Since going public with my infertility, many people have reached out to share their stories. After my last post, a friend of mine who I’ve known for years, sent me a long message about their struggles with infertility. I had no idea. They said, “I’m not the kind of person who will go public on this and I don’t really have anyone to share this with...” I totally know the feeling. It took us years before going public. For me, this also led to feeling invisible.
Feeling invisible is probably one of the worst feelings. You see the people around you, but they don’t see you, or at least you think they don’t see you. I’ve learned that everyone has secrets. No matter how open people are, the phrase “you never know what goes on behind closed doors” always rings true. Some secrets are bigger than others. And some of them, are simply invisible to the outside world.
As I’ve spoken more about my infertility, I’ve had wonderful authentic opportunities to speak with others who open up to me, either about infertility or about dealing with invisible illnesses - a way I've often thought of infertility. There are so many people out there suffering from invisible illnesses who look and act perfectly fine, but on the inside something is wrong. My heart aches for those in viral posts on facebook shaming people for parking in accessible parking spots when they look totally normal (and have a sticker!). I grew up with a friend with a heart problem and you wouldn’t necessarily know it by looking at her, but she needed that accessible sticker.
The thing with most other invisible illnesses is that society isn’t obsessed with them. We don’t ask each other daily why you’re not running a marathon, so if you have an invisible problem and you can’t run, it won’t really come up if you don’t want to talk about it. And if it does come up, changing the subject to why running sucks and you much prefer yoga, isn’t a flat out lie, although obviously still not easy. Unless all your friends are marathon runners, there’s no societal pressure bringing up the topic all the time.
Infertility, on the other hand…
Our society is obsessed OBSESSED with baby-making. You’re lucky if you make it a year after getting married without anyone making a comment. We got married in Israel, where I lived for 5 years (3.5 years after getting married). In Israel the comments start the day of your wedding. My husband’s uncle said to me “I’m looking forward to the bris in 10 months. And you should have twins.” In Canada, within a year it’s “are you trying yet?” (meaning, are you having unprotected sex?)
 |
| (c) Rebecca Schwartz |
Even if we wanted to talk about this invisible illness, how can we do it when there’s so much animosity or pressure for those who don’t have kids but are married for x amount of time?
And the truth is, if you pay attention, it’s not as invisible as you think. In the summer, I’ve been asked about the bruises on my stomach (fyi: “my dog jumped on me” is an excuse). I may look pregnant, but I’m just seriously bloated from all the injections and over-sized ovaries. I come into work late for 2 weeks straight almost daily. My energy is lower than usual. I change the subject every time someone mentions kids or pregnancy. I get tears in my eyes when you make fun of me for not having kids. I’m bitter and defensive and more depressed than my usual self. The signs are there.
But there’s lots that isn’t seen. Waking up at 5:30am to get the clinic to be first in line so that I can get to work on time so that no one will notice me coming in late. The anxiety and tears the first time I had to stab myself in the stomach. The pride of being awesome at stabbing myself in the stomach 3 times every evening (and then some tears sometimes). Excusing myself in work and social gatherings to go to the bathroom, not to use the toilet, but to use injections and then go back to the event as if nothing strange just happened. My husband stabbing me in the butt with the most painful shots daily for 2 weeks+ after an embryo transfer (this happened twice on Passover family camping trips in the desert, in the tent, with people calling us to come out...). Getting disappointing news at the clinic before my day even starts. The depression after miscarriages and failed embryo transfers (and somehow smiling through it so no one will know). My husband spending time in the hospital bathroom at 7am to, uh, you know, into a cup before an egg retrieval surgery (there have been 6 surgeries). Leaving the office in the middle of the afternoon to answer a phone call from the nurse on a clinic day to find out what the protocol is for the next couple days. The constant distraction. Infertility takes over my life and my mind.
Since no one can see this, no one knows about it, and then it becomes my heavy secret, and I become invisible. Because the real me is shut out by the one trying to keep this quiet. Constantly fearing that the topic will come up and I’ll have to go on defence. Not being social for this same reason.
I sometimes wish everything was on the outside. That you could see the bruises. The 30 follicles growing to reach 2cm each before the tiny eggs are sucked out of me. Maybe you’d know why I was walking funny - you would see my giant bags of marbles. If my uterus was on the outside, you would know that my lining doesn’t thicken, so you wouldn’t ask about it - just like you wouldn’t ask someone in a wheelchair when they’re running their next marathon. And everyone’s problem is different, so for some women, everything would still look normal, even if it was all on the outside.
I’m not sure if more infertiles are going to talk about it - I was silent for years - but maybe we can all work a little harder to open our eyes, be empathetic, and help those you don’t even know who are feeling invisible, be seen.
Next week I’m going to write about ways you can support infertiles, things that are helpful to say, and also what not to say. Thanks for letting me share my experiences with you.
No comments:
Post a Comment