US News and World Report covered a study last week that found that women who don’t have a child after fertility treatments (adoption wasn’t mentioned, and I don’t think it was specifically tracked within the context of this study*) are three times more likely to divorce than women who do.  27% of the women overall were not living with their partner anymore, though a larger chunk of that 27% were women without children than women with children.  I didn’t read the whole study to see if the researchers noted that people with children were less likely overall to get divorced in the first place:

For couples without children, the divorce rate in 1948 was 15.3 per 1,000. Where one child was present, the estimate rate was 11.6 per 1,000. The figure thus continues to decrease, and in families with four or more children, it was 4.6. Altogether, the rate for couples with children was 8.8 per 1,000. In other words, the rate for ‘childless’ couples was almost double the rate for families with children.

So the fact that childless couples after infertility divorce at a higher rate than parenting couples after infertility reflects the overall divorce discrepancy between childless and parenting couples without infertility, though I’m not sure if anyone has studied the role children play in the reasoning (or logistics) of couples remaining intact.

Anyway, despite the fact that this is the way statistics go, with or without infertility, the researchers in Denmark were still shocked:

“We already knew that having fertility problems is very stressful for couples but I was surprised that the effect lasted so long.”

Uh… yeah.  The rest of us, the ones living with infertility, sort of already knew that.

Infertility is enormously stressful since there is no way to live your life and avoid triggers that remind you of your situation, such as the numerous children you encounter on any given day.  It puts a huge emotional strain on a person, a huge financial strain, a physical strain.  Infertility is a giant suckhole that takes over every aspect of your life and calendar if you don’t hold it at bay.  And really, how many of us are any good at holding that monster at bay?  I certainly wasn’t.  Take into account, also, that infertility is tied to sex, and sex is tied to relationships, and the whole thing becomes a jumble of conflicted emotions around timed intercourse and having your sex life dictated (or restricted) by a doctor.  There is nothing romantic about making a baby with a half dozen other people in the room.

And yes, that stress follows you beyond the immediate period of family building.  That is because — as we’ve said all along, children resolve childlessness, but they don’t resolve infertility.  Infertility needs to be resolved on its own, and it can be resolved with or without children.

My larger question is what are we going to do with the results of this study?

We now have this information in black and white, but knowing things just for knowing’s sake seems like a waste of funding dollars.  Will counseling be offered as part of fertility clinic services; will it be covered by insurance to ensure that people are given coping mechanisms?  The religious right is keen on keeping couples together: will they do everything in their power to ensure that couples are given the necessary support so they can come through a crisis like infertility intact?  Will people finally understand why asking, “when will you ever be over it?” isn’t helpful?  Perhaps, as is clear from this study, some of us will never be “over it.”  Life will continue, and it will be lived — and it may even be lived very well.  But that doesn’t mean that infertility doesn’t continue to affect a person emotionally (or memories of the time period) long after it is resolved.  Resolution — like many things — is a process rather than a single moment in time.

Infertility is stressful.  I hope studies like these pave the way for emotional support becoming a given along with treating the physical side of infertility.

* In other words, because they were solely looking at people who were getting services at a fertility clinics, and then who had children years later, there was not (as far as I can tell) a specific breakdown of those who conceived via treatments, those who are parenting after adoption, or what role not utilizing treatments at all and going straight to adoption played in the end results.

On days when I miss my grandmother, I say fuck the calories and buy two onion rolls and a Canfield’s Diet Chocolate Fudge soda.

I slice them open, buttering the inside, and eat them in huge bites.  And for five minutes, maybe once a month, I feel like I’m with her.

What do you eat that reminds you of someone?

Thank you for the well-wishes yesterday.  I’m sad; I’m sad for my family and because I miss her.  I think I will make a brisket this weekend because it always reminds me of my aunt.

My aunt died.  The ChickieNob was using my phone to watch a movie when my cousin texted me the news, and it came through on the screen.  I heard her start screaming and then crying, and she ran into my room, trying to tell me something, but she couldn’t get the words out.  I knew she had been watching Lord of the Rings, and I had this crazy idea that she was sobbing because Boromir had died.  And I told her, “you’ve seen him die a hundred times.  Why is this time different?”  But it wasn’t Boromir.

Once I understood, I brought her into the rocking chair and held her for a half hour.  In the quiet, I felt my heart crack open in my chest, like an egg that had been roughly smashed against the side of a bowl to splinter the shell.  It felt like hands were reaching it and scooping out the yolk forcefully, instead of letting it drip out by its own accord.  I felt hollowed.  Scattered.

I spent the rest of the afternoon on the phone with my mother and cousins and Josh, sending emails, trying to untangle ourselves for the next few days so we could go to the funeral.  I made the crepes I planned for dinner.  I drank tea.  It didn’t feel real, this untethering.  She was the last of my grandmother’s sisters.

*******

The ChickieNob is a little magpie.  She collects things; tangible objects that she keeps in bins in her closet, but also stories, photographs, information.  She notices everything.  She remembers everything.  She picks up all the little bits that others leave behind.

She had the forethought to collect my aunt’s stories last spring for an hour.  As my aunt looked at the family tree, she told us stories about growing up and meeting her husband and getting engaged and becoming a mother.  A few weeks ago, I sent the recording to her sons, and listened to it in full for the first time since we recorded it.  In the moment, I felt like I had all the questions I could come up with answered, but what about all the ones that would pop up after the fact?  The stories I’d half remember and want to ask her about?  She was the only person I could ask who could tell me about my grandmother’s childhood.

I just wanted more.  More time.  More chances to talk to her.

When I was little, there were three generations above me.  And from the time I was the twins’ age until this week, there were two generations.  And now there is only one generation above me.  The queue is always moving.

*******

My aunt was a fellow mother of twins.  When we first found out that we were having twins, I called her from my kitchen, my mother sitting next to me.  “Twins!” she screamed into the phone.  “Twins are the best.”  She was an effusive twin mum, who promised me that I would get through those early years because we all get through those early years even when it feels — in the moment — as if we won’t.  And she was right.  We got through the early years with the help of my parents just as she got through the early years of her twins with the help of her parents.

My great-grandmother — her mother — used to say, “two is not one.”  A simple phrase, not very profound on the surface, but it’s something my aunt gave me while the twins were still gestating that I repeat to myself sometimes when I’m doing things in duplicate.  One is not two, and two is not one.  I shouldn’t look at twin parenting in the same way one looks at singleton parenting.  It’s its own entity, and she gave me permission — no, she gave me an order — to always remember that and to treat what I have accordingly.  And it’s served me well, both in getting me through a hard night with two babies crying as I think that two indeed is not one, and it’s gotten me through some sensitive spots when I think about how I need to navigate two unique individual’s feelings.

*******

My aunt sometimes lied to me about the vegetarian state of a dish.  The women in my family have a difficult time admitting that chicken stock is from an animal.  She didn’t agree with all of my life choices.  But she was kind and she loved me.  She always took me in when I needed a space.

Before she had her own granddaughters, and she would beg me to wear dresses, to let her play with my hair.  One night, when we were little, my sister and I were sleeping over at her house, and after I had been in bed for a bit, she came in the room and woke me up, whispering, “do you want me to brush your hair?”  I didn’t want her to brush my hair — you don’t brush curly, Mediterranean hair.  I mean, really, I don’t own a brush.  But my mother had told me to let her brush my hair because it meant so much to her.  So I sat up in the dark and let her brush my hair.  It was probably only 9 pm, but it was dark out, and to a child, that is the middle of the night.  So she brushed my hair, telling me that she was making it perfect for the next day.  Then she put me back to sleep with my halo of hair that now resembled the texture of shredded wheat.

I realized after it was too late this week that I never got to tell her that I now understood that moment; that while it was different — the longing for a child vs. the longing for a female child — I understood what it was like to borrow someone for a moment; to pretend for a few minutes that they are your very own.  That I’ve often thought about my tangle of hair in her brush, especially when I need the kids and slip into their room after bedtime to see if they’re still awake.

I’m glad that she got daughters in the women her sons married.  She had so many female grandchildren by the time everyone was done building their families.  But I wish I had told her that I remembered the hair brushing; when she gathered my hair in a low ponytail and tugged my thick hair through the teeth.

*******

I am obviously writing this for me since you don’t know my aunt.  But if the world feels a little off today, it’s because this person who meant so much to me is no longer in it.  And it feels like everything is shifting; like the ground in an earthquake.  My family, shaking out, learning their new roles, their new places.

We’re watching Scott Pilgrim tonight when a Kay Jewelers commercial comes on… set in an adoption agency.

Because isn’t that what adoption is like?  You just show up in an office and sit and wait until they bring in your perfectly wrapped child?  Holding hands and exchanging jewelry?  And uh… that pesky birth family that doesn’t factor into this commercial at all… don’t they deserve a Jane Seymour Open Heart necklace?

Just in case you were wondering, this is why your Aunt Jane says things like, “why don’t you just adopt?” Since, you know, it’s so damn easy for every member of the triad.

I know that every kiss begins with K… but “gobsmacked” begins with Gee-wasn’t-that-the-most-offensive-thing-I’ve-seen-in-a-while.

I hate it when brands stop selling a product (or create a “new” and “improved” version that may be new but is certainly not improved, but that is a different story).  My latest ire is for Vaseline over the discontinuation of their Deep Moisture Creamy Formula.  It was one of the greatest hand lotions of all time.  I bought it for friends, I stashed tubes of it in a multitude of places.  It was a beautiful, beautiful, well-made product.

And then it started getting harder to find.

Then it returned, watery and smelling foul, and I went online to discover that everyone else was also repulsed by this new version of the lotion (which, by the way, was not packaged differently).  And now it’s gone altogether.  No more Vaseline Deep Moisture Creamy Formula.  Thanks a lot, Vaseline, for nothing.

I am very particular about my lotions because they have to be unscented.  And a certain consistency.  And obviously also work to relieve dry skin.  Like I could never be like “Offred” in the Handmaid’s Tale and smear butter on myself.  I mean, yes, the reproductive health of women is horrifying in that book, but so is the keeping of rancid butter in a shoe.

*******

On the other hand, I love Bluehost.  If you’ve ever considered self-hosting your blog, I cannot recommend them enough.  This week, I had malware on my site.  It infected a ton of files, and it was beyond my capabilities at the moment to deal with it.  I was on the phone with tech support — by the way, every time I call, I rarely wait more than 30 seconds for help AND the people are completely patient with me and my inane questions — and the guy started cleaning up my account for me.  He walked me through a few things on my end while he took care of other things on his end, and within 15 minutes, we had the site neat and functioning.

I love them.  I love how accessible they are.  I love how much they’re willing to jump in and help.  I love how it’s a rare occurrence that I ever need to call for help because they keep things running smoothly.

Thank you, Bluehost.

*******

I started up yoga again since hurting my back.  I’ve been doing it every morning.  I can feel a weird pinching sensation in my arm when I do certain stretches, but other than that, it doesn’t bother my back.

The problem is that I have lost all my upper body strength.  I went to do a chatarunga.  I was fine in plank, but when I started lowering myself, my right arm gave out.  I used to be able to lower myself slowly with control.  Now I sort of flop over after lingering in plank as long as possible.  My arms were stronger than this when I first started to do yoga years ago, so it feels odd to not be able to do this simple movement anymore.  I wonder how long it will take to see a difference; to be able to lower myself gently again.

*******

And now the blogs…

But first, second helpings of the posts that appeared in the open comment thread last week.  In order to read the description before clicking over, please return to the open thread:

• “You and Your Damn Babies” (Grounded Parents)
• “Abortion Rhetoric from the Perspective of a ‘Miracle Baby’ Mom” (Grounded Parents)
• “The Bitch is (Sort of) Back” (Work is for Suckers)
• “A Crossroad” (The Stroller Coaster)
• “What it is” (Remission Statement)
• “Just Be Nice” (Band Back Together)

Okay, now my choices this week.

Me vs. Infertility has a post about a sign she always sees at work with the words “BFP Test Outlet.”  Obviously the words mean something different in this context, but they can’t help but make her think about the beta at the end of her IVF cycle.  She admits, “I’ve never seen a positive pregnancy test. But I’ve wondered what will happen when I do.”  The post is a good reminder that two people can see the exact same thing but take away very different meanings.

Stupid Broken Eggs has a post about her upcoming transfer.  I like it because it’s a good, everyday post giving the outsider insight into the world of fertility treatments.  The sort of post I like to forward to someone when they say, “oh, you can always do IVF” as their answer to every fertility issue without truly knowing what IVF entails.  But I especially love this post because she takes back some control from an out-of-control experience, setting firm limits on the passing of information.  She explains, “A lot gets taken away during IF. So I plan to treat our transfer just like the special private (as private as I can make it) moment it can be.”

A little late with this (but I read it after the last Roundup was written) but Veggie Sausages has a post twisting the concept of #momfail and explaining what looks like failure is actually a step towards success.  She writes, “You are not failing because you are always thinking you could do better. You are always seeking to improve your practice to do right by the tiny people who live in your house. I have a distinct feeling that bad mothers don’t feel bad.”  It’s a rallying cry for anyone who thinks they’re doing less than their best today.

Lastly, Birds, Bees, and Medicine has a post about applying the relaxation techniques she teaches to herself.  It’s not that she doesn’t feel anxiety; she just knows how to hold it and then set it aside so it doesn’t eat her alive.  And I love, love, love the end of this post.  That whole last paragraph.

The roundup to the Roundup: Thanks for nothing, Vaseline.  Bluehost, you rock.  Yoga is hard after a back injury.  And lots of great posts to read.  So what did you find this week?  Please use a permalink to the blog post (written between January 24th and January 31st) and not the blog’s main url. Not understanding why I’m asking you what you found this week?  Read the original open thread post here.