that I’m not alone in feeling tremendous guilt when I engage in comparative pain. And feeling tremendous guilt when I don’t engage in comparative pain. It would appear that there are at least 20-some-odd people who are all doing it alongside me. So thank you for volunteering your stories and tips.

I’m reading through all the comments and they’re brilliant. I feel like I still have more to say on this–especially because it seems like we’re all thinking about it. And feeling guilty about it. Off to write back everyone and glean how you stop engaging in this manner of thought.

I forgot to mention that the LBWWMTDASADFFIHAOTAC didn’t come to my house on Halloween. Or if he did, he came while we were making the rounds. And by “making the rounds” I mean shamelessly using our children to collect candy for ourselves. If he had come, he would have gotten a recycled mini Hershey bar that we collected from our neighbour earlier in the evening. It seemed to come with an extra gift of some random pet hair. Perfect for the LBWWMTDASADFFIHAOTAC.

What was the worst Halloween candy you saw this year? When I worked at a school, we used to dump out all of the leftover Halloween candy (and recycled candy) on a table in the teacher’s lounge. Talk about a feast. The key was getting there at 8 a.m. or all that was left were the recycled candies like a half-opened tootsie pop or someone’s old Christmas candy (yes, we actually got a square of Christmas chocolate this year–and I’m thinking that this baby is left over from the last holiday. And the worst part–Josh ate it!). Is this done in every office across America or are teachers the only people eating leftover chocolate after rolling out of bed?

On a side note about blogs, since everyone is participating in NaBloPoMo and pulling out their best thoughts, it made it freakin’ difficult to choose just four entries to discuss this week. Seriously, there is a blogging feast of words happening. Pick a random blog from my blogroll and enjoy a new perspective on the world.

At the Unachievable Double Lines, the twins were taken to their four month check-up. I found this post interesting on two levels. (1) she mentions how difficult it is not to compare twins–especially as a new parent who is witnessing differing times for milestones. It fit nicely into my theme–okay, two posts–about comparisons this week. And (2) she confirmed something I’ve thought for a while. Every mother cringes (and some cry) when their child receives an injection. But I think stirrup queens reflexively think about their own injections when they hear their child howl. And you can’t help but have your heart break when you reenter that memory and think about how your poor baby feels being jabbed–even if it is for the sake of vaccinations. Everyone please wait while I don my white lab coat and psychoanalyze myself a bit further and then project all my feelings onto others. Anyway, Unachievable, I’m glad the twins passed with flying colours and that visit will be just one of many times that your kids will make you look like an idiot by doing precisely what they refused to do for you for weeks on end at home 🙂

My heart is going out to Beth right now at Prop Your Hips Up Afterwards. I really wanted to write something sensitive about the PICC line. I wanted to write something that would cheer her day and give her support and help her remember that she is such a little engine that could. But all I could think of when I saw the photos of the PICC line were…holy vomit. As a fellow stirrup queen who was still vomiting up until the day she delivered (in fact, the car behind me on Georgia Avenue got treated to a little show when I realized I was out of disposible cups a few days before the twins arrived), I’m sending a virtual Zofran to Beth. In honour of Himself, her husband, who made an extremely amusing acronym for their clinic using the letters from SNATCH (check the side bar of her blog in order to read the full story), I propose that everyone go post on Beth’s blog and give her new and creative meanings for the acronym PICC (beyond the obvious “Please, I Can’t Chew”. Curse words acceptable. Get creative). Now scootch. Go over there. And then come back here and read about this next blog.

Because it’s a very beautiful tribute to Manuela and loss in general and how we mourn each other’s losses as a community. No stirrup queen should ever stand alone. Ms. Dooneybug (since her husband is Mr. Dooneybug) writes about reading Manuela’s blog and feeling that she “mourns so much for her and I don’t even really know her and am not a regular reader of her blog. It sort of overwhelms me.” I really struggled whether I should write about this post because she didn’t link to The Thin Pink Line because she felt as if she didn’t have the…right (is that the right word?) to mourn because she wasn’t a regular reader or one of Manuela’s troops. I hope Dooney doesn’t think I’m a bitch for writing about it here. It really wasn’t my intention to make anyone uncomfortable. But I think that not only does she have the right to give support to a fellow blogger and stirrup queen, but she has a duty. We are all in this crappy little boat and the only way it’s going to stay afloat is if we lend each other these types of words every once in a while. Manuela (like all the stirrup queens who have suffered a loss as of late) needs to know that we all have her back. Because we do have her back. I think “Z” said it best in her comments: “The loss of a child is an unbelieveable and unbearable thing. We, the parents, can feel so many emotions all at once. One minute we need to be held and talked to and the next we just need everyone and everything to go away. It’s difficult for everyone…friends, family as well. Just let her know you’re there whenever she needs someone. Even though I don’t know her or have never read her blog, my heart goes out to her.” I just thought you summed up what so many people feel when they read about loss in the blogosphere, Dooneybug, and the post shouldn’t be whispered.

And ending with a beautiful post about loss…My Journey Towards My Little Miracle has two posts this week about the aftermath. I was holding my breath towards the end: “the silence in the room when we didn’t see the flicker of life. The look on my doctors face. Feeling like I was underwater and in slow motion as my doctor explained that our baby was gone.” And smiled through the earlier memories of “the day I began to crave sweets again. When I always needed a nap and this one day I wasn’t even tired.” I’m so sorry, Sunny. These were gorgeous posts. I wish you were pulling out maternity clothes too.

Before we were engaged, my husband came up with a game called likey/no likey. He would take me to jewelry store windows and try to guess if I would answer likey or no likey to each ring. Hence how I ended up with a fantastic setting that kept in mind the fact that I wanted to be able to wear it while I went kayaking. Apparently, back then, I thought I would still be kayaking in my thirties. I guess I was mistaken.

But the point of the game was that it was a gut reaction, that first impulse. There are plenty of things that grow on you and plenty of things you can talk yourself into liking. But in likey/no likey, only the first feeling counts.

And me no likey comparative pain.

As incredibly obvious in my post a few days ago about seeing the hematologist, I engage in comparative pain. But I hate the game. Just one of the ways I’m a complete, bleeding hypocrite. It’s unhealthy. It’s unrealistic. It’s unproductive. What is gained by being able to say that my situation doesn’t suck as much as that person’s? Does it make mine better? Does it alleviate any of the emotions I’m feeling?

The point of a comparison is not just to draw parallels between two unrelated situations–it’s a way to negate and create a hierarchy. We want to scratch the skin off of someone else’s face when they do it to us (at least you lost the baby at 8 weeks–could you imagine what it would be like to have a stillborn? At least you’ve only been trying for three years; I know someone who has been trying for seven. Oh, you had to do two IVF cycles?–I had to do four). And then we do it to ourselves. Alone. It our head. It’s as if that well-meaning neighbour that everyone has who says these things has wedged herself somewhere in my head.

How many of you have doubted the legitimacy of your infertility emotions when faced with an even “worse” situation in a blog? Don’t lie–I know you do it! We all talk about it on our blogs and you mention it in the comments. And I know that you do it because I do it too. I literally look at the cards in front of me and think: do I have the right to feel this upset? I’ve never endured an adoption reversal. I haven’t experienced a stillbirth. We didn’t try unsuccessfully for nine years.

But this is the problem with comparative pain–it’s not just what you go through, but the choices you’re able to make when other factors are taken into consideration. Not everyone can afford IVF, therefore, not everyone will get to endure failed IVF cycles. Or perhaps it’s because their religion doesn’t allow it. Or it’s just not physically possible. Or their husband isn’t on-board. There are a multitude of reasons why a person wouldn’t be able to do IVF. But does not enduring a failed IVF cycle mean that you didn’t suffer? How does a failed cycle of IVF rate a higher level of pain than someone who desperately wants to do IVF and can’t? Or someone who doesn’t want to do, but doesn’t have another viable choice?

And then we get into the fact that pain is in the eye of the beholder. All of us would agree that it is devastating to lose a child–it goes beyond human endurance. It is literally heartbreaking. But what about the woman who never gets to experience pregnancy at all? Who goes through her whole life never knowing what it is like to carry another person inside her body? In all of the pregnancy loss interviews that I’ve conducted to this point (and there could be many more people out there with a different point of view), not one person has said that they wished they had never been pregnant. They wished it had turned out differently. They wished they still had their child. But they didn’t wish away the entire person. They still cherished that baby. Their pain is understood and recognized. Who is recognizing the pain of the woman who never gets to come close to being pregnant? It just doesn’t hold weight in comparative pain–but the pain is just as heavy and real and sharp as the pain felt by those who have lost.

Is that woman who never carries to term “more” infertile than one who finally gets pregnant after their fourth round of IVF? Is the woman who suffers loss after loss somehow “more” infertile than one who never experiences pregnancy? How do we quantify it and stack it up? And what is even gained by doing this?

My mother asked me recently if I would still feel infertile if it happened for us faster this time. I wouldn’t be surprised if it happened faster–we’re starting with diagnosed problems therefore, we’re at least saving ourselves the year of wasted cycles. We’re not even bothering to try without Prometrium–what’s the point? At the same time, I wouldn’t be surprised if it took much longer or didn’t happen at all. We’re not sinking money into treatments if it doesn’t look like I’ll have a good chance. We may go to adoption instead. Or keep trying like assholes on our own. And then does the waiting time count? Can we say that we’ve been trying for months if we have to wait until June to cycle with IVF? Is it even really trying if you know that there is little chance that you’re going to get and stay pregnant without intervention?

The answer to her question is yes, I would still feel infertile. Because the problems didn’t go away in between these two rounds of trying to conceive. Infertility is not curable–it’s treatable. And if we want another child, we need to go through that help all over again. I may even still feel infertile when I’m eighty years old and I’ve been in menopause for more time than I’ve been ovulating. It has changed the way I view the world. It has changed the hope I feel at the beginning of something new. It has made me more realistic. It has made me more empathetic. It has made me more grateful. Those are things that wouldn’t change even if I got a positive pregnancy test next month (please let there be a positive test, please let there be a positive test).

Listen, your doctor wrote infertility in your chart. He or she wrote a reason or unexplained. Your pain is your own. And someone else’s pain her own. And my pain is my own. And what I can handle may be the thing that drives you to your knees. And perhaps I could never endure the problems you have endured. But we’re all on this island. And we all go through crap. And stop thinking about your own journey as somehow “less” than someone else’s. I get enough judgment from outside the community for how I cope or the choices I make. I don’t need it from my fellow stirrup queens. And I certainly don’t need it from myself.

Just my two cents. Or…judging by the length of this post…my half dollar…

Your thoughts on quantifying pain–do you do it? And how do you stop yourself when you get in that mindset? And is there something healthy to be gained from this way of thinking (and I’m differentiating between keeping things in perspective and comparative pain. Comparative pain is hierarchical) that I’ve missed?

You know how some people need things like oxygen and food to live? I need to ask what ifs. I think that’s why I dislike going to the movies–movies are just a two hour period where the person next to you expects that you’re going to contain all of your what ifs. It’s also why I like long car rides–what is better than being stuck in a vehicle with nothing to do but have my husband entertain all my fears? I don’t know about you, but I hear that and think “good time!”

I knew I had found “the one” when I took my husband on a long canoe trip early in our relationship and he thoughtfully answered all of my questions about what if nazis invaded America. What if the nazis told you that you had to saw off your own legs to save my life? Would you do it? What if the nazis told you that you had to choose between me or your mother–which one would you pick?

During infertility, my what ifs reflected the tremendous fears that conception problems force you to face–what if it doesn’t happen for me? What if I never get to experience pregnancy? What if I never get over this? Other people want to hurry you through those what ifs. They assure you that it will happen. But y’all know how I feel about making promises you can’t keep. The what ifs that accompany infertility are legitimate because no one knows how their story will unfold–how they’ll become parents or if they’ll become parents. And how they’ll feel after they’re parents.

It’s the not knowing that’s the real killer after a failed cycle.

Taking time to sit with those what ifs are imperative because you learn quickly how important certain aspects of parenthood are to you. And what you’re willing to do to experience them. Choices you never thought you’d make are suddenly more appealing because you realize that the things that have been holding you back aren’t really that important in the grand scheme of your life. I think too many times we make choices based on the norms of society and what we’re taught we should be feeling. If people took some time to think about those what ifs, they may choose an entirely different–and possibly faster–path to parenthood. Or they may remain on the same path with a greater confidence in their choices.

We were in the car a few nights ago and my daughter pointed out that it was dark (my lady-when-waiting dubbed her Captain Obvious because she likes to point out every fact that she can. This is an average walking-down-the-stairs conversation: “I am a girl. I am walking down the stairs. I am wearing pants. I am little.”). I agreed and she continued: “Owls come out in the dark.”

Me: “That’s true too.”

S: “What if me see an owl?”

Me: “Then we would invite it to live in our house.”

She thought for a moment and came up with another one.

S: “What if owl kisses Mommy?”

Me: “Then I will love that owl as my own and ask him to sleep in the second bedroom.”

I decided to ask my own.

Me: “What if the owl comes down from the tree and realizes upon seeing us that he is, in fact, not wearing any pants and becomes embarrassed?”

My daughter was silent for so long that I thought she had given up on the game. I had this huge urge to turn around and say, “don’t quit on this! The what ifs are important! Facing the most far-reaching possibility head on and considering what you would do can give you a lot of strength. It’s the impulse that made me give myself that first injection–because I had considered the what if and I had decided in that moment to do anything to make you a reality.”

S: “Jump in a car. No see no pants in car.”

And she’s freakin’ right for all of you who have considered driving around pantsless today. You cannot look in a car and see if every passenger is wearing pants.

I don’t believe biology matters–I think this a stronger case for nurture vs. nature. She gets it–she understands that the what if is a game of problem solving. Of considering how far you would go. I love that I have a new person to exchange what ifs. It will come in handy the next time my husband enforces a three what if limit.

What are the chances, after exiting your first fertility-related appointment in two years (with the exception of dumping out all of my fears at last year’s pap smear), that you would stop to get a sandwich at a random cafe 45 minutes from home and bump into one of the women who got you through your first round of infertity?

This is the point where I tell you that I believe G-d puts people in your path when you need them.

I went to my hematology appointment today. My friend, L, who recommend the doctor warned me that since he treats all blood disorders, the waiting room is comprised of people with various illnesses and conditions: leukemia, sickle cell anemia, clotting disorders. Sitting amongst other people around my age with varying degrees of baldness from chemotherapy put everything into perspective. And then took it out of perspective. And then put it into perspective. And then made me carry a strange weight of guilt into the examination room.

Infertility isn’t life threatening–at least not in the same way leukemia is life threatening. So there was an enormous guilt over the idea that I was taking up appointment time with an infertility-related problem. But (and this is where the wave of serious navel-gazing and reasoning begins–it won’t crest for a while. And then be prepared for the crash) infertility is certainly life threatening to children I try to carry in my womb. It’s hard to make an argument for unborn children because I let a potential child go unborn each cycle when I don’t even make an attempt to fertilize the egg. But still.

The doctor and his medical student were so kind, so understanding, and took me so seriously, that I went into my normal fight or flight reaction with doctors in reverse. I’m so used to a doctor blowing off my concerns until the situation reaches a crisis that I didn’t know what to do with a doctor who came in the room, listened to my history, and told me that he wanted to run a full panel of tests because it sounded very likely that I had a clotting disorder and it could be the key to getting me pregnant quickly this go-around.

I started back-pedaling. I thought I would have to bring up my points over and over again. I thought I would have to convince him to do something. Instead, he was telling me that he was willing to do something and I was telling him, “but my losses were all so early.” I didn’t feel legitimate. I felt like an infertile fraud. I just wanted him to be sure that he understood that my losses were not as huge as other women’s losses. That mine were not worth his time.

Truthfully, there was a part of me that felt that we never gave those cycles the attention they deserved. We never focused on the loss. We didn’t process it or honour the babies. I couldn’t even tell you the exact dates–just the month. Because I was so focused on the next cycle, it was like shedding clothing while you’re drowning. You’re not thinking about the sweater or shoes you’re kicking towards the bottom of the ocean–you’re only thinking about getting up to the surface and breathing again. Reading everyone else’s loss interviews for the book, I started to realize that we never mourned. We never honoured. I read so many beautiful things that other families did for their unborn children. And all I did was call my OB or RE and ask what we were trying next.

I felt like it wasn’t my right to ask for that problem to be treated now when I had never focused on the problem in the first place.

Does that even make sense?

Speaking with this doctor gave me a lot of hope that we may be able to conceive naturally–or semi-naturally. As natural as one can be with Prometrium and Lovenox. We could conceive in our bedroom. With the door closed. And no one watching. And when I say “no one watching” I’m comparing it to seven doctors and nurses looking at my hoo-haa while they all marvelled that they just couldn’t get that catheter in. Because this doctor pointed out that the three chemical pregnancies all occurred before I started treatments. Which means that I can get pregnant on my own. I just can’t stay pregnant and get that embryo to implant. Though his explanation of my fertility didn’t take into account the high FSH or the non-existant progesterone, or the fact that some of the intervention built a better egg, it still sounded so good. I would be willing to try on my own for a bit without intervention if someone told me there was a chance.

After they took 22 vials of blood. And after I fainted when we were 4 vials to the end. And after I staggered out of the office feeling completely embarrassed (I guess I just wanted to be the nonchalant blood giver who could squeeze out 22 vials while still making small talk about Halloween), I decided to stop by my favourite bookstore/coffee house for a sandwich to eat in the car. My husband calls this store my safe space. We went a lot during infertility treatments and we went a few times when the kids were in the NICU. It’s always the place I want to go if we get a date night. It just makes me feel good to walk inside. Everyone needs a safe space.

They didn’t have a sandwich I wanted and I was about to walk out when I heard a tentative, “Melissa?” It was J, who I had exchanged emails with recently, but hadn’t seen much in the last two years. Not only do I have two ladies-when-waiting, but J is my Infertility STAR. My bright, twinkling Says-Things-Amazingly-Right (STAR) that guided me to my clinic, that got me through my first treatment, and yanked me far from the edge of the baby blues after the kids were born. I don’t see her often, but when I do, she always knows the right thing to say that makes me see a situation in an entirely new light. She is currently working towards her PhD in clinical psychology and anyone who receives her counsel is extremely lucky. Her words have changed my outlook and acceptance of the situation numerous times during infertility. She truly has a gift and I’m not only lucky to have her in my life, but I’m lucky that she chose to study in the same cafe this afternoon.

Somehow, when I walked back to my car and drove home (still sandwichless), I had found peace with the entire day. Had stopped thinking of myself as a waste of valuable appointment time. Had a good cry and moved on.