Valentine's Day is kind of a loaded holiday for me. (yeah, says every woman on the planet)
But not for the typical reasons - the unrequited romantic love and the like.
It only became a loaded holiday very recently, when my husband and I tried to conceive - and failed miserably, multiple years in a row.
The first Valentine's Day was right around the time when we started trying. We were full of hope. Not yet married, but that was only a technicality. We were in love and committed and ready to start a family. That Valentine's Day, the world was ours for the taking, and our lives were about to begin. It was an amazing and empowering feeling.
By the time the next Valentine's Day rolled around, it was clear that something was wrong. We were married but not pregnant. Despite all the tracking and all the planning and the scouring of the internet, there was no baby. We had been referred to an infertility specialist.
Infertility.
The word infertility penetrated every waking hour of every day. Our fairy tale had come to a crashing halt. The life we imagined was slipping through our fingers with every month that went by. With every period that I got, our sense of failure grew. We celebrated that Valentine's day wondering if it was always going to be just us. Forever a table of 2. It was a dark time.
The Valentine's Day after that? Hooo boy. It was a doozy. I was in the middle of our second IVF treatment (the first, around Halloween, had failed. It was a blow that I have yet to recover from). I was up to my elbows in injections and bloodwork and invasive, humiliating procedures. It was all or nothing. We had every reason to think this one would fail too, but for some reason we refused to give up hope.
That hope paid off. We were pregnant with twins by the end of the month.
We now have two absolutely incredible two-year-olds PLUS a surprise 4 month old who beat all the odds and insisted on BEING when we were told that we probably couldn't have kids on our own.
These kids are the light of my life.
And now, five years from our first attempts to start a family and three years out from that second IVF, there is so, SO MUCH that I would say to person I was then. Much more than can be put into this blog (or even put into words), but it would include some of the following:
1. This is going to suck. Big time.
Every person handles stress differently. I, for one, handle stress like an overdramatic EMO teenager with a serious case of PMS. I have actually built my life around this fact, and have minimized stress wherever possible, mostly because at any given time, I'm one late credit card payment or plumbing leak away from a nervous breakdown. But when I am FORCED to manage my stress, I find that knowing I'm in for a difficult time before it happens can be what gets me through. I'm all about being prepared (like a manic boyscout with OCD).
Unfortunately, with pregnancy, you never know when the universe could align and you could just be pregnant. Despite all the infertility talk and tests and whatnot, I always held out that I could be pregnant, like, next week, and then I wouldn't have to keep going on with this medical intervention. I honestly didn't have a clue that my infertility would culminate in a two-year battle of awfulness, both physical and emotional, that I can't really put into words. Had I known that I was in for such a rough time, I could have gathered my strenght and prepared for battle. But I was blindsided, and it made it that much more difficult to endure.
2. Leave your dignity at the door.
The first time I went in to be monitored, the ultrasound tech held up this long, turkey-baster-looking object, told me to spread my legs, and warned me that this might feel a little cold. Holy cow. The amont of people who knew my ovulation schedule or had seen my vagine by the time a year had gone by was astronomical. From the receptionist to the ultrasound crew to my doctor, everyone knew my estrogen level at any given time, and that I had an anatomical curviture that made IUI difficult. During every IVF, I laid there, spread eagle, while a surgical staff of at least 10 ambled around, discussing the weather while fiddling with equipment. It was humiliating. But honey, if that's what it takes, then you might as well slap a smile on your face and embrace it. The good news is that it completely prepared me for birth, because if you have even a SHRED of dignity left after IVF, it's violently ripped from your sweaty hands during and after the delivery of your children.
Seriously.
Say goodbye to your modesty or any sexual appeal that you might have to your spouse. Becasue shit is about to get real.
3. The shots are not a big deal.
It's amazing how quickly out-of-the-ordinary things can become ordinary. Everybody talks about the injections, and how horrible it must be. And sure, it's no picnic. Nobody WANTS to penetrate their skin with needles 3 times a day. But compared to the emotional pain you're enduring during infertility, the physical pain of those needles is nothing. And if those needles can be a path to END your emotional pain, so much the better. Wake up, pee, shower, shot, and you're on your way. Don't stress.
4. Keep your expectations realistic.
While I was undergoing infertility treatment, I told myself, my husband, and the universe that if I could just have a child, I'd never be unhappy again.
Ridiculous.
OF COURSE I'm glad to have my children but am I happy 100% of the time? No way, jose. You know what? Kids are hard. Yes, they are wonderful and amazing little creatures, but they can also break you. They will wreck you like a hurricane and leave nothing in their wake but destruction and tears. They are LIFE-ALTERING events, and you sacrifice A LOT to have them. And then there's...yanno...LIFE, which can also bring it's share of misery and challenges. So to think that I only needed kids to be happy was unrealistic, and I'm now dealing with the added guilt of hating myself for being unhappy when I PROMISED the universe that I would have a smile on my face every day that I was a mom. It's taking a therapist and a lot of introspection to work through, and I should have never put that pressure on myself. Lesson learned. At $40 an hour.
5. Have fun while you can.
Easier said than done. It's nearly impossible to have fun when the threat of a meaningless, barren existance is hanging over your head 24/7. But I was so preoccupied being miserable, I didn't really take advantage of my childless situation. The silver lining of infertility (as long as it's temporary) is that it buys you the time and freedom to enjoy all the things that childless couples enjoy. Like traveling and sleeping in and drinking beer for dinner because nobody is relying on you to keep them alive (except maybe the dog, and it's easy to be a dog-mommy while drunk. just don't forget to lock the back door before you go to bed). I should have done more of those things instead of wallowing in self pity. Because now I'm looking back from a weary, sleep-deprived, and isolated state and KICKING myself for not fully exploiting that freedom. To those of you who are currently struggling with infertility: PLEASE take some time for yourselves. Because eventually you WILL have children (I pinky swear times infinity) and you will deeply miss those extra hours of sleep and a change of scenery.
And finally,
6. You will get through this. And it will be worth everything.
Dear former self:
You are stronger than you ever imagined (and no, crying does not mean you're weak). You are a rockstar and a warrior. You will fight for your children, and you will have EARNED them. You will be a million times tougher for going through this experience. You will know that you and your husband can handle adversity because you have seen each other through the darkest of times and come through with an unbreakable bond. When you're struggling as a mom, on your knees, ready to break, you will remember this time of sacrifice and pain and GET UP OFF THE FLOOR and be a better mom for your kids.
YOU CAN DO THIS.
Lean on your partner, let him lean on you, and keep going. Because the reward is worth a million years of suffering.
YOU ARE A MOM.
You just don't know it yet.
