The thought of facing the two-week wait again filled my friend, Jenna, with anxiety just weeks before she learned she was expecting little Oliver. After enduring what felt like an endless struggle with infertility, both of us found out we were pregnant in quick succession, with Jenna’s son arriving just days after my own daughter, Mia.
Before long, Jacob became a big brother, followed closely by Ethan. Then came Lily, and just recently, Emma joined the ranks of big sisters. One by one, the women I connected with in the online infertility community have revealed their second pregnancies. Meanwhile, I remain in a state of emotional turmoil, feeling lost and broken.
I’ve lost track of their journeys. When I offer my congratulations, they often mention they were “pleasantly surprised.” I can’t decipher if that means their pregnancies came about naturally or if the treatments yielded unexpected success. Did they successfully use their frozen embryos, or are they among the rare few who conceive without medical assistance after their first child?
I am not one of those fortunate exceptions. Alas, I find myself in the category of those who have faced primary infertility and, should I muster the courage to try again, will likely confront secondary infertility as well. I’ve come to understand just how troubled my body is, and while I’m not as distressed by the knowledge of my condition, the prospect of another arduous journey fills me with dread. My daughter recently celebrated her second birthday, and I still feel haunted by the experience of trying to conceive, despite “only” needing three cycles of Clomid to achieve that elusive positive test.
That’s precisely why I distanced myself from various blogs. I stopped tracking the stories of my friends from the online community, as it became too overwhelming to relive the painful memories. The calls from nurses with disappointing news, the endless cycle of negative pregnancy tests, and the constant battle between wild optimism and deep despair consumed me. My own pregnancy was marked by relentless anxiety over every potential worst-case scenario, making the time between saying, “I’m ready to be a mother” and finally holding my baby feel like a blur filled with worry and sadness.
While I grapple with guilt for stepping away from my fellow warriors still fighting the good fight, I’m uncertain if I’ll ever be prepared to embark on this journey again. Presently, I’m filled to the brim with joy as a mother to my only daughter, and I can’t envision my life any other way. We aren’t actively trying to conceive; there’s no testing or medication involved, and I’m not anxiously waiting for the cycle to reset. In that sense, can I truly call myself infertile?
Yet, that awareness lingers.
What can you do with all the knowledge you’ve gained?
During my battle with primary infertility, I distinctly remember thinking how fortunate those women were who had already experienced pregnancy; they understood the miracle of carrying a child. I recognized that secondary infertility could be just as painful, but it didn’t lessen my feelings of frustration and fear of never attaining that same experience. I often chastised myself for these thoughts, as I shared the sorrow of wanting a child and the crushing disappointment that comes with realizing some things in life are beyond our control. I felt the sting of being let down by my own body. I empathized and understood.
But there was a difference.
Primary infertility is the fear of what you may never experience. Secondary infertility is the heartache of knowing what you’re missing.
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Conclusion
Grappling with infertility, especially for a second time, is an emotionally taxing experience that can leave you feeling isolated. While the paths of others may lead them to joyful news, your own journey is uniquely yours, filled with its own set of challenges and heartaches.