As I was musing about the pros and cons about being out (as well as what I can do to torture my eight-year-old neighbour), one of my ladies-when-waiting called last night. Her two-year relationship is over. The one that was supposed to continue into engagement and marriage and growing old with one another. Her heart is breaking.

This was one of those terrible break-ups that took a month to complete. And in the end, it felt like a miscarriage of sorts. While this analogy may feel offensive to some, I think it is a very helpful metaphor for those who have never experienced a pregnancy loss. Sometimes people just need to have the experience connected to something within their own life to have that “a-ha” moment where they learn how to be sensitive and how to step in and help based on how they felt within their own situation. And since many more people have experienced lost love, it is the most universal analogy I can create to give those who haven’t experienced pregnancy loss a window into understanding. It is also the background you need to know so I can flagellate myself for doing EXACTLY what I hate when everyone else does it to me. And perhaps I just needed to see the situation as a reverse metaphor–from a space of infertility–to remember how relationship loss feels.

So many of the emotions experienced through relationships and infertility are the same. Our generation of women were raised to believe that anything was possible if we worked hard enough for it. Study in school and you’ll go to college. Work hard in college and you’ll get a good job. In Hebrew, we have a word that means the person you were meant to be with–your b’shert. Trying to find my b’shert was the first time that working hard meant nothing. I could do certain things that made the likelihood of finding my husband more plausible. If I had remained locked in the house, it was unlikely that I would find people to date. But I couldn’t do anything to find someone who fit me perfectly nor could I make anyone fall in love with me (I know what you’re thinking–who wouldn’t be in love with me since I’m so freakin’ adorable? But…alas…there were boys who were idiots and couldn’t see the perfection before them). And we all know this is true for children too. There are things we can do help along the process–such as having sex or doing procedures or filling out paperwork. But in the end, most paths to parenthood are out of our control.

This could become a long post about all the losers I dated, but let’s skip ahead (until I come back to certain losers from the past in my next post since this is definitely a two or three post thought) to meeting my husband. Another idea we have in Hebrew is the term “mazel” meaning “luck.” The term “mazel” is comprised of three letters: mem, zayin, and lamed. Those three letters stand for three words: ma-com (place), zeman (time), and la’asot (doing). Meaning that luck is about being in the right place at the right time and doing the right thing. It’s not about magic happening–it’s about you making it happen. But doing your job may mean that many pieces need to line up in order to make it work. Does that make sense? So that luck is (1) somewhat within your control, but (2) takes time. Luck may not happen when you want it to happen, but it will happen if you keep doing your part. Unfortunately, it becomes a bit of slogging on since you don’t know when the “right” time will occur until it happens.

I know you didn’t come here for a linguistics lesson (and I’m not even certain how reliable my aunt is when she told me the etymology of “mazel” because she also told me that 90% of English words come from Hebrew. Which doesn’t sound quite right to me….), but that’s sort of how I view hooking up with my b’shert. I made it happen and he made it happen, but we were brought together at the right place when we were in the right time to find each other because we were both looking to do the right thing. And that’s the way I had to think about infertility because it was the guiding thought that kept me sane in that process, even though I didn’t truly believe that I would be a mother. I said it kept me sane–I didn’t say I entirely believed it.

In relationships and infertility, it’s out of our control. We can only do so much to make it happen. And that’s very frustrating to a woman who has been taught that if she works hard enough, she’ll achieve whatever she wants.

And then there were the times when I did achieve what I wanted through that hard work and I lost it. My friend’s relationship was a blighted ovum. It looked like a pregnancy, and the hCG rose like a pregnancy, but once it came time to look inside, she found an empty sac. Nothing. And her heart is breaking right now because she had been led to believe that she was pregnant. Her body, her heart, her relationship tricked her into believing that this was going to be forever. And that is the cruelest part of relationships and infertility–the hope that is taken away in an instant.

Now here is the self-flagellation: what do we hear when we experience a pregnancy loss? You can try again. You’ll have the child you’re meant to have. It was your body’s way of saying that it wasn’t perfect enough. It will happen for you. And these platitudes are so offensive because they completely dismiss the life that was growing inside of you. You don’t want to try again–you want to mourn this baby. This was the child you were meant to have. And who determines perfection? And no one can promise that it will happen for you.

When someone loses a spouse, no one shows up at the funeral and says, “you can date again. You’ll get married again. You’ll find another person soon.” Even if these sentiments are semi-true. Many people do remarry who lose their spouse at a young age. Some do not, but most do re-enter dating and relationships after a mourning period. We don’t remind them of these possibilities when they’re in the crushing wave of loss because we take those losses (of a friend, family member, or spouse) seriously. We give them gravity. We give the person space and time. We don’t dismiss their loss by making them focus on the future. We instead help them to mourn. And follow their timetable. And offer support.

I think Murray’s point last week that people can’t understand what they can’t see is so true. Sadly true. I don’t think we properly mourn pregnancy loss in this society. There are many who would say that it’s more difficult to lose someone you knew outside your body, that you shared your life with, or that you even once held. Speak to anyone who has experienced a stillbirth vs. an early miscarriage and they’ll say that the stillbirth was emotionally harder. But does the lessening of intensity warrant the complete detachment from recognition of its emotional importance? Is a divorce the same as a bad break-up? Well, no. It isn’t. But that doesn’t mean that a bad break-up doesn’t come with its own gravity. In the same way that an early miscarriage comes with its own gravity that does not detract from the importance of a stillbirth or the loss of a family member. Y’all know how I feel about creating a hierarchy of loss. We each process loss differently, and we need to respect each other’s process.

Which means that the bad break-up and the miscarriage deserve respect. And deserve mourning time. And deserve the supporter to follow the timetable of the mourner. And I say this because in my head, I started thinking about set-ups. And singles groups. And blind dates. And I started going through the rolodex in my head of all the new people I had met since I had last set her up (which was a disaster, okay, I can now admit that set-up was a disaster). And by doing so, I wasn’t allowing her to mourn. Because she didn’t want a relationship. She wanted that relationship. She didn’t want just any husband. She wanted that
man to be her husband. And to tell her to move on semi-immediately demeans the love she had with that man. Because she needs to mourn the loss before moving on.

One day, she will wake up and feel ready. I hope everyone gives her the space she needs and lets her focus on the present without pushing her toward the future. She will have time to try again and I will have time to help her meet her b’shert and get her into that right place at that right time. But right now she needs to mourn. And the best words we can give in the loss of a relationship: I’m so sorry; talk about it; do you want me to comment or just listen; talk about the good points; what did you learn from this–are also the ones we can use to help a person mourn a pregnancy loss: I’m so sorry; talk about it; do you want me to comment or just listen; tell me about how you felt while you were pregnant; how do you want to remember this loss; what did your RE learn from this. Instead of pushing them. Before they’re ready. To move on and try again.

Self-flagellation is over for the time being. But we had an interesting conversation last night about why things happen that deserves its own post. But right now, a huge pile of laundry awaits.

The LBWWMTDASADFFIHAOTAC was playing outside tonight with his little friends when I ran out to the food store. And…perhaps this is why people told me that G-d would make me a mother when I was “ready”…but all I could think of was just wait until Halloween. Trick or treat? You’ve got to be kidding if you think I’m giving you candy after you wouldn’t help me get rid of a cricket. There’s a box of raisins in your future, my friend.
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Added on 10/3/06: I’m taking all votes from now until Halloween night–what does the LBWWMTDASADFFIHAOTAC get in his trick-or-treating bag?

So far, we have a toothbrush, apple, and pennies. And a single walnut in the shell.

Back to the In or Out Chronicles (which is much different from the ole in-out-in-out…ha ha ha…wink wink…nudge nudge. In-out-in-out? Boom chica wah wah!). And as another sexual side note, we found a Fisher Price dump truck this weekend that plays this song: “in and out / in and out / that’s what dump truck is all about.” And how can you NOT sit there and poke each other and raise eyebrows saying, “oh, yes, dump trucks are all about the fuck.”

On this lovely day of Yom Kippur, I started thinking about it again when Ms. C said that she needed to figure out a way to work the pomegranate into dinner since she wasn’t out to her family and couldn’t just ask them to eat the pomegranate with her. Talk about guerrilla fertility support. Thanks family. You have no idea that you just wished me fertility and a sweet new year. IN YOUR FACE.

As you know, I am out. I’m actually Out. With a capital O. Because that’s just how out I am. I wouldn’t have any problem walking through the grocery store wearing a shirt that says, “ask me about my luteal phase defect” if I thought it would help me connect to another person and ease their journey. Because you know that I’m a strong believer in passing along any information you have that could help another person (and, since this seems to be a post riddled with side notes, another huge thank you for everyone who is on the peer counseling list. And feel free to write others on the list with questions!). It’s how I jump ahead in my journey and it’s my civic duty to help others leapfrog past wasted months of trying in order to get to a diagnosis or a procedure that works best for them.

That said, there is an element of frustration when you are out and other people wish you were in. Or wish you weren’t quite so out. There are times when I have shared intimate details of our journey with another person and then they acted as if it were the white elephant in the room from that point forward. I turned to them for support and received none (I give them the long answer because they showed an initial interest in my fertility and asked a question such as “are you guys trying?” I tend not to answer the question, “how are you” with details about fertility treatments even though for my answer to be honest, it would have to include details about my progesterone levels. I know that when people ask “how are you” they are generally just giving you a longer version of “hello.” But when people specifically ask if we want another kid, I believe they either want to know the truth or are being nosy and should understand how these questions are inappropriate unless you want to hear all the saucy details of my last transvaginal sonogram).

If you ask me personal questions, and you receive personal answers, you now have a responsibility to support me. Don’t ask the question if you’re not prepared for all possible answers. Or at least say that you’re uncomfortable discussing my fertility issues so I know in the future not to share again.

But here is an off-shoot and an interesting question. That is prefaced by these two scenarios: (1) If you go into a restaurant bathroom and a woman is sobbing hysterically at the sink, do you ask her what’s wrong or do you ignore her? (2) If your friend got into the car and you saw that she had a black eye, would you ask her how she received it?

Because both of these scenarios open up a can of worms. That may make you uncomfortable. And you can’t shove them back in if you don’t like the answer. You now are tied to that person and have a responsibility to support them. Somewhat. I mean, if the woman just told you that she had broken up with her boyfriend, you don’t have a responsibility to follow her home and eat ice cream with her on the sofa. But you do have a responsibility to comment and comfort within the confines of the public bathroom. If your friend told you that she received her black eye from her husband, you now have a responsiblity to support her through spousal abuse and aid her in getting help. Yes, you can always step back and say, “oh. That sucks. Where do you want to eat tonight?” But what does that say about you? And where do our responsiblities to each other start and end? Just basic responsibilities because we’re all human. And then the next level of responsibilities because we’re friends. And then the next level (or perhaps the same level) because we’re family.

I was reading a book about pregnancy loss last weekend. I was reading it because (1) the topic interests me, (2) it has info about implantation issues and clotting disorders that I think will help me organize my thoughts before my hematology appointment, and (3) I’m currently working on the chapter on pregnancy loss. A family member asked what book I was reading. I flipped over the cover and said, “Preventing Miscarriage.” She said, “oh” and walked away.

Which is one of the drawbacks to being out. Because when you’re in, other people may let you down, but they don’t consciously know what they’re doing so you can only blame them so much. I mean, idiotic statements are idiotic statements. But when you’re out, you expect a modicum of support. Even a “are you reading that because you lost again?” Just a question to show interest. Granted, this person did not know the can of worms they were opening by asking what I was reading. It is very different then asking if we’re trying. But still. You know our history, give a little support. Show that you care.

Someone commented once that they’re only out when they get something out of it too. They share the details with someone because they receive support in exchange for the information. But what do you do when someone is asking you intimate details about your IF journey, yet they’re not giving you the support in return? Do you continue to share? Do you stop sharing and just answer each nosy question with a terse smile and a “nothing new to report” (even though there is plenty of news to report)? Do you walk to them about it? And what do you do when they continue to give you nothing in return? Is there anyone else in this world (besides you and your partner) with a RIGHT to know the details–other family members, friends, etc? For instance, grandparents-in-waiting are affected by your fertility (or lack there of) because their role can’t be fulfilled without you. So do they have a right? If you’re going to ask a sibling to help you take care of your kids once they’re here, does he/she have a right to know your fertility status?

Because being out and getting no support in return makes you wonder why you’re telling people the details in the first place. And I’m specifically speaking about when I answer a question with information. Not when I’m walking around the grocery store, volunteering details of my luteal phase defect.

Just as predictable as the police showing up at the wedding (come on, if they didn’t show up at the ceremony, they had to show up at the reception) is Mel blogging about the botched IVF storyline on Desperate Housewives. You’ve got to be freakin’ kidding me.

Not only was it the least realistic IVF cycle IN HISTORY (don’t quiz me right now on why it made me so pissed off because I’ve put it out of my mind. That’s how deeply I suppressed it), but they finished off the storyline by having (1) the wrong embryo transferred (TRANSFERRED–not implanted–idiots idiots–you transfer an embryo) but (2) the couple lose the baby without one shred of emotion except some controlled anger with the fertility clinic doctor. They go home without a child and there is not one tear, not one conversation about loss or grief, not one speech about desperately wanting the child they had been carrying through surrogacy for nine months. And where is this child now? Left at the hospital? Given to the couple who produced the embryo? Can you imagine that phone call? Um…we seem to have transferred your embryo to another couple. And they just gave birth through their surrogate. So…congratulations. You just became parents. It’s that simple. Come on.

Give me ONE storyline where the couple wants a child, overcomes huge obstacles, and goes home to raise their child happily ever after. You can choose the method to parenthood–I’m not picky. A realistic adoption. A realistic IVF cycle. A realistic surrogacy storyline. Donor egg? Insemination? Anyone?

Just one storyline where the emotional aspects and financial aspects and physical aspects of infertility are presented to the public. Without a laugh track (because, truly, I don’t know about you, but except for laughing through tears when my husband whispered something like “boom chica wah wah” in my ear during an insemination to make me feel more sexy, I never laughed during fertility treatments. Oh…except for the times I made my husband sit across from me and pinch the fat on his stomach when I had to give myself an injection so I wasn’t the only person pinching fat in the room. But other than those two times…). Without apology or simplifying or dumbing down. Just a good, old-fashioned IVF cycle where the doctor uses the term “retrieval” and “transfer” to discuss retrieval and transfer.

I have got to get to Hollywood. Kick down the office doors at ABC (also home to Grey’s Anatomy!) with my steel-toed, knee-high boots. Or…um…my size eight Keens. Whichever seem more impressive.

Going to a NICU reunion is sort of like being Alice and getting a yearly trip to Wonderland. Except that the Wonderland contains things like isolettes and heart monitors rather than tea cakes saying, “eat me.” And doctors and nurses rather than oversized rabbits wearing top hats. So I guess it’s not really like Wonderland at all.

But that’s the only way I can describe the NICU reunion to other people. Life continues on the outside, but when you’re inside the NICU, time seems to stand still and you’re in another world. That time you spend with your child in the NICU is so intense and emotional, that there is a strange part of you that almost doesn’t want to leave when you’re finally released. I mean, you do want to leave. You want to run far from the building to the safety of your home where everything feels normal and healthy. But those intense relationships you’ve formed with your child’s caregivers are severed except for this one time every year when we go back for the NICU carnival.

Our children were born prematurely with IUGR and they spent three weeks in the NICU. Which was one of the worst times in my life. I still sometimes have panic attacks when I need to drive by the hospital. Full on, can’t breathe, panic attacks. Looking back with years of perspective between myself and the incident, I can see our stay in an entirely different light. It all worked out in the end. But while we were there, I was constantly panicked. No one could tell us when we would leave. No one could tell us when we would get off the heart monitors. Or if there would be problems into the future. Sometimes, if I’m at the hospital, I’ll swing by the NICU to say hello and I’ll talk to other parents who have children currently in the NICU. And I know that nothing I’m saying is helping. But I say it anyway. These parents will never calm down until they know that their child is out of danger. A stranger telling them that it could all work out in the end, that their child will put on weight and grow and be healthy years down the line isn’t a guarantee that it actually will happen that way. But now, with perspective, I can see that statistically it does. But when you’re in the middle of it, you don’t know which side of the statistic division you’ll be on. So you worry.

Then why do we go back to visit? Because I want the doctors and nurses to see how their hard work paid off. I want to see the nurses and hear how they’ve been (did N’s daughter get married to the jerk? Were M’s IVF attempts sucessful?) And because it’s a little bit like visiting the edge of the cliff where you almost jumped and shouting into the chasm below, “you didn’t get me.” We won. And it’s time to celebrate.

We told the kids that we were going to a party to celebrate how they left the NICU. They knew there was going to be a bouncey castle, a clown, and a giant cake. And when bouncey castles, clowns, and cakes come together, balloons usually follow. Before we left, we looked at pictures of them from those days in the hospital and when they first came home on heart monitors. We talked about the special clothes they had to wear with a space for their leads. And how we fed them through a tube in their nose, and that my daughter got very adept at removing not only her own ng tube, but her brother’s tube as well (and would give me a proud look when I would come into her NICU room and she was holding the ng tube in her little fist). Which is her personality to this day. They thought the stories were very funny and we thought the stories were very funny. And that’s the blessing of space and time. Because each time she removed the ng tube in the hospital, I went in the hall and cried because she cried when they put it back in. But now, with two years between us and the NICU, I could sit with her in my lap and joke about the ng tube. It’s perhaps not far enough in the distance to not have a panic attack when I drive through Glover Park. But it’s far enough away that I can talk about those days with only a small sniffle. Which is what I mean by shouting from the cliff’s edge.

When we pulled into the parking lot, my son gave us a dubious look. Even at two, he knows that not much good can come from a party held at his apnea clinic. But they jumped in the bouncey castle (and extra love goes towards my husband who took each of them back in for a second turn when Mommy decided that she was going to vomit if she remained in that airless hell for one more second). And played basketball. And watched (with a hint of fear and revulsion) a clown twist balloons into animal shapes.

We saw a few of our old nurses and our neonatologist. And we said thank you for the 100th time. And they marvelled at how much the kids had grown for the 100th time. And we left Wonderland with a deep breath as we clicked our seatbelts closed. A deep breath for all the parents who left the NICU empty-handed. A deep breath for the other side of the statistics. A deep breath that it worked out for us. A deep breath that even though it shaped who were are currently as a family, it’s behind us. It’s just a place we visit. We live at home now.