Be forewarned. This is a bit of a rant. This is an unapologetic, somewhat raw, honest account of my feelings from my experiences today. And not just today, but my feelings about this whole thing in general.
I haven't written in a while because, well, I just haven't felt the need, urge, or that I had anything super important to say.
That's not to say that nothing has been happening in my life. There has been plenty. School is very stressful and our sweet Maudie left us in November. But I've been too tired and stressed about school and I'm just not ready to write about Maude.
I'm otherwise generally happy. I have an awesome, creative husband who keeps me laughing. He even does the cleaning. I do the cooking. It's an arrangement that has worked out nicely.
Even though we miss our little Maudie
The thing that's prompted me to write tonight is infertility again. Sometimes, I think that if I had a terminal disease or illness, it would be easier to deal with. I think people, friends and family...no, I know people forget that I want kids and the fact that I can't will always be with me. Always. It never gets better. It doesn't change. It's a fact of my life.
Just because I'm not a complete basket case and I seem ok with it....I'm not. It's not my choice. The fact that I haven't felt compelled to write lately has been a relief to me. It means that in a way I've come to terms with the whole thing. I mean, what other choice do I really have? To just walk around sad and depressed ALL the time.? No. I've learned how to deal with it much like you have to deal with your loved one dying. It's never really ok. You learn how to be ok without that person. I learn to live with infertility. I hate it.
I guess Christmastime shines a spotlight on the whole thing. I have to go to family gatherings where the focus is all my cousins and their kids, their new babies and pregnancies right in my face. It's sitting there watching it all go on around me like a whirlwind and I'm just sitting still.
It's a cousin asking me to take a picture of her husband and their child sitting on his knee.
It's my mother taking pictures of other people's children.
A cousin talking about her upcoming maternity leave.
It's all the kids exchanging gifts. Running to their parents and happily ripping open the gift wrap. It's their parents oohing, and aahing.
It's people with kids not knowing what to talk about with me because I don't have kids. And maybe that one is only in my mind. But it sure does feel awkward. I mean, I teach 2nd grade and I have lots of funny stories. I read a lot of books. I have a vivid imagination and a great sense of humor. Surely we can find something in common. Kids aren't the only topic of conversation in the world.
And there I sit. Still. Silent. Frozen. Apart.
I endure it because that's the polite thing to do right?
What if I said, "I don't feel comfortable taking a picture of your family?" "I don't feel like being at the gathering at all." "I really don't want to watch your kid's new trick."
Can you imagine the looks I'd get?
Exactly.
See how it would be easier if I was actually sick?
People forget. People have their own issues.
So I stay quiet. Just as every other infertile person and couple do.
We're already infertile. We're already not part of the club. We already feel the stares.
The, "oh that's so sad."
Once. Just once. It would be so flippin' great if someone, anyone, just quietly whispered to me..."I'm thinking about you." "I know this is hard, but I'm glad you came." "I'm praying for you." A little sensitivity goes a long way. Especially at gatherings where my hardship is compounded and staring me in the face in a hundred little ways.
No wonder I came home today and was a little bit of a basket case. I go the whole year and am able to deal with other people's kids, pregnancies and situations. But these family gatherings can be killer.
I guess what I'm saying is, sometimes a little compassion goes a very long way. A little sympathy. A little remembering that not having kids is not my choice and it's very difficult for me. If someone would extend me a little lifeline in a room full of kids and include me. Remind me that it's really ok. That I'm not a mutant who can't have kids. That nothing is really wrong with me. That this is just how my life is working out. A little hug. A little smile. A little, I see you over there hurting and here's a little love. A little, I don't understand why either, but it's all going to be ok.
Is that so much to ask?
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