Every Sunday, The New York Times publishes essays in its Style section, under the heading Modern Love. They’re always worth a read. I recently stumbled across this gorgeous essay about infertility, Alone on a Path Shared By Many, by Allison Amend.
Here is a woman who dealt with the blow of infertility long before she was ready to have children, but she expresses the loss and grief beautifully, and her brother’s well-meaning comments need to be added to our list of the amazing things people say.
Kudos to Allison for her frankness.
Infertility is a disease, not a lifestyle choice. Insurance companies have it all wrong. If parenting is a lifestyle choice, and infertility diagnostics and treatments aren’t to be covered by most insurance companies, let me ask this; Why is maternity covered at all? That excuse tells me that insurance companies want to only cover those who aren’t in need. I think it makes more sense to do the opposite. Cover the treatment of infertility but not maternity. Think about it, those who need medical intervention are the men and women with medical need to help achieve pregnancy. Those who don’t NEED any medical intervention are those who achieve it without aid, yet those are the only people who are covered under insurance policies. Confused yet? Me too. If only insurance companies were the only thing battling against people who struggle with infertility.
I had to have both of my fallopian tubes removed a number of years ago. This was not by choice, not at all. I often think back to that day and wish I would have just let nature take it’s course. I would have died that day, grim I know; it’s just my honest feelings about the situation. I spend too much of my life hiding my feelings about the situation to avoid making other people uncomfortable. Not very many people understand how painful it can be to go through infertility, and ask a number of innocent but hurtful questions.
“Why can’t you move on?”
“Aren’t you grateful for what you have now?”
“Why don’t you just adopt?”
It took me years, but I think I have finally found a way to explain how infertility feels to me. This may especially help those with mulitple children understand the agony that I deal with regularly. You have to go on a mental journey for a minute.
Your a mother, you have two children. You love them both very much, as any parent would. One dies suddenly and tragically. Here’s the catch; it’s possible to bring that child back. You can hold your baby one day again IF and ONLY IF you can come up with a HUGE amount of money before you hit a certain age. You’d do anything to make that happen wouldn’t you? Now here’s catch number 2. The people around you not only won’t help, but don’t understand why you would even want to have your child back.
“Why can’t you just move on?”
What would you do if someone told you that after your child passed away? Does that put in perspective how painful those innocent words can be? How inconsiderate! You’d be lucky to walk away from that situation saying it to any other mother, us infertiles just have to be a lot more understanding of people’s ignorance.
“Aren’t you grateful for what you have now?”
I have a son, I gave birth to him right after high school, before I met my husband. I love him dearly and he is the light of my life. Probably the only reason I have lived through all of this. At the same time, he wants and deserves a sibling, just the same as my husband wants and deserves to have a child of his own as well. How do you tell a mother they are not grateful for their oldest simply because they are grieving the death of their youngest? Put yourself in those shoes for a minute, really think about it. How fair are you being for expecting them to stop grieving?
“Why don’t you just adopt?”
The most common. Wow. So this one seems on the outside like no big deal. But seriously, most people won’t replace a pet immediately after their death, how do you expect me to replace a child? A child I still have some hope for coming back. The child I am grieving is the child my husband and I made together, the child with my eyes and his ears. Not to mention adoption would cost more than treatment itself. How could I live with myself knowing I didn’t use that money to bring back the child I lost all those years ago. Yes adoption is right for many people, but often those people either knew they wanted to do so long ago, or have lost hope of reviving their own child.
Hope is a cruel thing to an infertile. It dangles on a string above our head. Sometimes we can touch it, other times it’s yanked away. Hope plays this game with us, playing with our heads and our hearts until we no longer are the women we once were. We are a little more crazy now, a little more bitter. A little less social, and a little less fun.
Next time you meet an infertile women, I hope you can put yourself in these shoes to try and understand why some simple words are hurtful. Would you say that to a woman who just lost her child? No, there isn’t anything you can say to make it go away, but just making it known that you care helps. She’s upset, and that’s OKAY! She should be upset, you would be too. Don’t devalue her emotions. She’s not wrong for having them.