Advocating for the Infertile: Why I Don't Think We Should #StopAsking

A lot has been going on in infertility circles lately. A few months ago, Facebook founder Mark Zuckerberg announced that he and his wife are expecting a baby girl, but also noted that she had undergone several miscarriages. Last week, celebrities Tyra Banks, Chrissy Teigen, and Gabrielle Union opened up to the media about their struggles with infertility. Tyra and Chrissy apparently discussed infertility and IVF on the program FABLife today, and though I haven't seen the segment (since I don't have cable), I hope to find a way to watch it. I am thrilled about these developments (although obviously I'm not thrilled that *anyone* had to go through this battle.) On the other hand, I have an issue with something that Tyra said. Her FB feed posted the following:

"I can’t believe that I’m talking about how all of this personally affects me Monday on my new show FABLifeShow but I hope that by sharing my story, I give someone the strength and courage that all your stories have given me. As women we shouldn’t feel ashamed or pressured to talk about plans for a family. But we shouldn't feel pressured to either. We need a space where we can really help each other – and most importantly listen to each other – because a lot of social media is about snap judgments and being well...judgy and just assuming things. The questions hurt. Why? Because you never know what someone may be going through. So you know what? Let’s ‪#‎StopAsking‬."

I wasn't sure at first why this bothered me. I mean, I completely agree that women shouldn't feel ashamed to talk about family plans. I also agree that sometimes people act like your reproductive choices are everyone's business, and they really, really, really aren't.

You know what, though, I don't think not asking is the answer either. I'm worried that the message that gets received is that we shouldn't talk about these things or bring them up. Yes, I've had experiences where people asked about our family plans, and the end result was pressure to discuss my private matters. On the other hand, I've had people ask questions which gave me the opportunity to open up in a way I hadn't been able to before. Usually the key factor in whether it's a negative or a positive interaction is context: What is the context of our relationship and what is the context of our conversation? If you're asking because you are curious or you feel like I 'ought' to be pregnant by now, chances are that the conversation will not be positive, but if you ask as my friend, I will feel safe to share my journey, and that's a good thing.

All that to say, I don't think the message should be "Stop Asking" but rather "Think Before You Ask". Think about whether you actually know this person and whether you are ready to potentially share their burdens with them. Think about whether you are asking out of a desire to be a loving friend or whether you are just merely curious. Think about whether you're in a situation where this person might feel comfortable sharing a struggle with infertility, miscarriages, or any other reason why they may not have chosen to have children yet or whether the setting is not conducive to a heart-to-heart (e.g., the person is working - happens to me all the time! - or you're at a family event with several others looking on... you get the drift). Don't be afraid, however, of bringing up something that's hard to talk about. Chances are, someone out there is longing to open up to someone who really does care.

ETA: I'm linking this post up with Amateur Nester's infertility link-up. Go check her out, as well as some other infertility bloggers.

Two Years

As I wrote a few weeks ago, last month marked two years in our journey to have a child. The thing is, it's easy to rationalize, to say that two years isn't a whole lot of time. Yet, any time you peruse a TTC board (that's “Trying To Conceive” for the uninitiated), you'll see people ranting about not getting pregnant within the first three months or so. Two years may not be a long time in comparison to your whole life, but it feels like a long time, especially when you're watching your dreams of a big family dwindle. If it takes two years for one child, will there be time to have a second? Two years is longer than Gil and I dated before we became engaged. It's half of the time Canadian teenagers spend in high school. It's one month shy of the amount of time I was in graduate school for my M.A., and several months longer than my degree program will be this time around. It's 730 days or 104 weeks, essentially 2.5 pregnancies, back-to-back, and you feel that when you start to see people who were pregnant when you started trying announce that their second child is on the way. In the time since we've started trying, I've welcomed a niece and nephew, attended at least four weddings (though I may be forgetting someone), traveled to New York and Dominican Republic and Texas, watched a World Cup Tournament from start to finish, put my Ottawa condo on the market and sold it after six months, applied to a Master's program and completed more than half of it, and the list goes on. I've cried with friends who lost their fathers and mothers, and been reminded of how short life actually is. John Lennon said that “Life is what happens when you're busy making other plans,” so I guess that's all the life that happened while I planned and hoped and yearned for a baby. Two years hurts.

The truth is that I feel like in these two years, or at least in the last year and a bit since infertility came into the picture, life has happened to us. It's impossible not to feel like you're in limbo, waiting for your life to start.

On the other hand, as I've neared the two-year mark, something happened. I started feeling a little better. A friend told me once that she found the one-year mark the hardest, and I didn't understand, but now I sort of do. By two years, you can finally resign the idea that you have any control over the process. If I did, I'd have a child by now. I can sit back a little and realize that I really cannot control my life. It's a hard lesson to learn, and I am sad that I had to learn it this way, but I guess I have. Someone remarked on an infertility message board lately that I seemed relaxed about the process, and I balked, but I suppose it's true. I've abandoned the temperature-taking, charting, symptom-obsessing behaviour that I had a year ago because it led me down the road of thinking I had some inkling of control over an uncontrollable situation. I've abandoned the obsessive planning because I can't figure out the future, or rather the future that I planned has become obsolete. Is this healthy or does it mean resignation to failure? I don't know. For the right now, though, it's all I can handle.

How have I changed in the past two years? That's hard to answer. I've definitely become a sadder person, one more prone to bitterness, which I fight every day. I feel like I've lost friends because I couldn't handle pretending that I'm okay. It's easy to look back on the person I was and mourn for the optimism that was lost. On the other hand, as I've mentioned before, I think I'm more compassionate to those in difficult situations. At least, I hope I am. I've lost some of my inner control freak, and that is probably healthier for the long run. I've become more open about my struggle in hopes to help others. In the long run, if I ever become a mother, I hope that I'll look back on this time and remember not just turmoil (though there was a lot of that), but also growth and friendship and love that kept me going. I hope I'll be able to say I came out of infertility a stronger person and maybe even be thankful a little for it. That day is not today, when my arms still long for a little one to hold, and my heart still aches on a daily basis... but maybe it will be one day.

ETA: This post has been linked up with Amateur Nester here.

Not Today

In mid-July of 2013, Gill and I started our journey to become parents. Without going into too much unnecessary detail, today it became clear that two years have gone by without a pregnancy. I have a myriad of thoughts about this depressing anniversary, which I'll be sharing later on when I've processed things a little more, but today, I am sad. Today, I am grieving. Today, I will let myself feel the heartache that is overwhelming, in hopes that tomorrow I can find that sliver of hope to keep going. If you happen to know me in 'real life', I could use a hug.

Advocating for the Infertile: When Church Hurts

I don't know about others, but I have a hard time talking about my infertility, and I suspect I'm not alone. It's personal. It's painful. It's somehow an invitation for unsolicited advice and pat answers. Yet.... if no one talks about infertility, it remains taboo. If no one talks about it, how can I expect others to become comfortable with the subject. I'm torn at how to respect my own privacy and yet open the doors to conversation, but I'm hoping to write a few posts on the topic and see where it goes.

I had an awful time at church yesterday. For the past few months, crying at church has become the new normal. I get in there and start singing, and the waterworks just flow. "Because He Lives" is the absolute worst. When the second verse starts up with, "How sweet to hold a newborn baby," there is just no stopping the tears. Up until now, however, I've managed to hold myself together, at least a little. I've never had to physically leave. Yesterday was a turning point, and the worst part of it was, it did not have to be this way.

We've been going through this prayer guide for Lent, and every Sunday a few members of the staff go up and lead prayer on that day's topic. Yesterday's topic was children. There were three men on the platform and they invited a friend of mine, a staff member and the mother of a toddler, to come up and join them. The last words I heard was, "Because there's something so special about the heart of a mother," and then, without thinking, I stood up, left Gil sitting on the pew, and hightailed it to the washroom. I wept in the stall for a few minutes, thought I was done, went out to the lobby and just couldn't hold it together. Both my boss and our custodian saw me wailing. Not my finest moment.

The thing is, I don't expect everyone to constantly watch their words because there may be an infertile person among us. I really don't. This is church, however. It's supposed to be the refuge for the heavy-hearted, the place I go to for comfort, not a place that drives me towards needing comfort. Why is it necessary to talk about the "heart of a mother", as though only mothers have compassionate hearts?

Eventually, I went back in, sat through the sermon, and went home to grumble to my husband. Typically, I would have stopped there, but I didn't want to. Why? Because people need to know that their word choice hurts. People have to understand that glorification of motherhood in the church is deeply painful for childless women and men... not to mention those who are longing to marry, those with difficult relationships with their parents, those who have given up a child to adoption, etc., etc. It's not okay to just brush past it. So I did what I could: I wrote a firmly-worded comment to the church, letting them know that this kind of word choice is hurtful and alienating. We'll see where it goes, but I'm glad I took a moment to stand up for the infertile among us. Someone needs to speak for us. Maybe that person is me.

It Doesn't Get Easier

The other night, I was watching television and ended up full-on weeping. Like tears streaming down my face, nose running, etc.. It was awful. What were we watching? Not Parenthood (that cry-fest) but the new show called Forever. There was an episode where Henry and Jo were investigating the death of a deposed king of a (fictional) country. They interviewed the man's wife, and she spoke emotionally about how it turned out they could not have children. Even though it had been decades, she still spoke with obvious pain about finding out she was infertile. Friends, I know television is not real, but this program killed me.

As we've gotten further along in our infertility journey, I keep hoping in vain that I'll wake up and feel better about it. That I'll stop wanting it so badly, the way I stopped wanting to go to law school or play keyboards in a band (yes, really). It doesn't seem to happen that way. Some things do get easier. I stopped obsessing over random symptoms ages ago, which is helpful to my mental health. I rarely cry when some well-meaning acquaintance asks me when we're going to have kids, but the ache is there every day. I never close my eyes at night without thinking and praying and wishing for a child.

I can't help thinking that ten years from now, twenty-five years from now, fifty years from now, this ache will still be there. It's gotten harder to believe that we might conceive or adopt a child, but even if we do, I'd imagine the longing and grief of this period will be hard to forget. Thirteen years ago this week, I was a lost and angry young lady, alone in a foreign land with my family falling to pieces around me, and I grasped at a light. I sought for God and found Him. But when I think of that time, it still hurts. I cannot forget the sense of being adrift and alone. Time provides perspective, but it doesn't heal all wounds, no matter what the saying claims. I can only grasp at hope that the light is coming soon this time around.

Source: https://www.pinterest.com/pin/470485492298261649/

How Infertilty Has Changed Me

I actually wrote this piece in July, anticipating our one-year anniversary of trying, but have been back and forth on whether I wanted to post it or had more to say.  After an emotional day (for no real reason, just because), I've decided it should go up.  Please excuse the length.

When I was 14, I wrote a short story in which a teenage boy witnessed his female friend slowly lose her personality, while her body became weaker, only to realize that her boyfriend was an alien who was slowly sucking out her soul. (Spoiler alert: She died in the end.) I'm not sure why my Grade 9 self was so morbid, but in retrospect, it seems my story from half a lifetime ago mirrored my life to come. Truly, sometimes it feels like I've lost my personality to infertility.

Not to romanticize my former life, which had its fair share of sad and frustrated moments, but I really was a vibrant, interesting person at one time. I mean, I got to brief generals and the chief of staff to a cabinet minister at my job. One year, I traveled to Hawaii AND South Africa. I learned languages, led youth groups, and had fun and crazy girls nights with friends that involved photo scavenger hunts and corn mazes. I think it's safe to say that I was fun once. Now it feels like my whole life is ultrasounds, blood tests, and waiting for ovulation. My mood is dictated by whatever hormones are being pumped into my body this week (either naturally or through supplements), and the simplest things like seeing a cute baby in a store can set me into a day-long slump. I cry at everything. I hate this person that I have become.

Probably the worst part of the emotional fall-out is that it is so hard to share joy with others. I want so badly to rejoice at pregnancy announcements and new babies, but it is hard. I have pulled so many brave faces that sometimes I am not sure what I actually look like any more. I know, logically, that it isn't like there are only so many babies to go around, but sometimes when I see another pregnancy announcement online, it is like a physical punch to the gut of “Once again, it's not me.” As a friend once said: “You are happy for them, but sad for you.” Sometimes, though, I am so sad for me that whatever happiness is underneath, it just can't get to the surface. As much as I know this is normal, and I have heard it from infertile women of all stripes, there is no way not to feel like the world's most selfish person.

On top of the inner guilt for not rejoicing with those who rejoice, you have the imposed guilt from everyone who tries to convince you to “buck up” and “be positive” and “stop saying those negative things about yourself”. So now you feel badly for being a downer, and for making everyone else sad. If infertility is one thing, it is a series of masks that you wear to pretend you aren't a mess just so you can get through that baby shower, that work day, or even just that trip to the store, without causing an incident.

In the worst moments of infertility, you feel yourself pull away. I go through days when the thought of visiting my friends back in Ottawa is unbearable, not because I don't like them, but because I know there will be subtle glances at my stomach and hints around when we will be trying. I contemplated going to the summer women's Bible study, but wondered if I could bear being around all those women, with all those potential questions. I don't call or email friends for weeks because I don't want to be a drag, and I have nothing happy to share. All I want to do is sit on my bed watching Harry Potter movies and pretend that magic is real, that one day someone will whisk me away to a special place where I will be so much more than what I am now.

On the other hand, infertility has stretched me as a person, and taught me a lot about myself. I feel like layers have been stripped off, the veneer of “successful” and “satisfied” that I felt was over my life, and I have been forced to look at what is underneath and analyze where I came from. In the first place, I've realized how much I have taken my health for granted. It's true that I've resented my body over the past year more than ever before, but I've also realized how lucky I am that this is the first time I've had to really engage with the medical system. I have never really been sick. Sure, I had pneumonia as a toddler (which was far more traumatic for my parents than for me), and mono as an adult, but aside from flus and for few minor and stupid accidents, I have only seen doctors for an annual check-up. For 32 years I took it as a given that my body would do what it was supposed to. This is a privilege that many people don't have.

In the broader scheme of things, I have come to realize how much of my life has been easy. I was born into privilege, maybe not into riches, but into a loving, middle class home where I had everything I needed and more. I might have been shy, but was also smart and articulate. I have always lived a life in which you work hard and reap the rewards. As a Christian, I do believe in my head that we cannot expect God to gives us only good and not hardship, or that I can have all my desires granted in a sinful world, but I am only just realizing that my theology and my life expectations don't match up. There have certainly been difficult times and soul searching in the past, particularly in times of family drama, but when I look back, I realize how much I have always naively believed that things will turn out in the end. Getting pregnant is the first thing that I have really “failed” at, and the first time that I have had to confront the idea that God can be good even if our longing for a baby is never granted. It is hard, but it is a lesson I will surely need to learn at some point.

I have learned again and again that I need to take care of myself. My default has always been to keep busy, so that when troubles come, I can put them aside until tomorrow. A dozen or so infertility-related breakdowns later, I am realizing that it's okay to pull back. It's okay to quit Mandarin classes for a while because medical appointments are taking over my schedule, and something's gotta give. It's okay to show up for an hour at that baby shower, and duck out early because you are hurting. I've also learned that while sometimes the resentment against my body is high, I still need to take care of my health, to exercise and rest, because it will ultimately make me feel better.

To some extent, going through infertility has shown me how much I dislike the veneer of pleasantness that we paint over ourselves in polite conversation and social media. I am still figuring out how to navigate honesty and privacy, but I hate knowing of the many Facebook pregnancy announcements I've seen, some of them must have been following difficulties like ours, but when they go out online, it makes it look like everything has always been rosy. I hate the idealized photos and snippets of family life that make everyone who is barely getting by feel like they are failing. I want to live a life – online and in person – that is more honest, where people can feel encouraged by my story instead of feeling like they have to aspire to a lifestyle that I don't even have. I want to be more real, and to find people with whom I can be real.

I'd like to be able to say that I learned how strong I really am.... but I'm not sure that's the case. I guess I have learned that whenever I think I can't make it any longer, as TobyMac says, I “get back up again.” I know that even though I loathe to think we will still be in this game a year from now, five years from now, after getting through the past thirteen months, I know that even if it takes that long, we will still keep getting up and finding joy where we can.

Tips for Interacting With Your Friends Who Struggle With Infertility (Infertility Awareness Week)

Apparently it’s Infertility Awareness Week.  I had no idea!  I found this out from my dear friend over at Mama Cravings, whose post you should check out, even though it might make you weep. You’re probably tired of my rantings about infertility, but I couldn’t resist taking the opportunity this week of awareness affords to post something that’s been on my mind for a little while. Let me first preface this with the fact that I am by no means an expert, I don't speak for everyone on this journey, and as I see how long some people have been on the infertility road, I know that I can't even imagine how much harder some people's situations have been, so please don't take my word as final. 

The more I talk about infertility with people online and off-line, the more I realize how hard it is.  It’s hard for me, because I want them to understand my struggle and come alongside me, and sometimes I’m disappointed.  It’s also hard for them, because I know many people really want to support their friends through infertility, but they don’t know how, or they feel like they aren’t able to because they have children.  I get it.  I’ve realized recently that after being married 2.5 years (as of last Tuesday – wheee!), I’m no longer able to fully relate to my single friends (the ones who want to be married) they way I used to be.  I am always looking at my single years from the standpoint of having met “that special someone”.  I remember what it’s like to be single and 28, but I don’t know what it’s like to be single in the mid-thirties, and I’d imagine that’s a big difference.  I feel like anything I say could come across as trite, and that might hold me back from saying anything at all.  But following that logic, we can’t comfort or support anyone unless we’ve had that exact experience, and I don’t think that’s the case.

There are lots of posts out there of advice on what to NOT say to someone who’s fill-in-the-blank (adopting a child, has a multi-racial family, going through infertility, experienced a miscarriage, etc.)  Sometimes those are helpful, but sometimes they leave people walking on eggshells.  So what are some basic tips for relating to your friend who is going through infertility? 

Listen:  Remember Job’s friends that came to comfort him?  At first, “when they saw him from a distance, they could hardly recognize him; they began to weep aloud, and they tore their robes and sprinkled dust on their heads.  Then they sat on the ground with him for seven days and seven nights. No one said a word to him, because they saw how great his suffering was.”  (Job 2:12-13) It was when they opened their mouths that they got into trouble.  A listening ear can convey so much more support than your words can:  “We have two ears and one mouth, so we should listen more than we say.” (Zeno of Citium).  Because I love quotations, here's another:  Stephen R. Covey said, “Most people do not listen with the intent to understand; they listen with the intent to reply.”  Don't do that.  Just listen and be there.

Ask:  Every person on this journey has different needs.  What I like might not be helpful with someone else.  Personally, I hate being told, “I know you’ll have a child one day”, because really, you don’t know that, but maybe some people find this comforting.   One person might like being asked how treatment is going, while another might want you not to bring it up.  It sounds confusing, but don’t we all have our own unique ways to respond to trials?  Instead of trying to be a mind-reader and pouring over Google, why not just ask, “Hey friend, how can I support you in this journey?” 

Don’t give advice:  While everyone is different, I have yet to meet anyone who enjoys unsolicited advice, let alone about their most private matters.  It’s especially hard when advice comes from someone who has never actually experienced infertility first hand, notwithstanding the fact that said advice usually comes from Dr. Google. 

Be sensitive:  Remember that you don’t know who is going through this, so assume that if you know someone who is in a stable relationship and of child-bearing age, there’s a chance they may be going through infertility, and be appropriately sensitive in your interactions.  Some estimates say that one in five couples deal with infertility, so that means it is affecting a lot more people than you’re aware of.  Not only that, but there may be other very personal reasons why people aren't having children.  This means that the most well-meaning question of “When will you have a baby?” might be really really hard for someone, and you won’t know it until you ask.  (Here’s a great post by Jayme about why you might not want to ask when someone is having kids.)  I’m not saying you should recoil in terror from ever asking about family plans, but it does mean you should use common sense and consider the context: 
      Consider the context of your relationship.  Are you actually friends with this person?  I personally would welcome the opportunity to discuss this journey with people who are close to me, but I don’t want to talk about it with the FedEx delivery guy, or every staff member at my work, or my Chinese teacher (already happened).  If you would never dream of telling me your own personal struggles, perhaps you shouldn’t ask a question that could delve into mine. 
     Consider the geographical context of your conversation.  Again, it’s a sensitive subject.  How would you feel if I approached you at work in the middle of your busy work day, and said, “Oh hey Bill, here are those photocopies you asked me to grab, and by the way please tell me about your deepest unfulfilled personal longing.”  Awkward much?  If you’re going to ask me a personal question (about children certainly, but also about career satisfaction, my marriage, etc.), do it someplace where we can sit down with mugs of coffee and I can open my heart if I want to.  This place should never, ever, ever be the church lobby on a Sunday.  When I attend church, I sit around other peoples’ adorable babies for over an hour, and watch their sweet little ones running around in their best clothes.  Asking how I feel about my baby plans after church is like asking how I feel about my abs after I just watched the Miss America pageant.  I feel lacking.  Thanks for rubbing that salt in my wounds.

Be the friends that have each other's back. Literally.

I don’t think we need a special vocabulary to talk to friends dealing with infertility, any more than we need to know exactly the right words to use with someone who has lost a parent or who is going through unemployment.   These statements convey more than you can ever know:  “I care about you.  I want the best for you.  I will be there for you, no matter what.”

A friend loves at all times, and a brother is born for adversity.

Proverbs 17:17

Life Update

It occurred to me that lately, I've posted a lot of book lists, along with some broody thoughts on fertility, but not too much about what's actually happening in our life, so here's a bit of an update.

In February, I posted that we were desperately in need of a vacation and were headed to Dominican Republic.  Well, we were gone for a week last month, and it was pretty darn amazing.  We stayed at an adults-only resort and spent seven blissful days taking dips in the sea, eating delicious food, and heading into the pool after the midday rush.  I read several books and Gil got a lot of rest.  Despite my husband getting an ear infection and hurting his ankle two days before we left, it was a good time and I wish we could go back again soon.

In December, I posted about PCOS.  I don't want to go into a lot of detail about my health issues on this blog as it's very personal, but as you can gather from my last post, it hasn't been the easiest journey thus far.  I've been undergoing a slew of really fun (NOT) tests, and will hopefully find out if there's anything else wrong with me and then we'll figure out where we go from here.

In terms of family, I have an adorable new nephew, Luke, who was born on March 5, while we were on vacation.  I can't post a photo as his parents are adamantly against any photos on social media.  I also have another niece or nephew coming in September as my step-sister is pregnant too, so my parents will double the number of grandchildren in 2014.  My mom also won an award for her fabulous contributions to serving in her community, so a couple of weeks ago, we had a family celebration. 

Work-wise, it's kind of same-old, same-old.  I am pondering a big change, but as it's not definite, I don't want to say anything concrete yet.  I honestly thought we would have kids by now and I would be a SAHM, but since that's not happening, it's forced me to pray and consider what else God might have for me, since I can't answer phones forever.

For the most part, life is good.  The piles of snow are finally gone from our driveway, and I've seen enough robins in the last week to know that spring is really and truly here.  Gil and I have had our struggles, but we are still finding ways to enjoy each other and laugh, and to remember that God is good.

Happy Spring!!

On How Fertility Issues Feel Like A Trip Back to Middle School

When I was in Grade 8, it seemed like all the “cool” girls were good at basketball. Maybe they had other things in common, like crimped hair (this was 1993 after all), names that started with K, and houses on the same street. Whatever it was that united the cool girls, I didn't have it and I probably never would.

I've always been a pretty determined person. When I wanted to do something or learn a new skill, I pushed myself until I accomplished it. When I felt shyness was holding me back socially, I practiced social skills. I lived in Germany when I was 21, where I chose to attend a class called “Russian for Historians”, which involved translating sentences from Russian (my fourth language) into German (my third). The first class was so difficult for me that afterwards I went into the ladies room and cried... but I didn't drop the class. I'm not trying to brag, just to explain my personality. Sometimes this intensity has been off-putting to others, but it's gotten me where I am.

None of this determination could help when I was 13 years old, an age when popularity seemed almost randomly distributed, and trying too hard was social suicide. I could watch Beverly Hills, 90210 (duh, why wouldn't you? Luke Perry was so dreamy) or beg for new clothes, but that didn't keep me from not being invited from the end of year graduation party. (True story.)

My life has been pretty good since Grade 8, so why rehash these bad memories? In some ways, the journey of trying to conceive has made me think of the Middle School popularity scene. You can try so hard, and get nothing out of it, or you can get lucky on your first month. Sure, there are ways to better your chances, such as eating well, exercising, temperature taking, and using ovulation kits, but the truth is that infertility is kind of a crap shoot. You can do everything right and never get pregnant, while some other woman smokes, drinks heavily, has no idea about her cycle, and has six kids. There's an unfairness to it all, that makes as much sense as me spending years hiding in the bathrooms during recess because my name starts with M and I lack the hand-eye coordination to do a lay-up.

I've also discovered that having no children makes me more and more of an anomaly the further I get into my 30s. This has increased the sense of being left out. I can't hang out at playgrounds to make new friends (at least not without looking like a creep). I can't commiserate on the stresses of finding a daycare or potty training. I see so many blog posts and articles shared online with tag lines like “Parents of kids will get this”. Sometimes reading my Facebook feed feels a bit like when kids in school would tell inside jokes, then say things like, “Oh, you wouldn't get it if you weren't at Kristi's house that time.” I knew a guy all through school who became a night club promoter and posts daily about his obsession with Beyonce Knowles. I read his FB feed when I need to feel like I'm not the only irresponsible non-parent in my age group. That's not to knock my friends who share these things; it's just that being 33 and childless makes me feel more and more like I'm among the stragglers waiting to be picked in gym class, hoping and praying that I won't be chosen last.

The worst part of the equation is the sense of being alone. You know know instinctively when you're being bullied at school that the worst thing you can do is cry. You have to pretend to be strong and not care. Struggling with infertility is a constant walk of pretending to have it together. No one wants to hear about your menstrual cycles and timing issues. You're afraid to share because of the dreaded “advice” that well-meaning people dole out,* and the knowledge that after you've opened your mouth, this person will watch you for signs of pregnancy and you might spend the next months, or possibly years, having to say, “Not yet” again and again.

This is a walk in which it can get hard to see if anyone listens or cares, and even of God is there for you. I'm not saying He's not. I am a Christian and I hold tight to that faith, but there are days when I feel more alone than I've ever felt before. If this is you, please don't suffer alone. You don't have to eat lunch in the girls' room. You don't have to cry alone at night and think no one can hear. If this is you, please email me at mrsdoctordear2 AT gmail.com.  The truth is, I'm not alone either.  I have some fantastic online friends that I've bonded with throughout this process, and who keep me sane on days when I am on the precipice of losing it altogether.

And if you are a parent who has never struggled with this issue, remember your a childless friends and be mindful of this divide. You may not know they are struggling. Post some cat videos online one in a while to give a respite from the baby talk. Let them in on your pregnancy and parenting struggles, but listen to their concerns too. Be there for them. It's a long and lonely road sometimes.

*I have found this article extremely helpful in covering the etiquette around infertility.

Medical Mondays: Coming Out of the (PCOS) Closet

I missed it last month, but I'm back now to link up with Medical Monday, hosted this month by Jane at From a Doctor's Wife and Emma at Your Doctor's Wife.

Today I'm getting very personal.  I try to avoid anything that brings you into the very centre of our private life, but as this issue is more about me than our marriage, I'm opening up.  In a way, I find writing about my issues is cathartic.  Disclaimer:  I'm trying not to overshare, but if you're freaked out by any mention of "lady issues", you may want to pass on this entry.

At 19 years old, I was diagnosed with Poly Cystic Ovarian Syndrome (PCOS).  I had really no idea what that meant, and as these were the days before Google, I accepted the doctor's statement that I shouldn't worry.  She put me on birth control pills to regulate my (barely existent) cycles, and I pretty much put it at the back of my mind.

Fast forward about 11 years.  When I was about to get married, I started researching PCOS, and found lots of scary stories from women who couldn't get pregnant or needed considerable interventions to have children.  (This is probably why most doctors (my hubby included) scorn WebMD and "Dr Google"!)  I became terrified that conceiving would be very difficult for us, but as we had decided to wait a year or two before trying, I again tried not to think about PCOS.

In the past few months, we've stopped using birth control to try to have a child, and my cycles have become more erratic. The last one was a full 6 weeks long.  I am becoming more and more afraid that conceiving naturally is unlikely and interventions are in our future.

PCOS is an endocrine disorder that is thought to affect 5-10% of women of reproductive age.  In layman's terms, your hormones are out of whack, which can cause anovulation (not ovulating) or irregular ovulation, acne, hirsutism AKA "excessive hairiness" (thankfully I don't have that!!), and even insulin resistance which can lead to obesity or diabetes.  I'm kind of angry that no one told me most of this when I was first diagnosed, especially the insulin resistance because it can lead to life-altering diseases.  I've found this to be a common thread in many PCOS women:  Doctors gave them the Pill to "fix things", and only later did they realize that the pills don't actually solve the problem, but only mask the symptoms.

The truth is, we don't really know how many women with PCOS are able to conceive without interventions.  Using Google or searching message boards will skew the results, since people who conceive on their own are less likely to blog or post about their pregnancy journey.  I am likely getting way ahead of myself in freaking out, but I also don't want to be taken unaware.

In the short term, I'm focusing on what I can do NOW to make my body as healthy as possible.  A good diet and regular exercise have been shown to regulate cycles, something I have definitely experienced in the past.  Because of the link between PCOS and insulin-resistance, avoiding sugar and complex carbohydrates can also have a positive link between regulating the hormone issues and increasing overall health.  (Seriously, I have the biggest sweet tooth in town; why did no doctor EVER tell me that sugar is especially bad for those with PCOS??  *Sigh*)  There are women who claim to have "cured" their hormonal imbalances just through diet and exercise.  I don't necessarily believe I can do that, but am definitely open to any change that could have a positive effect on my reproductive health.

If you have PCOS, I'd love to hear your experiences.  Has diet and exercise impacted your symptoms?  Have you had to use Clomid or Metformin to have children?