One of the hard parts about RPL, or probably any other not-terribly-common-but-emotionally-devastating experience, is the feeling of being alone. The feeling that no one understands what you’re going through. When well-meaning loved-ones say things like “it’ll be ok, you can always adopt” or “if you have to go through a few more miscarriages to get a good egg, so what?” or “everything happens for a reason,” it becomes extremely clear how little other people understand.
FYI, if you’re reading this blog, I want you to pinky swear, right now, that you’ll never utter any of words in quotes above to someone going through IF or RPL. If a reason exists to explain three miscarriages, $3,000 in hospital bills, and enough emotional pain that I’ve cried more in the last six months than in my entire life, it's a shitty one. If you smash your thumb with a hammer, do you tell yourself, "it happened for a reason?" No. You say a few unprintable words and feel a lot of pain. Even if it DID happen for a reason, is pointing that out in the midst of the swearing and the pain helpful? No.
In the lonely space, I’ve looked for others who can help me feel less alone. They’re out there. I wish they weren’t. I wish no one else had been through this, but even though we’re only the 1%, 1% is still a lot of couples with an unbearable number of losses. I respect every one of those ladies, I grieve for them, and I thank them for sharing so that I don’t feel so alone. I’m also trying to learn from them.
One thing I’ve noticed is how bitter some RPL survivors are. I understand it. Hearing pregnancy announcements, seeing others have what you are desperately trying for, realizing that what will cost you thousands of dollars and countless heartache comes free to women who don’t want it . . . all of that is really hard. I completely understand how those experiences breed bitterness. Every woman has the right to feel whatever she feels.
Here’s my hope for myself, though: I hope I can avoid the bitterness. Is this shit unfair? Yes! Is it awful? Yes! Has it become a huge part of my life? Unfortunately, yes. But does it eclipse all the other wonderful things in my life? I hope not.
I grew up with parents and grandparents who loved me. I have an incredible husband. I have a career that I get great satisfaction from. I get paid well. I have friends who put up with me and make me laugh. I’m able to be physically active every day. I live in a beautiful place. Even if I never get to see a heartbeat on an ultrasound, I am so fucking lucky.
I have never taken that luck for granted. I hope I never will. I hope that in those moments when the voice of bitterness kicks in, I can remember just how good things are. I’m here, in this life. I'm not a Yazidi girl being held by ISIS in Iraq, not an expectant mother with Zika in Venezuela, not any of the other horrifyingly unfair situations others are in. When it comes to unfairness, when I look at the rest of the world, I can't claim that I got the short end of the unfairness stick.
So I'm posting this today. Seven months, three losses, two surgeries, one DOR diagnosis, and thousands of dollars into this journey, I'm posting this. I'm posting it to remind my future self. Here's hoping she reads this.
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