The post written below is from a dark place in my journey.

Fear

When we first started trying to conceive (TTC) each pregnancy announcement was happy; a sneak peak into our near future. The statistics for a 28 year old couple were good that we’d conceive within a couple months. But as months passed, and then more months, we weren’t as happy. Our reserve of hope and expectation was running dry and we were having a harder time being happy and supportive. Each pregnancy announcement, each baby shower, each pregnancy picture on Facebook didn’t give us hope. It only caused pain. No one could see us being left behind, alone and afraid.

We had a bit of an emotional boost when we started testing with our first fertility clinic. Testing seemed like a positive step. We hoped that we’d just been “doing it wrong” or there was some simple fix we’d laugh about later. We’d get answers, deal with them, then get pregnant. Except fertility diagnosis don’t seem to work that way. It’s not one thing totally wrong, but a few things slightly wrong. FSH is higher than it should be, sperm motility and longevity is below the guidelines, my uterus isn’t the exact right shape, my cycles are short, my progesterone is low…

Each test messed with our minds. We might or might not get a regular cycle of TTC before we have to be back in the waiting room for results. On average we had to wait six weeks for results; months passed where we felt like were in limbo. And when we did get the results each diagnosis cut like a thousand knives as the doctor sorted these into categories: treatable (few) or untreatable (more). Each thing they’d explain made the dream of starting our family farther and farther away. Even with the bad news, the Doctors always say there’s a chance. We just might have to go harder, faster.

We took off two cycles for my laser laparoscopy (check for scar tissue from my appendectomy) and hystereoscopy (to remove a uterine septum). I booked it over a planned holiday so that people at work wouldn’t have to know. I answered, “plans for the holidays?” with, “No, just relaxing at home.” Not a lie, but not the truth. We had to wait after because there was still a balloon in my uterus to help it heal into the correct shape. I took estrogen and antibiotics. My first period after surgery was worse than any I could remember. I tried to interpret this as a positive sign.

More months of unsuccessful trying. We decided to switch clinics because we didn’t feel comfortable with the doctor and the wait times. And while we waited for our referral to go through to the other clinic the announcements kept coming. My tears kept flowing.

When we got pregnant in July. It was amazing. We bought a new camera and tried to capture all the colour in our lives. We travelled. We smiled, although we tried to keep ourselves cautious. I looked at any mommy blog I could find online, trawling through their archives so I see what they looked like when they announced, how I would look at my birthday, Christmas. I compared my ultrasounds to those of others. Duchess Kate announced her pregnancy ‘before the customary’ time, to which my mother said it’s meant to be – she got pregnant with me when Princess Diana was with Harry. Others announced on Facebook and in real life. Friends, neighbours and strangers.

And then at the 12 week scan, just over a week since we last saw the baby and heartbeat, the dream was over. The baby was dead inside me.

And now I live in fear. I look at other women, examine the way their shirts fall and fear that they are pregnant. I watch the food and drink choices the women around me make. Person A stopped drinking pop after years and switched to water – pregnant. Person B bought new clothes that are bigger than their old clothes, but still form fitting to their body – pregnant. I live in fear of the “good news” portions of staff meetings. I can’t fully process that each other pregnancy is separate from my own struggle. Each announcement feels like it’s been stollen from me and my life.

Jealousy

Once we hit the one year mark of trying, jealousy started to grow. I was jealous that pregnancy was so easy and magical for others. I was jealous of those who would never need to get ultrasounds or blood work daily. I became jealous of my friends who had one baby (or more) at home and were announcing more on their way. I became jealous of people who could go on vacations, or sleep in during snow storms, while I scheduled and attended appointments.

As time passed, my jealous got uglier. In the spring my best friend confided that she had a miscarriage after only a few months trying. I couldn’t find the words to comfort her. I was just jealous that she knew she could get pregnant.

Then I got pregnant and the negativity eased. My best friend said she was trying again and that maybe we’d be off on maternity leave together. A coworker and neighbour had us over for dinner and we found we were due only a week apart. My future was feeling richer and all the people in my life I’d been letting slip were coming back. We’d be there to support each other and celebrate with each other. Two days later, I went to the ultrasound where I got the bad news and the jealousy returned worse than ever.

I was uncontrollably jealous. I’d lie down in bed and know that a few doors over, my coworker was going tucking her son into bed and then going to sleep pregnant with her second. How could people have two children so easily when we’d be trying so hard for one? Why did all the negative stuff happen to us? Hadn’t we been through enough? I was jealous that she’d experience all the milestones I’d pictured in my mind at the same time I would have reached them.

And just yesterday my best friend told me she was pregnant. She left a simple letter at the door saying she was pregnant and knew it would be hard for me. Although she didn’t say it, I knew now she’d been pregnant with me, when I got the bad news, when I had my D&C, when I had to go back to the hospital the following week for excessive bleeding. She was happily pregnant all those days I had come home from work and bawled until I feel asleep. She has happily gone to her 12 week ultrasound and didn’t have to hear her baby was dead. I texted her congratulations (I meant them) and asked when she was due. Six weeks after I would have been. I am a monster of jealousy in which there is no way forward. No way in which I can relate to anyone.

I’m jealous of both people’s happiness and jealous that they never have to know the soul crushing devastation I carry with me. I followed all the rules, did everything the right way, but I’m alone on the outside looking in.

Isolation

At first I would read that infertility would feel isolating. Society had one narrative in which people have full families with children. Listen to the radio or watch TV. Where is the struggling infertile person? Where are the people without kids who aren’t teenagers or seniors? People don’t talk about my situation, so infertile people feel invisible and alone.

After my miscarriage I decided I wouldn’t hide my struggles or treatments. I would be open and honest and heard. But instead of being suppotive, people have withdrawn. Not knowing how to relate to me and my ‘situation.’ The people who try to be there are the pregnant friends and friends with children who mean well, but are living another life. My jealousy and fear has me avoiding them. Pushing them away so hopefully less things will trigger the tears.

I know that this pain will not last for ever, but I don’t know how to cope right now. I feel left behind and alone.

-Christine