Spring Cleaning

I'm between jobs, with a few days off, and the weather's been nice. So it seems like the right time to start some spring cleaning. You know--dust off the baseboard and moulding, rearrange the closets, wash the curtains.

My garage is in pretty good shape, except that draped under sheets is a whole mess of baby stuff some friends generously gave us about a year and a half ago. A couple strollers, a bouncy chair thing--that kind of stuff. Stuff that feels super useful when you've got a baby, but is just hogging valuable space in my garage in the meantime.

I also have a book a friend lent me about two years ago, about a woman who had trouble conceiving but eventually had children. I used to tell myself, "I'll give this book back when I get pregnant." I dreamed of attaching a cheerful note that said something like, "Thanks for the inspiration. We knew that if we just kept at it long enough, our turn would come. Thankfully, it's here!" I put the book in the closet that was going to be the baby's closet, if we ever had a baby. But I cleaned out that closet the other day, because DH and I have been unnecessarily cramming all our stuff into one small closet this whole time, preserving valuable space for a person who doesn't exist, and it could be put to better use.

So it's time to get rid of the book. Do I send it back, without the note? Do I keep holding out in the hope that someday, I'll write it? And what if we don't have kids at all? Do I return the strollers and bouncy chair? Do I ever admit out loud, "Thanks, but we don't need these things. We're not going to have kids."

I don't have to decide now. Maybe I don't have to decide ever. Leaving those things sitting in my garage doesn't make them any less wasted than they already are. Our friends don't need these items back. These things will not determine for us whether we have children.

And I know that one spring, when the air is losing its chill and is fresh and cool and pure, when the sun begins to shine and my rosebushes start to sprout little red leaves and children are playing in the park across the street, I will clean those things out of my garage. Maybe it will be because my kids have outgrown them. Maybe it will be because we're never going to use them. One spring, I'll know. But not this spring.

How to Tell an Infertile Person You're Pregnant

In the course of infertility, a lot of people I know have gotten pregnant. A lot. Enough that you'd think I'd be used to it, that it wouldn't hurt. But it does. Again, not that they're pregnant. But as a painful reminder that I'm not.

Some people are better at sharing the good news than others. The worst was the friend who didn't bother to tell me at all--the one I learned about on Facebook, days after my miscarriage, when what I'd buried under a rosebush still felt like a whole, true, real, complete person. The best happened just a few days ago.

Granted, I can't help but wonder if it's getting easier because I'm more used to being infertile, or because I'm not on drugs anymore, or what. And it was on email, so I didn't have to smile if I didn't feel like it. (Only I did feel like it, so that wouldn't have been a problem.)

What my friend said is, "I'm pregnant! It's exciting!" And then she said, "The fact that you aren't pregnant, after everything you've been through, totally sucks. And I really admire you for being so strong."

I guess it was the last sentence that makes the difference. Call me egotistical, but it feels good to hear, "You're so strong to have come through all this," instead of "I feel so sorry for you that you've come through all this." Maybe it's semantics, but it mattered to me. I'm tired of being pitied. It's nice to feel admired. And actually, it makes me feel stronger. Those are the gifts women give each other, babies or no.

No, I'm Not Dead

I can't believe how long it's been since I've blogged. But it's for good reason. I have good news--I am no longer struggling with infertility.

Don't get too excited! I'm not PREGNANT. I mean, that's how I always thought it would end, with the successful completion of treatment. But now I see there's something successful just about getting through the harrowing process at all.

Which I haven't. But I never believed in a pause in the struggle--these "breaks" I heard other women talk about. I just told myself, "get it over with get it over with get it over with." Get pregnant get pregnant get pregnant. Have a baby have a baby have a baby.

But then. But then you get pushed to a place that's so painful, so acute, that your mind and body--at least mine--say "No. No. You are not going to do this anymore."

So I'm not.

I'm me again. I don't lay in bed with the weight of the pain and panic of infertility heavy on my chest, crushing me. I don't cry every time I talk about what treatment is like. It doesn't hurt each time I see a friend who is pregnant, or hold a baby. Okay, lots of times it still hurts. But not every time, and I've learned to distinguish the pain of failure and being left behind--a real pain, that I'm really struggling with--from the pain of being childless, which actually has very little to do with it. Being a mom is no longer the most important thing.

Not to say that it's over. It's not over. But it's a pregnant pause. Okay, pun intended. The point is, I made a decision that I couldn't keep doing this to myself, and I'm not, and I feel better. (It probably helps that I'm not confused by fertility drugs.) I'm starting to feel unsure whether having kids is the right thing at all. And I'm feeling positive about where my life is headed--I'm starting a new, promising job soon, I love my husband, I've taken all kinds of short vacations and mini-breaks and spent time with some amazing friends lately.

Like the other night: I was having dinner with another couple who have struggled with infertility without success, and for the first time, we were talking about how great it is to not have kids--how much fun we were having as individuals and as couples, exploring things we wouldn't have the freedom to explore if we had the responsibility of children. It's nothing personal to people who do. Trust me, I'd rather be in your position. But if I'm not going to get to be, and that looks possible, at least I'm learning how to make the best of where I'm at. It isn't all bad.