it is what it is.
A year and a half ago, I was diagnosed as infertile by my endocrinologist, after a battery of tests and examinations and years of wondering why my body didn’t act like everyone else’s. I have an autoimmune disorder that created/contributes to the problem — a disorder which I’ve likely had for more than a decade. Maybe longer.
It wasn’t the kind of thing you’d think to get tested for, or look up on the internet by name. To this day, I don’t really understand what impact it will have on my life beyond the news I received that morning. I take hormones to restore my system that leave me feeling wonky a good portion of the time. I hope they’re doing more than that.
I know my risk of cancer is high. I know my risk of diabetes is high. I know my risk of osteoporosis is high.
“Risk” is the word that seems to keep coming up. That doesn’t really inspire digging on my part, as much as it should.
It is a part of me now, though, so I should probably ask more questions, and take more proactive action to deal with everything… if that’s possible.
I should.
I really should.
And I will.
To be honest, though, all I’ve really focused on since that day is the baby thing.
The no baby thing. The babylessness.
It’s hard to explain — unless you know me well, or have known me a long time — how much of a smack to the head that news was. Why it seemed ridiculous on top of hurtful.
Why I felt like someone had taken away some part of me that already existed, rather than just telling me something wouldn’t exist in the future.
I know there are problems people have that are so much worse. Problems so bad I would be thankful to have what I have in comparison. I wouldn’t even pretend to understand what those people go through.
It’s even harder to explain — regardless of how well you know me — why the grieving has come and gone the way it has. I suppose I shouldn’t say it ever went, but it has seemed more manageable and reasonable at times. In those moments, I can focus on thinking positively and make plans to be a different kind of parent.
Lately, though?
Not so reasonable.
I think I’ve spent a month now trying to be upset about anything but infertility, because I can’t really think of another problem in my life that doesn’t have a semi-obvious (if challenging) solution. It’s so much easier to be pissed off at something I can control or change, because that means there’s an end to the anger and sadness.
A limit to what seems limitless.
Granted, the people around me are likely confused as hell as to why I’m revisiting old frustrations, but when did I ever promise to be normal?
I just can’t do that anymore, though, because it stops being a coping mechanism and starts being dishonest fairly shortly after I begin. And I’m no fan of making my friends insane.
So.
I’m still pretty angry about the diagnosis. And sad. And a little confused as to why something that wasn’t wrong to want, something I would have been good at, something I had always dreamed of… well, why it would suddenly become so complicated.
And I know it’s not the end of the world.
I know I can still have kids.
I believe I will love my adopted kids exactly the same way I would have if I’d carried them inside me for nine months. Not to mention by the time a kid shows up, my overwhelming happiness will likely cause me to explode into a million tiny pieces.
I can also assure you I will do everything in my power to make sure my babies know they are the most special, spectacular, adorable, magnificent, gifted, slightly over-encouraged little ones on the face of the planet.
I know that nothing about infertility inhibits my ability to parent. Not even a little. I’ll do my best.
What it does do, however, is make me loathe my own body, and not just because it lacks the shape I wish it had. My body is in dire need of a thousand cosmetic and internal changes, but I’d trade all the reduced inches and tighter muscles I can come up with to have that one part of me work the way it should.
What it does do is make me irrationally frustrated at people who struggle with having a second child. Second. Child.
What it does do is pound on my heart without warning when I see photos of friends in hospital beds holding tiny, shriveled gnomes in giant, soft blankets. I see their exhaustion and I long for it so much it surprises me.
What it does do is make me love and hate mommyblogs all at once. And avoid the infertility ones like the plague.
What it does do is make me lie quietly for a second when I hear the upstairs baby wake up every morning in the room above my own. She has words now.
What it does do is make me look differently at relationships, since the adoption process is something my future boy will have to be more than okay with… which includes the expense and time it will take. Am I worth that? What can I do to be worth that?
What it does do is make me frost over when people tell me it’s not the end of the world. Of course it isn’t. Of course it isn’t. Only the end of the world is the end of the world, and if that was the only measure for grieving, then no one should be doing anything but smiling like the sun itself was shoved up their ass. Until the world ends, that is. Then get out your Kleenex.
What it does is different every day.
I’m not really okay with it, though.
Not right now.
Overall, I know things will be fine. I just don’t like waiting to see how they will turn out, or wondering what I’ll need to do to make my dreams come true on new terms.
I would not have predicted I’d still be struggling in this particular way, all these months later.
But if there’s one thing I’ve learned from the whole journey, it’s that nothing is predictable.
I want to be more honest about it, to write more about it, to do more to figure out how this thing has taken shape in my head. I worry that I’ll end up being indulgent or boring or alienating in walking through it more openly, though, especially if you came here for a list or a laugh or something that wasn’t… well, this.
But I guess it’s MegFowler.com and not TheEternalSunshineOfMegFowler.com.
Which is a URL I should own.
And a dream of being that is really only possible if I dig into the clouds right now.
So here goes.
November 13th, 2007 at 1:30 pm
I think you are amazing and strong. I want to hear about this as much as I want to hear about all of the other things that you write, because that’s what makes your blog great. It’s you. Even if this isn’t something you would ever have chosen for you. Almost a year ago when I was getting my own whacked up hormone diagnosis, I mentioned it here, which was surprising for me. And your answer, which was surprising then but not now: That’s just the shit you have to deal with, it isn’t who you are. I’ve repeated that to myself many times since then. It’s helped. So now I give it back to you, this isn’t who you are either, just the shit you deal with. But if you are ready to talk about it, we’ll be listening.
November 13th, 2007 at 1:54 pm
What can you do to be worth that? Be yourself. It makes all the difference.
November 13th, 2007 at 1:56 pm
Meg,
For the longest time I denied that I had been struggling with depression. Not full-fledged depression, but depression nonetheless. More like Seasonal Affective Disorder. In writing about it more recently (you can read in my blog that I’ve opened up more to explain about my previous relationships and heartache, and depression), I have found peace and comfort.
I have always loved your blog, and for the longest time I also wondered when I would read a post like this one. One that shows us the inner Meg Fowler. Not that the other ones don’t, but as somebody told me once: “it’s nice to see that Super Raul is indeed just a human”. There’s a beautiful song that could be accompanying these words as I type them, from The Pretenders: “… I’m only human on the inside”.
As someone who wants to be a father, and someone who faces very unique challenges to parenthood (we can talk about it over e-mail sometime). this post really touches a nerve.
Much love from sunny Point Grey :) (although I am an East Vancouver boy).
November 13th, 2007 at 2:01 pm
SO much more compelling than an easy laugh or a choice list, Meg. YOU are so much more.
November 13th, 2007 at 2:59 pm
This was a beautiful post, Meg. While I cannot *relate* to how you are feeling, you have helped me to *understand* how you are feeling.
You are wonderful.
November 13th, 2007 at 3:26 pm
Meg, this post is so heart wrenching. It made me cry, and made me want to have a baby just so I could give it to you. I am so sorry you have to deal with this, it sucks. I expect I would cope very poorly if I were given the same diagnosis, and I think you are very strong to be able to talk about it and be so honest. I know there’s nothing any of us can say that makes this better, but know that you have touched us with your writing.
By the way, your posts that are not as light and airy as your usual fare are some of your best, and definitely not boring in the slightest.
November 13th, 2007 at 4:40 pm
I can never get over how dismissive people can be of things that other people are going through and the impulse to compare and compete. This hurts you and that is all that should matter. You have every right to grieve for the babies that you wanted to have the way you wanted to have them.
November 13th, 2007 at 5:14 pm
This is so honest and beautiful…thanks.
November 13th, 2007 at 5:56 pm
well, i have 2 things to say: first, you are “worth that” unquestionably. you don’t need to do anything, you already ARE. secondly, not that you asked, but this post is the reason i look in and read every day (more than once): honesty, integrity, and bravery. the real stuff of being human, and the beautiful gift and inspiration you offer all of us by sharing it.
November 13th, 2007 at 6:10 pm
I think it’s perfectly beautiful and yet heartbreaking too, to mourn a loss, whether realized or unrealized. I think you are brave for acknowledging your anger and all that goes along with it. Life promises us nothing. I hate that, and yet, it also goes on. I love that.
November 13th, 2007 at 6:12 pm
I love what you said about the end of the world. So often we are beat over the head with guilt because we are grieving about something that isn’t the end of the world, and like you said, OF COURSE it isn’t. But we grieve just the same. And those kinds of words don’t help. We just need help grieving. So here’s a little help: *hug* (with no great words of wisdom, just *hug*).
November 13th, 2007 at 7:46 pm
“slightly over-encouraged” made me smile. Is there such a thing?
Don’t gloss over your sadness and anger. You have every right to them. *hugs*
November 13th, 2007 at 8:14 pm
I wish there was no need for you to write a post like this, but I’d take an honest post like this over a list any day. (I like those too, but I like seeing the real Meg more.)
Hugs thru the miles.
November 13th, 2007 at 9:20 pm
Ditto Superfantastic (#7). This post is beautifully and heartbreakingly realized and you have to answer to no one for how you feel or for the fact that you grieve. How dare anyone say (or imply) this isn’t the end of the world. It may very well be the end of one world, but there are others. I’m visiting for the first time, but it’s clear that you have the love of support of many readers and friends. I add mine.
November 13th, 2007 at 11:04 pm
Hi Meg,
I am new here and certainly cannot claim to know you, but what I do know is that if you start messing about, trying to change who you are in the hopes of changing your worthiness, there is a good chance your future boy will not recognise you, his future girl.
As is, unchanged, without excuse or explanation, you are already worth all that.
November 13th, 2007 at 11:19 pm
I am speechless.
I am trying to find something to write.
I am here. I am thinking of you.
Okay here is an attempt.
You are entitled to all of your feelings. The good, the bad, the ugly.
Sharing your feelings is the new nurture.
You will create your family, no matter what shape it takes. A baby does not create a family. Love does.
Isabel
November 14th, 2007 at 12:28 am
Crap that sucks! As you tweeted, when you get emotional on your blog, some people stay 4 miles away from the scene of the crime - that’s pretty me in all my unfortunate glory. So, here’s to breaking the cycle…
Shortly after we were married, my wife’s GP told her that she had early menopause, and thus, kids were out. It hit us both hard. Harder than I would care to admit. We decided to go the adoption route. Just as we were going to adopt, we found out. Yeah, you guessed, my wife was pregnant. Didn’t think she would carry full term. Didn’t think the baby would be healthy. Today, we celebrated my son’s 6th birthday. He’s healthy. He’s a gift I don’t deserve.
Your blog post made me remember. My heart goes out to you. Thanks for sharing.
November 14th, 2007 at 12:55 am
This is one of those cases where typical one line comments just seem dumb. I’m sorry for the pain you feel and I hope that your writing about this, and sharing your feelings makes you feel less alone with your thoughts. Just don’t give up on the laughing part, because that is just as important for your health.
November 14th, 2007 at 7:21 am
It amazes me how people can hand out the platitudes and the judgments on how long grieving–grieving for anything–should take. Haven’t most people gone through anything painful in their lives?
Losing a dream, particularly a long-held and cherished dream, is like having a part of yourself ripped away. A part you can never recover. It’s worth grieving. For however long it takes. And in whatever ways it takes shape for you.
November 14th, 2007 at 7:54 am
Meg - you’re not alone in your feelings. I’ve been following a web site of a fellow in England who’s going through a similar issue. His blog is at: http://www.pluggedout.com/2007/11/
At a personal level, I’m sorry this has happened. It’s a mean mean thing that you can’t make the choice, that it’s made for you. I’m sorry this has happened to you.
You are a fine person. Loveable. Loved by your readers. And, if my DH had a brother, I’d wrap him up and send him to you as an early Christmas present.
November 14th, 2007 at 7:54 pm
Meg –
Usually, I just lurk here on your blog. I pop in and read about what you’ve got going on, but today I wanted to comment.
So, I just wanted to say: I understand.
And my heart hurts for you.
November 14th, 2007 at 9:54 pm
A heart exposed is a beautiful thing. What you did here was to show us the edges of that heart, and even that much is beautiful.
Your kids will someday be on the receiving end of that heart and will know you simply as ‘mom’. They will be as blessed as you are.
November 15th, 2007 at 1:47 am
Hi Meg,
I have a question for you… What if you had someone donate an egg for you? Could you carry a baby to term, then? I know it wouldn’t be biologically yours, but at least you could have the experience, and carry *your* baby, if that was possible.
Just a thought.
…Tan.
November 15th, 2007 at 7:49 am
Hi Tanya! Thanks for your question!
I heard you on Buzz’s show, by the way. Such an awesome story. I’m really happy for you.
My body attacks eggs, apparently, rather than carrying them properly, or would. I reject them in general… so I could produce some given a lot of treatment, potentially, but they wouldn’t be safe in there. :) And anyone else’s would experience the same fate.
I’m still not sure how all of that works, but my doc said that wasn’t an option for me.
I think if I were pregnant, I’d want it to be less of a giant financial and medical endeavour, anyway, because if it didn’t turn out, I’d feel strange that I didn’t spend that money on the adoption process to have a baby I’d love in exactly the same way.
I’m not sure how I feel about all of it, really. Lots of questions.
But I’m still working through it, so that’s ok. :)
November 19th, 2007 at 4:10 am
I think it’s great that you share your heart even if you worry about it a little. I understand the reluctance to do that, but it’s a good thing to do, I think. Hugs to you!
January 13th, 2008 at 11:18 pm
Following the twitterstream hither…
Just wanted to say that I find your candor refreshing.
Most people are unwilling to say things honestly that might not be ‘popular’ and that’s sad.
Loss is loss. You had (have?) a very real loss - and a very complicated one. One that most people won’t ever understand unless they either a) read something like this and get a glimpse of it, or b) go through it themselves.
We don’t ever really lose our pasts, what we lose is our futures. We lose our hopes and dreams when the door becomes closed to them. That is true whether it’s something someone else would want or not.
You will work through it - just as we all do whenever confronted with news that forever changes our horizons - but that doesn’t make it any easier while you are in the process.
My condolences on the loss of the experience of pregnancy - my congratulations on the courage you show in being so honest about it.
((hug))
February 21st, 2008 at 12:01 pm
Meg,
Been there done that, so trite but true. For different reasons we two as a couple were unable to have our own child. Through choices we made or didn’t make after 30 years of marriage we still have no children. We share in the joy of our friends and their children adore us.
We both still grieve the loss and the senseless one most fulfilling expectation of life that was denied us. It has made us closer in many ways as well as allowed me to grow as a person in ways of course that I wouldn’t have had this not been part of our life. I wouldn’t wish it on any.
The grief and sadness returns at the oddest times. Spring when all the mommies are showing off their tummies. I don’t do Baby showers, I cry instead at home with my husband who also cries because we are helpless to change what is. Many times we are so thankful we don’t have to deal with the teenage times and the expense and the heartache, yet we would and gladly. There is so much twisted angst within our lives that we share together.
Some losses are never over they just hide and surface when they get touched. That IS how life works, atleast for us.
I hope and pray that your decisions will bless you and carry you into a future that is fulfilling.
email with questions if any.