|
|
|
|
A Letter to Friends and Family
Dear Family and Friends, I want to share my feelings about infertility with you, because I want you to understand my struggle. I know that understanding infertility is difficult; there are times when it seems even I don't understand. This struggle has provoked intense and unfamiliar feelings in me and I fear that my reactions to these feelings might be misunderstood. I hope my ability to cope and your ability to understand will improve as I share my feelings with you. I want you to understand. You may describe me this way: obsessed, moody, helpless, depressed, envious, too serious, obnoxious, aggressive, antagonistic, and cynical. There aren't very admirable traits; no wonder your understanding of my infertility is difficult. I prefer to describe me this way: confused, rushed and impatient, afraid, isolated and alone, guilty and ashamed, angry, sad and hopeless, and unsettled. My fertility makes me feel confused. I always assumed I was fertile. I've spent years avoiding pregnancy and now it seems ironic that I can't conceive. I hope this will be a brief difficulty with a simple solution such as poor timing. I feel confused about whether I want to be pregnant or whether I want to be a parent. Surely if I try harder, try longer, try better and smarter, I will have a baby. My
infertility
makes
me
feel
rushed
and
impatient.
I
learned
of
my
infertility
only
after
I'd
been
trying
to
become
pregnant
for
some
time.
My
life
plan
suddenly
is
behind
schedule.
I
waited
to
become
a
parent
and
now
I
must
wait
again.
I
wait
for
medical
appointments,
wait
for
tests,
wait
for
treatments,
wait
for
other
treatments,
wait
for
my
period
not
to
come,
wait
for
my
partner
not
to
be
out
of
town
and
wait
for
pregnancy.
At
best,
I
have
only
twelve
opportunities
each
year.
How
old
will
I
be
when
I
finish
having
my
family? My infertility makes me feel afraid. Infertility is full of unknown, and I'm frightened because I need some definite answers. How long will this last? What if I'm never a parent? What humiliation must I endure? What pain must I suffer? Why do drugs I take to help me, make me feel worse? Why can't my body do the things that my mind wants it to do? Why do I hurt so much? I'm afraid of my feelings, afraid of my undependable body and afraid of my future. My infertility makes me feel isolated and alone. Reminders of babies are everywhere. I must be the only one enduring this invisible curse. I stay away from others, because everything makes me hurt. No one knows how horrible is my pain. Even though I'm usually a clear thinker, I find myself being lured by superstitions and promises. I think I'm losing perspective. I feel so alone and I wonder if I'll survive this. My
infertility
makes
me
feel
guilty
and
ashamed.
Frequently
I
forget
that
infertility
is
a
medical
problem
and
should
be
treated
as
one.
Infertility
destroys
my
self-esteem
and
I
feel
like
a
failure.
Why
am
I
being
punished?
What
did
I
do
to
deserve
this?
Am
I
not
worthy
of
a
baby?
Am
I
not
a
good
sexual
partner?
Will
my
partner
want
to
remain
with
me?
Is
this
the
end
of
my
family
lineage?
Will
my
family
be
ashamed
of
me?
It
is
easy
to
lose
self-confidence
and
to
feel
ashamed. Infertility makes me feel angry. Everything makes me angry, and I know much of my anger is misdirected. I'm angry with my body because it has betrayed me even though I've always taken care of it. I'm angry with my partner because we can't seem to feel the same about infertility at the same time. I want and need an advocate to help me. I'm angry with my family because they've always sheltered and protected me from terrible pain. My younger sibling is pregnant, my mother wants a family reunion to show off her grandchildren and my grandparents want to pass down family heirlooms. I'm angry with my medical caregivers, because it seems that they control my future. They humiliate me, inflict pain on me, pry into my privacy, patronize me, and sometimes forget who I am. How
can
I
impress
on
them
how
important
parenting
is
to
me?
I'm
angry
at
my
expenses;
infertility
treatment
is
extremely
expensive.
My
financial
resources
may
determine
my
family
size.
My
insurance
company
isn't
cooperative,
and
I
must
make
so
many
sacrifices
to
pay
the
medical
bills.
I
can't
miss
any
more
work,
or
I'll
lose
my
job.
I
can't
go
to
a
specialist,
because
it
means
more
travel
time,
more
missed
work,
and
greater
expenses.
Finally,
I'm
angry
with
everyone
else.
Everyone
has
opinions
about
my
inability
to
become
a
parent.
Everyone
has
easy
solutions.
Everyone
seems
to
know
too
little
and
say
too
much. My
infertility
makes
me
feel
sad
and
hopeless.
Infertility
feels
like
I've
lost
my
future,
and
no
one
knows
of
my
sadness.
I
feel
hopeless;
infertility
robs
me
of
my
energy.
I've
never
cried
so
much
or
so
easily.
I'm
sad
that
my
infertility
places
my
marriage
under
so
much
strain.
I'm
sad
that
my
infertility
requires
me
to
be
so
self-centered.
I'm
sad
that
I've
ignored
many
friendships
because
this
struggle
hurts
so
much
and
demands
so
much
energy.
Friends
with
children
prefer
the
company
of
other
families
with
children.
Babies,
pregnant
women,
playgrounds,
baby
showers,
birth
stories,
kids'
movies,
birthday
parties
and
much
more,
surround
me.
I
feel
so
sad
and
hopeless. My
infertility
makes
me
feel
unsettled.
My
life
is
on
hold.
Making
decisions
about
my
immediate
and
my
long-term
future
seems
impossible.
I
can't
decide
about
education,
career,
purchasing
a
home,
pursuing
a
hobby,
getting
a
pet,
vacations,
business
trips,
and
houseguests.
The
more
I
struggle
with
my
infertility,
the
less
control
I
have.
This
struggle
has
no
timetable;
the
treatments
have
no
guarantees.
The
only
sure
things
are
that
I
need
to
be
near
my
partner
at
fertile
times
and
near
my
doctor
at
treatment
times.
Should
I
pursue
adoption?
Should
I
take
expensive
drugs?
Should
I
pursue
more
specialized
and
costly
medical
intervention?
It
feels
unsettling
to
have
no
clear,
easy
answers
or
guarantees. Occasionally I feel my panic subside. I'm learning some helpful ways to cope; I'm now convinced I'm not crazy, and I believe I'll survive. I'm learning to listen to my body and to be assertive, not aggressive, about my needs. I'm realizing that good medical care and good emotional care are not necessarily found in the same place. I'm trying to be more than an infertile person gaining enthusiasm, joyfulness, and zest for life.
You
can
help
me.
I
know
you
care
about
me
and
I
know
my
infertility
affects
our
relationship.
My
sadness
causes
you
sadness;
what
hurts
me,
hurts
you
too.
I
believe
we
can
help
each
other
through
this
sadness.
Individually
we
both
seem
quite
powerless,
but
together
we
can
be
stronger.
Maybe
some
of
these
hints
will
help
us
to
better
understand
infertility. I need you to be a listener. Talking about my struggle helps me to make decisions. Let me know you are available for me. It's difficult for me to expose my private thoughts if you are rushed or have a deadline for the end of our conversation. Please don't tell me of all the worse things that have happened to others or how easily someone else's infertility was solved. Every case is individual. Please don't just give advice, instead, guide me with your questions. Assure me that you respect my confidences, and then be certain that you deserve my trust. While listening try to maintain an open mind. I
need
you
to
be
supportive.
Understand
that
my
decisions
aren't
made
casually,
I've
agonized
over
them.
Remind
me
that
you
respect
these
decisions
even
if
you
disagree
with
them,
because
you
know
they
are
made
carefully.
Don't
ask
me,
"Are
you
sure?"
Repeatedly
remind
me
that
you
love
me
no
matter
what.
I
need
to
hear
it
so
badly.
Let
me
know
you
understand
that
this
is
very
hard
work.
Help
me
realize
that
I
may
need
additional
support
from
professional
caregivers
and
appropriate
organizations.
Perhaps
you
can
suggest
resources.
You
might
also
need
support
for
yourself,
and
I
fear
I'm
unable
to
provide
it
for
you;
please
don't
expect
me
to
do
so.
Help
me
to
keep
sight
of
my
goal. I
need
you
to
be
comfortable
with
me,
and
then
I
also
will
feel
more
comfortable.
Talking
about
infertility
sometimes
feels
awkward.
Are
you
worried
you
might
say
the
wrong
thing?
Share
those
feelings
with
me.
Ask
me
if
I
want
to
talk.
Sometimes
I
will
want
to,
and
sometimes
I
won't
but
it
will
remind
me
that
you
care. I
need
you
to
be
sensitive.
Although
I
may
joke
about
infertility
to
help
myself
cope,
it
doesn't
seem
as
funny
when
other
joke
about
it.
Please
don't
tease
me
with
remarks
like,
"You
don't
seem
to
know
how
to
do
it".
Don't
trivialize
my
struggle
by
saying,
"I'd
be
glad
to
give
you
one
of
my
kids".
It's
no
comfort
to
hear
empty
reassurances
like,
"You'll
be
a
parent
by
this
time
next
year."
Don't
minimize
my
feelings
with,
"You
shouldn't
be
so
unhappy."
For
now,
don't
push
me
into
uncomfortable
situations
like
baby
showers
or
family
reunions.
I
already
feel
sad
and
guilty;
please
don't
also
make
me
feel
guilty
for
disappointing
you. I
need
you
to
be
honest
with
me.
Let
me
know
that
you
may
need
time
to
adjust
to
some
of
my
decisions.
I
also
needed
adjustment
time.
If
there
are
things
you
don't
understand,
say
so.
Please
be
gentle
when
you
guide
me
to
be
realistic
about
things
I
can't
change
such
as
my
age,
some
medical
conditions,
financial
resources,
and
employment
obligations.
Don't
hide
information
about
others'
pregnancies
form
me.
Although
such
news
makes
me
feel
very
sad,
it
feels
worse
when
you
leave
me
out. I
need
you
to
be
informed.
Your
advice
and
suggestions
are
only
frustrating
to
me
if
they
aren't
based
on
fact.
Be
well
informed
so
you
can
educate
others
when
they
make
remarks
based
on
myths.
Don't
let
anyone
tell
you
that
my
infertility
will
be
cured
if
I
relax
and
adopt.
Don't
tell
me
this
is
God's
will.
Don't
ask
me
to
justify
my
need
to
parent.
Don't
criticize
my
course
of
action
or
my
choice
of
physician
even
though
I
may
do
that
myself.
Reassure
yourself
that
I
am
also
searching
for
plenty
of
information,
which
helps
me
make
more
knowledgeable
decisions
about
my
options. I
need
you
to
be
patient.
Remember
that
working
through
infertility
is
a
process.
It
takes
time.
There
are
no
guarantees,
no
package
deals,
no
complete
kits,
no
one
right
answer,
and
no
"quickie"
choices.
My
needs
change;
my
choices
change.
Yesterday
I
demanded
privacy,
but
today
I
need
you
for
strength.
You
may
have
many
feelings
about
infertility,
and
I
do
too.
Please
allow
me
to
have
anger,
joy,
sadness,
and
hope.
Don't
minimize
or
evaluate
my
feelings.
Just
allow
me
to
have
them,
and
give
me
them. I
need
you
to
be
strengthening
by
boosting
my
self-esteem.
My
sense
of
worthlessness
hampers
my
ability
to
take
charge.
My
personal
privacy
has
repeatedly
been
invaded.
I've
been
subjected
to
postcoital
exams,
semen
collection
in
waiting
room
bathrooms,
and
tests
in
rooms
next
to
labor
rooms.
Enjoyable
experiences
with
you
such
as
a
lunch
date,
a
shopping
trip,
or
a
visit
to
a
museum
help
me
feel
normal. Encourage me to maintain my sense of humor; guide me to find joys. Celebrate with me my successes, even ones as small as making through a medical appointment without crying. Remind me that I am more than an infertile person. Help me by sharing your strength. Eventually I will be beyond the struggle of infertility. I know my infertility will never completely go away because it will change my life. I won't be able to return to the person I was before infertility, but I also will no longer be controlled by this struggle. I will leave the struggle behind me, and from that I will have improved my skills of empathy, patience, resilience, forgiveness, decision-making and self-assessment. I
feel
grateful
that
you
are
trying
to
ease
my
journey
through
this
infertility
struggle
by
giving
me
your
understanding.
|
