Without wanting to sound like a broken record, I’m going to start by saying infertility is one of the most isolating things in the world. We’ve all been there: being left out of mom groups, or not able to fully participate in discussions about pregnancies or children at all. Where do you fit in? Who can you talk to and who can be that support when in the trenches? A large number of you may not have known about your infertility until you were married and trying. Perhaps you’d heard of PCOS or endometriosis but you hoped it wouldn’t affect you, or you were told it would be handled through medicines/surgery and the all-important charting. You had your husband there during this process of trial and discovery. Can you imagine walking through an infertility diagnosis without your spouse? Having to tell a potential spouse you couldn’t have kids? It’s not something I would wish on my worst enemy, but it is something I’ve had to do, and it was perhaps the most vulnerable moments of my life, but also one of the most sanctifying and peace-filled.
I was diagnosed with a chromosomal disorder (Turner Syndrome) at age 4, and at age 19 an ultrasound confirmed I had no eggs and an underdeveloped uterus. I had never felt so alone in my life. While I had theoretically known there was little chance of me having kids, having the cold, undeniable medical confirmation felt like a death sentence to my ability to be not only a mom, but a wife in general. After all, what Catholic man would want a woman who he knew couldn’t have kids going into a marriage? I carried this shame with any guy I went on dates with, but never ended up having that conversation, mostly because even idea of saying “Hey, I can’t have kids!” scared me more than the goriest, most suspenseful horror movie ever could.
But my shame and fear were misplaced. Being vulnerable is one of the most terrifying things you can do, but infertility is not a shame, and if someone has ever made you feel less than because of it, then they are the ones who should feel guilt and shame, not you. Because your openness should only be met with more openness and acceptance.
A few years after my diagnosis, I met a man named Andrew. After a first date of mini-golf and hours talking in a cafe afterwards, we really hit it off and became exclusive a month later. Andrew told me pretty early on that one the things that mattered most in a relationship was honesty. And guess who still hadn’t told him about my infertility? I became almost sick with anxiety in trying to plan the right time to bring up perhaps one of the most difficult conversations I would have to have with a significant other. What also didn’t help was that I was getting pressure from my family to tell him because “he deserved to know” and “it’s only fair”. (Side note: please, PLEASE, be better at setting boundaries around infertility than I was for a long time.)
A couple months later, I decided on the day and planned it out: it would be out on my patio so it could just be the two of us in the fresh air. After greeting Andrew with a hug and a kiss, I asked if we could talk. And so the conversation began with a simple, if terrifying question: “Have you ever heard of Turner Syndrome?” I don’t think my heart left my throat or stopped pounding until I finished with “And so I’ll never be able to have kids” Then a deep breath before adding, “How are you feeling about everything? I want to give you time and space to process this, so please feel free to take your time, even if you have to take a few days.” The whole time, I was studying his face for any sort of confirmation of my worst fear: he was hurt and shocked that I would keep this monstrous secret from him for so long and that this was it.
While of course some surprise registered on Andy’s face, the overall expression was just of concern and even some calm. Then, “I’m so glad you told me, and I appreciate how vulnerable that was. It must have been hard.” Then the question that blew me away came, “How are you handling it?”
He had just been dealt one of the biggest dating shocks ever, and he was concerned for ME?!?! We chatted for a while more, me answering more of his questions, and just processing together. As we walked toward the cafe we had planned to get lunch at later, he then threw me for another loop: “If we’re being vulnerable, I want you to know that I have diagnosed OCD.” Andrew had not only been receptive to my openness, but he was being vulnerable too. When vulnerability is met with harshness, it can shatter any desire or hope to be vulnerable again, but vulnerability met with vulnerability is perhaps one of the most empowering, connecting things in the world.
A little over a year later, I went over to Andy’s after a rough night and early morning: a friend’s first child was being baptized and I realized I just couldn’t make it. It was the closest friend I had who had a child, and it suddenly hit me like a brick so I asked him if I could hang out at his place and talk with him. At this point, I took great pride in never having cried in front of him. That all went down the drain the minute I sat on his couch and opened my mouth. The minute I started tearing up, he wrapped his pinky around one of mine. That simple touch meant everything. Again, my vulnerability was rewarded by a simple act of love in return. And that’s what you all deserve on this journey of infertility and the messiness along that path.
I wanted to end this with a little bit of bittersweet hope in the form of some lyrics from my favorite song, The Manuscript:
And the tears fell
In synchronicity with the score
And at last
She knew what the agony had been for.
Infertility is never a cross you should feel ashamed of, or have to carry alone, whether you found out while single or in the throes of trying with your husband after something went wrong. Your significant other, your family, your friends… everyone should be able to meet you as you are in all your vulnerability. So that way, when you reflect on the hardships this and any other cross you’ve been given, you can not only see where that cross has shaped you for good, but also the people who helped you carry it.
May we all have our vulnerability respected, and please know I’m praying for you.
Comments