Six Secret Confessions of an Infertile

by Elizabeth Walker

A couple of weeks ago, my husband, Scott, and I were interviewed by Steven Mavros of Waiting for Babies. It was a sort of pre-interview for the launch party and live taping that Maria and I will do in Philadelphia next week. (If you’re in the area, please join Maria and me in Philadelphia on August 9th for the Waiting for Babies launch party. Tickets are only $8 and include hors d’oeuvres and an open bar!)

It was the first time the two of us have been interviewed together and it was really valuable to share our story as a couple and reflect on everything we’ve been through over the past 8.5 years. I feel like we both gained more insight on how infertility affected us both individually and as a family.

It also got me thinking about all the crazy thoughts I’ve had along the way.  At the risk of sounding like infertility made me completely lose my mind, I’m sharing some secret confessions with you today. I figured I’m not alone in having some crazy or embarrassing thoughts while dealing with infertility. Maybe hearing mine will help you realize you’re not alone :).

NUMBER 1. I fantasize about finding a baby in the bushes or in the manger of a nativity scene during the month of December. I once read about a man who found a baby in the subway and eventually got to adopt it. If it happened to him, why can’t it happen to me?

NUMBER 2. I have felt extreme jealousy about the ability of Sea Monkeys to procreate. We had an aquarium of them when my nieces lived with us and there were new babies every single day. Why is it so easy for them, and so hard for me?

NUMBER 3. Likewise, when two tomato seedlings started sprouting in a dishcloth in my kitchen, I was first protective of them and then, several days later, in a fit of rage, destroyed them. Why could my twins not survive in my womb but these two little plants could spring up out of a dishrag?

NUMBER 4. I’m jealous that my friends get to hire babysitters. When I myself was in high school and a babysitter, I would fantasize of one day being the grown up and parent. The one who comes home in a glamorous dress after a night out with her adoring husband and pays the babysitter, asking what they did for fun while we were gone.

NUMBER 5. I seriously have to fight the urge to buy a baby doll every time I find myself in the baby aisle at Toys R Us. I think this also goes back to childhood and nurturing my dolls and dreaming of nurturing my own baby one day. Except that never happened. Now, I see the dolls through the cellophane windows in their boxes and long to take them home with me, knowing that that would truly be crazy and may be dangerously close to being completely unhealthy. Still, I’m tempted.

NUMBER 6. Recently, when I was walking my dog, I saw a neighbor walking down the sidewalk holding a newborn. For just a moment, I considered asking him if he’d trade me his baby for my dog.

What are your secret confessions as an infertile?

The Anchor

The Anchor
Jenny Cooke Malstrom
Poetry

Hope –

Like an anchor, they say.

Appointments. Blood tests. Ultrasounds.

Hope.

Steadfast.

Onward. Scheduling, timing, dosing.

Retrieve.

Retrieve,

Retrieve.

Transfer.

 

The anchor –

The symbol of hope.

How quickly the tides change.

Smooth seas begin to churn.

Rough, stormy red waters.

Saltwater tears; drowning.

This

anchor

feels

like

a

sinking

ship.

The waters darken, swirl, rage.

The waves crash, night after night.

Swells of tears.

 

A new day.

The sea calms.

Hope.

Still waters.

Steadfast.

Onward. Scheduling, timing, dosing, transferring, monitoring.

The anchor –

And still we hope.

A note from Jenny – We came through our diagnosis in an indirect manner, through learning about our family health history. Confirming a rare male-factor diagnosis of congenital absence of the vas deferens, we also learned of a female-factor uterine septum issue. It took over a year after our diagnosis to find providers we trusted and make a plan forward.

 

 

In the span of one calendar year, we endured:

  • A hysteroscopic surgery
  • Three rounds of IVF which included:
    • A failed IVF egg retrieval
    • A successful retrieval, using ICSI, freezing all
    • Another successful egg retrieval, using ICSI, culturing all
  • Successful fresh transfer of one embryo
  • Miscarriage at 6 weeks

 I love the symbol of the anchor, but have often thought about the paradoxical nature of it. How can something so heavy, so cumbersome, also signify something so light and enduring?

This work reflects my thoughts on our journey thus far.

 

What IF?

Today, we’re sharing another piece from SEA-ART-HEAL: The ART of Infertility in Seattle. A huge thanks to Barrie Arliss and Dan Lane for submitting this piece and allowing us to keep it for our permanent collection! #artheals

What IF?
Barrie Arliss (with Dan Lane as illustrator)
graphic novel

A page from “What IF” – A graphic novel by Barrie Arliss, illustrated by Dan Lane.

1.5 years of every hippie method possible, I successfully got pregnant with one IUI. He’s perfect, and now almost 4 years old. We thought trying for a sibling would be as easy as doing that IUI…and we were wrong. I’ve heard so many stories from friends or on TV or through doctors how eventually—either with time or the right amount of persistence with treatments, I’d get this magical baby we wanted. But we never did.

2 years, 3 failed IUIs, countless cancelled cycles, 1 retrieval, 1 really horrible allergic reaction, and 3 failed IVFs later all I had at the end was 1 miscarriage. I never thought I would come out of this with nothing. After all the money and hoping and acupuncture and cutting back on running and eating more liver and so on and so forth, I thought that science would win. I hadn’t heard of the stories where people aren’t successful. Where no surprise baby suddenly happens after a year of ending treatments. No one seemed to talk about those. So the next year I did some major self care, and this graphic novel has been my outlet for healing. I may never get over the fact that we don’t have the family we dreamed of, but we’re moving on and creating this book for others who might be going through what we went through is helping.

These two pages of What IF, the graphic novel, depict the first time I had to give myself a shot of hormones for my 1st upcoming transfer. My husband wasn’t around that evening, and I thought I could do it–because I’m strong and independent and all the typical feminist stuff…but there I was, in the kitchen completely frozen with fear. If you can relate, I’m sorry and also, hugs!

Loss

Sadly, many of us have had friendships strained, or lost, as a result of our infertility. These secondary losses can be incredibly tough.

We received an art submission for our exhibit, SEA-ART-HEAL: The ART of Infertility in Seattle, that directly deals with this kind of loss. We’re sharing it in today’s post.

Have you lost a friendship as the result of your infertility? What was that experience like for you? Perhaps you would find it helpful to express those emotions through creating a piece of art, like this artist (who wishes to remain anonymous) did. If you do, we’d love for you to share it with us!

Loss
Anonymous
dress, paint

It is March. I have been bleeding more days this year than not.
My best friend, who gave me this dress, had unprotected sex
one time and got pregnant. When I also was pregnant, I could roll
my eyes at that. When I was not pregnant anymore I was
NOT OK.
I miscarried a baby that cost me thousands of dollars to get pregnant with.
“Two days ago I cried to (husband) and told him I hope I fucking miscarried so that you’d take me back.”
STOP (insert more abusive bullshit).
JUST STOP.

I lost my baby but I also lost my best friend.

Loss by Anonymous. dress, paint

 

 

The Visual Minimal – Elisa’s Story

by Elisa Fox

Miscarriage – a word that was hardly part of my vocabulary. A word I never thought would apply to ME. That’s an “other” word. You know, those things that only happen to miscellaneous “other” people, like cancer, horrific car accidents, and house fires. An improbability, but now, part of my story.

I was 24, married for three years, and happily naïve. I found myself pregnant after a couple months of trying and we were thrilled! Though it seemed unreal, I continued onward with a secret and a grin and anxiously awaited my first ultrasound. I took a couple more pregnancy tests just to be sure, and those pretty pink lines reassured me every time.

Then, I started spotting. My heart sank. I frantically searched online for answers, something that would tell me this was normal. But somehow, I knew. I knew it was ending.

A few days later, I was no longer pregnant.

There was now no due date to anticipate.

An ultrasound appointment to cancel.

Announcement gifts to return… or hide… or throw away..

My grief was crippling and confusing. How could I feel this much grief over something so short?

I tried convincing myself that it was no big deal, we’ll try again in a couple weeks, and it was my own fault for getting excited so soon. I even tried to go to work the next morning.

The next few months (who am I kidding, the next year) were a blur of depression, isolation, and heartache. Was my pregnancy even real? Was it all just a dream? I had no morning sickness, no bump, no sonogram. I was in a fog and did not know how to comprehend what was happening. All I knew is that if I became pregnant again as quickly as possible, maybe I could forget this ever happened. I was obsessed with figuring out what was wrong with me, as if answers would heal my wounded heart. I started taking every vitamin I could find and demanded my doctor test me for multiple issues. It all came back fine, to my dismay. I just wanted an answer.

Everyone around me had no trouble getting and staying pregnant, why is this happening to me?

The isolation was suffocating. Not many people knew that I was pregnant, and if they did, it didn’t seem like they knew how to respond. “At least you were only six weeks”, or, my personal favorite, “at least you know you can get pregnant.” These statements were only obvious reminders that they have no idea what I’m going through. I stayed at home as much as possible because I was terrified of losing control of my emotions. I was so fragile. A pregnancy announcement or bump picture on Facebook would send me into a malfunction for the next several weeks. Well-meaning people could easily set me off into a tailspin of sadness without even realizing it.

The days passed and I did what I needed to do to function. I set niceties aside and focused on myself. Medication, unfollowing certain people on social media, seeing a counselor, and diving into art were all part of working through my grief. It took me a long time to accept that it was OK to grieve. I had nothing to show for my pregnancy, only memories. I felt like a fraud.

Over a year had passed since my miscarriage and I found the courage to attend a local support group for pregnancy & infant loss.

I shared my story when it was my turn and saying the story out loud from beginning to end was so therapeutic. I had replayed those dark days in my head over and over, but saying it out loud provided a type of release that I can’t explain. Seeing the other families there and knowing just by their presence that we had something in common was so comforting. Seeing mothers and fathers nodding their heads and shedding tears of empathy while I told my story was incredible and so validating. I’m not a fraud, I’m not alone, and I’m not the only one who has felt this way.

Mis-Conception

Around this time I opened an online shop for my art called The Visual Minimal. I am a full time graphic designer and began making artistic prints for my own home and memorial prints for the women I met in the support group. I made the Mis-Conception print to memorialize the loss of my pregnancy, a series of pink lines representing a pregnancy test that fades in and out. It served as a validating reminder that what I went through was real and profound. That print blossomed into an Infertility&Loss series that represents all spectrums of this journey. My hope is that these prints can serve as a beacon of hope that reminds you not only of your sweet baby, but that you’re not alone.

I created the Infertility&Loss series at The Visual Minimal as a reminder that the grief this journey can bring is overwhelming, but so is God’s promise that these dark days will pass. I believe art can speak to our souls in ways words simply cannot. I would love nothing more than to use the gifts God has given me to encourage other families going through the same trials that I have experienced.

Learn more about Elisa’s artwork at https://www.thevisualminimal.com and find her on Facebook at https://www.facebook.com/TheVisualMinimal/

Redefining Infertility Success Stories

Infertility art work

Infertility success stories. We’ve all heard them. We all want to be one.

No one would argue that a journey that includes a baby and parenting is a success story. However, we at The ART of Infertility (ART of IF) believe that it’s not the only definition of infertility success.  Sometimes we find success in unexpected and beautiful ways.

In an effort to challenge perceptions of successful infertility outcomes, we’re publishing the first of what we hope will be a long line of non-traditional infertility success stories.

Reflections on Infertility Success from The ART of IF’s Elizabeth and Maria

“A successful outcome of my own experience with infertility has been the ways in which it has advanced my career. At one time, I worried about how my morning monitoring appointments might negatively affect my work. The frequency of doctor visits and the on-demand scheduling made me feel completely flaky and unreliable.”

“However, coping with my infertility by using art and writing, I started The ART of Infertility project. Working on ART of IF, I’ve had the opportunity to gather and share stories internationally. I also gained the experience in communications that allowed me to be promoted from Biomedical Photographer to Communications Specialist at The University of Michigan Medical School. I love my teams at ART of IF and at U of M and the work that I do. I wouldn’t be where I am today professionally without infertility” – Elizabeth

“When I first enrolled in college, I wanted desperately to become a physician’s assistant. In fact during high school, I spent my summer’s working at my grandfather’s urology clinic – often times accepting semen donations – an ironic memory that continues to make me laugh. Yet, as my first semester in college progressed, I found myself anxious and stressed. My science classes, while interesting, were difficult. During this time, I was also enrolled in an English writing class. Writing seemed to come naturally to me and I found happiness (and thus) success with writing.

Today, as I finish the last semester of my PhD in Rhetoric & Writing, I find myself feeling as if my higher education journey has come full circle. Studying what I call “rhetorics of infertility” and situating The ART of Infertility as a research site, I find my initial interest in health and medicine come to fruition. Here, with as a Co-Director of this project, I use our research to make arguments for more patient-centered practices of care. This work is personal and meaningful. I believe this is my new definition of success, doing work that matters and everyday has deep personal meaning. I’m pretty sure that while my infertility led me to this point, I still lucked out.” – Maria

An Infertility Success Story from Our Archive

Leanne Schuetz was diagnosed with Polycystic Ovarian Syndrome as a teenager. Even though she and her husband were in their early twenties when they began to try to conceive, it took five years, experiencing multiple miscarriages, and undergoing a series of intrauterine inseminations, before their daughter Olivia was born. While Leanne and her husband dreamed of having a lot of little ones, Olivia will be an only child.

Just over three years ago, Leanne first began creating artwork. Mixed media pieces of women who she calls “my girls”. Through this, she’s found a community outside of infertility and has truly become an artist. She’s found out first-hand how art heals. Listen to Leanne’s story, or read it, below and browse a mini gallery of her pieces to see how she’s progressed as an artist over time.

“It all started because I was really depressed because we weren’t going to do treatment again for infertility. Olivia’s going to be an only child, and I know that sounds really selfish. That we have her, you know. Like I should be so thankful that we finally had her and here I am depressed that we can’t have more kids. But I always imagined my life with lots of little ones for a really long time.”

“So, Olivia was in school full time and I still couldn’t go back to work because I wouldn’t make enough to cover the day care, even when she WAS in school. So I had all this time on my hands about what am I going to do with myself. And so, I just started doing the CitraSolv papers, which led to art journaling, which led to my girls.”

Leeanne Schuetz has used art to find out who she is outside of infertility.

“Their proportions aren’t always exactly right but that’s okay. It’s about celebrating their imperfections, and lately I’ve been thinking about, you know. I like the idea of courageous hearts – of facing where they’re at, who they are. I’m talking about them like they’re real but they’re real to me. And being okay with who they are and everything that makes them different, and special, and unique, and… Some of my girls are sad and some of them are happy. It just kind of depends on how I’m feeling that day and how they come out.”

“It’s not all about infertility. You know, some pieces definitely are because I certainly still have bad days where a pregnancy announcement will knock the wind out of me. Or the days that I remember my miscarriages and for me, I’m using art as a way to move on past infertility. It’s trying to really have a life beyond the fact that I’m infertile.”

“For so many years, I mean, years before Olivia was born, the years after Olivia was born, my whole life was revolved around infertility. So really, for me, I’m using art as a way to try to find out who I am apart from that and to discover what I like and what I don’t like.”

“I like doing mixed media, I love collage, I love acrylic paint, I love water color. I really love doing collage and I love layering. All my pieces have a lot of layers to them.”

“For the most part I never know what I’m going to make before I start. I know it’s probably going to be a girl of some sort but I don’t know who she is or what she looks like, So, just whatever I’m feeling, you know. Happier days tend to be brighter, more fun colors. I went through this phase with a lot of browns. You know, I was in a funk and I was really drawn to the browns. I love purple. Purple always ends up in my colors, I’m not really sure why.”

“I was inspired by some other artists who I met online who were really encouraging and they’ve really just been amazing. The artists online that I’m friends with, you know, because for a long time, ‘I’m not an artist, I’m not an artist,’ you know, ‘I can’t, I’m not creative, I’m not really an artist, it’s just a hobby.’”

“They’re the ones who just encouraged me saying, ‘No, you ARE an artist. This is a part of who you are and it’s okay to call yourself an artist. Even if no one ever sees your art, it’s okay to call yourself that and it’s okay to want to grow as an artist and to learn new techniques.’”

“I mean, I’m definitely a baby artist. I still have a lot to learn, but yes!”

“I’d love to be able to do some sort of workshop, teaching other women who think they can’t draw and have no skill. I’d love to be able to do something like that I’d love to, I don’t know. I have a little Etsy shop. I sell art once in a while but I know eventually I’d love to teach it to anyone who would want to learn. You know, especially I think I have a special place in my heart for people who think that they’re not artistic, for people who think they can’t do art. Because I always said I’m not artistic. My step-mom had to kind of drag me along in starting doing it and I’m really thankful for her for that because I would have never attempted it because, ‘I’m not creative’.”

“Everyone is creative. They just have to find what that is and what makes you happy, and what you like to create. And even if your art isn’t considered “good art” by anyone else, if you enjoy making it, then just keep making it.”

View more of Leanne’s work on Facebook. We’d love to hear the success, outside of becoming a parent, that has come from your own infertility journey. Share it with us and you could be featured in a future post. Help us bring inspiration and hope to others on their infertility journeys.

20 Days After Miscarriage

Today’s guest blog is from Lindsay Mader. In it, she gives us a glimpse at each of the 20 days after she learned she was miscarrying. I love this post because it’s a great reminder to us that everyone handles grief in different ways, that grief isn’t linear, and that there is no time line for grief. Thank you, Lindsay, for sharing your post with us. We wish you peace and healing as you navigate your infertility journey.
– Elizabeth

20 Days After Miscarriage

morpho-butterfly-1452254349nbz

We got the news on Friday, October 28th. That Friday is Day 1.

Day 1 – We got the bad news. We had tickets to a show we’d been looking forward to for months. We got dinner before. The hostess said “Just two?” Yup. There’s only two of us now. I cried twice while at the show. Once into Joe’s chest and once in a bathroom stall. I wanted to die.

Day 2 – I didn’t brush my hair or my teeth. I did put on pants and went outside. I cried, a lot. I ate a lot and drank lots of wine.

Day 3 – I did some cleaning. Had to get groceries in public. Made it all day, no tears.

Day 4 – Back to work. I’m glad I had the weekend to process. Cried on my way to work. Today should have been our first ultrasound. Cried three times at work. Joe makes me laugh on the darkest days.

Day 5 – I feel like I’m in a fog of sadness. This is my favorite time of year and I worry that it’s ruined.

Day 6 – I’m making a lot of terrible jokes. Guess I’m coping. Tonight, I fall asleep with tear filled eyes. So many opportunities are lost.

Day 7 – Started my morning off crying sobbing at my desk. I’m angry and I don’t know where the anger needs to go. I’m sad. Tears flow freely. My friend rolled over and hugged me. An act of kindness goes a long way. Someone knocked over my “hope” sign. That’s reflects my life pretty well today.

Day 8 – Blood draw. HCG was 12.4. I’m less pregnant each day? I guess. We did receive an Edible Arrangement from family. That was so thoughtful and made us feel so loved.

Day 9 – Fun day with Amanda! At lunch, directly next to us were two couples celebrating a pregnancy. They opened gifts at the table. Guys, I think I’m being followed by pregnant people.

Day 10 – I’m sleeping enough but I feel exhausted all the time. Doing everyday things is hard. Met with Nicole for some BFF time. I’m grateful for people who invest in me even though I’m not always the best company.

Day 11 – We met with the doctor today and determined next steps. More meds this time around but we are optimistic. Support group met today. They give me life❤

Day 12 – Election Day. I had a pretty good day.

Day 13 – My anxiety has heightened for several reasons but I’m doing better than I thought I would at this point.

Day 14 – Another good day. Spent some time with a friend who encouraged me.

Day 15 – I received surgery and transfer dates today. Also, the cost. About $6,000. The guilt I feel is heavy. I also got the news that I’m officially no longer pregnant. I got to see my Mom today! I broke down when I saw her. Overwhelmed by the cost of IVF again and that fact that I thought I’d be pregnant when I saw her next and I’m not.

Day 16 & 17 – I had a wonderful time with my Mom. It was just what I needed.

Day 18 – It’s always hard to get going after a fun weekend.

Day 19 – While struggling with my own stuff, it was brought to my attention that my infertility makes some uncomfortable. That hurts.

Day 20 – I’m hopeful. I’m excited for Christmas. Our transfer is right around the corner. Today, the clouds have lifted.

Taking a Time Out to Grieve During the Holidays – Perspectives from Elizabeth

Thanksgiving, 2009 was the last holiday before my world came crashing down. The illness and death of my sister-in-law, the relocation of three of my nieces who my husband and I had been caring for in my home, our infertility diagnosis.

I’ve been weepy the past few days. Okay, more than weepy. I’ve indulged in an ugly cry a few times. There isn’t anything current that is contributing to this. It’s like my body remembers that we’re entering the season of traumas past and is working through emotions that are rarely as close to the surface as they once were, but must need some attention.

In the months following that holiday season that everything went wrong, it wasn’t hard to grieve. It was something I did constantly, both intentionally and unintentionally. I had a play list of songs, that I’d deemed “sad” that I listened to every day on my commute to and from work. I attended therapy sessions and grief support group meetings, I told everyone who’d listen what I’d been through. I journaled. However, as time has passed, and I’ve adjusted to life without my sister-in-law, without the girls, WITH infertility, I don’t often take time out to acknowledge what I’ve been through and grieve it. Years of unsuccessful infertility treatments, the miscarriage of my twins, the strain that infertility has put on my relationships.

That last Thanksgiving, I saved the wish bone from the turkey and put it in a dish on the shelf above the sink in my kitchen. It’s been there since. There have been a few times I’ve reached inside to make sure it was still there. Traced my finger along its curves. I’ve even taken it out a time or two. It was only recently that my husband knew it was there and that I started thinking that it’s time for the wish bone to move on.

thanksgiving-art

So, I spent some time, intentionally grieving the primary and secondary losses of infertility while creating this piece. Doing so was painful, messy. I had to face emotions that aren’t pleasant and sit with them for a while. It’s a remembrance of the lives that were, a prayer for wishes long desired to come to fruition, and an acknowledgement of not just the fragility of it all, but the strength that we find in community.

While there are many things about this season that are difficult, I’m thankful for those I have in my corner, both at home and around the world, because of this infertility journey I’ve been on. I send you wishes for peace as you enter this difficult season.

Going Home with Only One: Loss when pregnant with multiples.

Today’s guest post is from Darla by way of her blog, Ten Times As Long. In it, she reflects on fears surrounding her twin pregnancy when she knows she’ll only be taking one of her daughters home. This post contains themes of loss as well as ultrasound and pregnancy photos. Thank you Darla, for letting us share your post with our community.

Friday, August 26, 2016

Fearful

(Warning: this post may get a little heavy at times, but these are the realities we’re facing.)

With only about two months to go until D-Day, it’s really starting to sink in that we’re going to be having our baby girls soon. And that we will only be bringing one of them home with us.

And y’all, I am so scared.

Not just about labor, although I have enough mom friends to be more than a little freaked out about labor and all the postpartum goodness that goes on. I’m full of so many other fears. So in an effort to alleviate some of those fears, or at least ease my mind a bit, I’m going to spell them all out here. Fully recognizing how irrational many of them are.

  • I have 8 weeks of pregnancy left, give or take. It took only about two hours for my entire world to fall apart when we found out about Cate, so 8 weeks is an eternity on that timeline, and I’m terrified that something will happen to Olivia during that eternity. My biggest fear, for whatever reason, is her getting tangled in her cord.

    olivia

    Olivia

  • I’m scared of being pregnant forever. Not literally, obviously, but longer than traditional “full term.” Not because I’m uncomfortable or TOBP (an acronym my doctor used: Tired of Being Pregnant). But because the longer I’m pregnant, the longer I’m literally carrying the weight of my dead child. Not only is there this mental weight that I’m carrying, but there’s a physical one, too, and it feels like it’s impossible to move through the grief while I’m still carrying that weight.
  • I’m scared of not being pregnant long enough. I know right now that Olivia would be in relatively good shape no matter when she comes, and really my fear isn’t about pre-term labor. It’s about saying goodbye to Cate’s physical form. I’m terrified of the moment Peter and I have to say that we’re ready to say goodbye and that they can take her from us.
  • Before we even get there, though, I’m really afraid of the what-ifs regarding Cate’s delivery in particular. Olivia’s will go as normally as a routine delivery can go. But Cate? No one can give me an answer. We don’t know how she’ll come out, no one can give us an answer on what she’ll look like. Will we even be able to hold her? Get her little hand and footprints? Will she even have hands or feet? What about her sweet face? I need something to remember her by, and while I’m sure every doctor we’ve talked to is sympathetic toward our wishes, they just can’t say for certain that we’ll get that. And it’s devastating.

    Cate.

    Cate.

  • The fear of holding my baby girl is overwhelming sometimes. Which makes me feel terrible. But I have no idea how I’m going to feel, how she’s going to look, how I’m going to react to her. So many feels, and I’m so scared that I’m just going to fall apart right when my girls need me the most.
  • Going home? With only one baby, when we were planning for two for so long? How am I going to handle this? I still walk into the nursery sometimes and think about how there should be TWO cribs in there, TWO names on the wall, TWO sets of clothes. And now we’ll have to take ONE baby out to the car in ONE carrier and put her into ONE crib that night.

    At 31 weeks.

    At 31 weeks.

  • I’m afraid this is always going to hurt. And not in the time will make it less painful way, but in the full-on, can’t catch my breath, heart breaking because Peter just asked me “why us,” feel like I’m going to fall apart way. Because I don’t know why us, and I never will. And not knowing makes it that much harder to move through this and get to the other side of the gut-wrenching pain and into the dull ache because my heart is missing a piece.
  • What if that hurt turns into full-blown PPD? I’m already at increased risk because of my general depression and anxiety. Losing part of a pregnancy only increases that risk. I’ve already requested that Peter and my mother be on close watch, as well as my therapist, but I’m so scared for myself, for Olivia, for my marriage, for everything.
  • I’m terrified that people will forget Cate. Olivia is going to bring such joy to our family, and I know we’ll all be so focused on her and on loving her. But what about Cate? She needs love, too, even though she won’t be here on earth with us. I’m scared that, as time goes on, people will forget she ever existed, and I can’t stomach that. I need to remember her, I need everyone to remember her, because she was real and was here and will always be a part of our family.

I have so much anxiety going into these last two months that it’s almost stifling at times. I feel like I can’t catch my breath, and when I do catch it and I feel normal for half a second, I feel guilty for feeling normal when none of this is normal. Peter and I met with a hospital nurse in charge of “special deliveries” earlier this week, and every time I looked over at my husband, I thought to myself, “We’re just babies ourselves; we shouldn’t be discussing burying our baby.”

To those of you who have dealt with me during these times, thank you. Thank you for the distractions, thank you for the loving messages, thank you for talking about our girls and remembering that Peter and I are the parents of two beautiful little babies. Thank you for reassuring me. Thank you for letting me talk, vent, cry, talk about morbid things like funeral arrangements with you. You are all such wonderful people, and I know our girls can feel your love all around them.

Darla began her blog, Ten Times As Long, back in 2012 as a way to cope with the sudden surge of anxiety and depression that had plagued her since high school. She found that writing about her experiences and emotions in a way that is raw, unfiltered was her way of facing her problems head-on. The blog has followed her through unemployment, marriage, infertility, pregnancy, and now pregnancy loss. As Suzanne Collins wrote in the third installment of her Hunger Games series, Mockingjay, “It takes ten times as long to put yourself back together as it does to fall apart.” This blog is Darla’s way of putting herself back together, piece by piece.

 

 

The Intern’s Perspective

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Hello all, you don’t know me but I hope by the end of the year you will. My name is Jalen Smith, I will be working with Maria and Elizabeth this year as their Social Media and Communication Intern for The ART of Infertility. I am currently an undergraduate senior studying journalism at Michigan State University in East Lansing, Michigan where I will graduate in May 2017. I come into this internship with a vast array of experience in communication/writing related positions. Here at MSU, I have worked with various campus media outlets including VOICE Magazine as their Vice President and Content Editor and The Black Sheep where I work currently as a Staff Writer. In addition to my experience in the media, I am also a member of the living learning community RISE (Residential Initiative on the Study of the Environment) program where I served as a peer mentor and working towards a minor in Environmental and Sustainability Studies in addition to my major. I am originally from Detroit, Michigan where I attended the award winning Cass Technical High School and served as a Public Affairs/Communication Officer for their Junior ROTC program

Enough about me though, I am super excited to be working with the project this year. This past weekend, I had my very first opportunity to see some of the artwork in person and truly get a feel of what this organization’s message is. The event took place at REACH Art Studio in Lansing, Michigan about a 10 minute drive from East Lansing. At first glance, the artwork was a lot to take in, I needed a moment of retreat to take in the context of the art I was seeing.

One of the many new pieces on display from Art of Infertility at the exhibit.

One of the many new pieces on display from Art of Infertility at the exhibit.

Having said that, the art was engaging, it was powerful and it was compelling. I particularly enjoyed certain key pieces that included Elizabeth’s own piece titled, “Crib with Medication Boxes.” It really spoke to me, the amount of trial and tribulations this disease has caused so many. It made me think about the families, the mothers, the fathers, that were heartbroken, made to feel “less than” because of their inability to conceive. It made me think about some of the small things in life some of us take for granted. “What comes easy for some does not come easy for others.”  A lesson in the realities of infertility for millions across this nation and quite frankly, across this planet was a hard pill to swallow. The art exhibit also had lots of other interesting pieces from many other artists and had a thought provoking outlook in the sector of cultural rhetorics.

Elizabeth Walker's piece titled, "Crib with Medication Boxes" Was one of the many featured in the show from Art of Infertility.

Elizabeth Walker’s piece titled, “Crib with Medication Boxes” Was one of the many featured in the show from ART of Infertility.

The concepts in which these rhetorics exist for me is still a confusing concept to grasp luckily Maria will be able to coach me through them this year. There are several different themes associated with the rhetorics of this event. For the Art of Infertility most of the artwork exist in three of those categories: activism, body, and unity. Activism is something that for me stands out as a core theme of this organization. The ability to spread awareness, start conversation and engage and bring together people of different backgrounds to discuss an issue that has long lasting physical, mental and emotional trauma. I’m so thankful that I have been given the opportunity to work with this team this year. To help create engaging content that will allow the voices of the voiceless to be heard. Looking forward to an academic year of purpose! Until next time! Hello again!

Maria Novotny and I discussing other artist's pieces during our visit to REACH Art Studio.

Maria Novotny and me discussing other artist’s pieces during our visit to REACH Studio Art Center.