By: Jessica Taylor
Date: March 31, 2018
“I’m anxious about going through the two-week wait again,” my friend Sarah shared with me just weeks before she discovered that little Liam was on his way. We both experienced the rollercoaster of infertility, only to find ourselves pregnant around the same time; her son was born just days before my daughter, Ella.
Ella was the first to welcome a sibling, soon followed by Lucas. Then Mia became a big sister, and just a few days ago, I learned that Zoe is also expecting. One after another, the women I connected with in the online realm of infertility shared their joyful news about second pregnancies. Meanwhile, I am still grappling with my own feelings of inadequacy.
I’ve lost track of their journeys. When I congratulate them and they mention being “pleasantly surprised,” I can’t tell if they mean it happened naturally or if their treatments were unexpectedly successful. I wonder if they transferred their frozen embryos or if they are among those rare individuals who conceive without medical assistance after their first child.
I am not one of those rare cases. Instead, I belong to the group who faced primary infertility and, if I ever muster the courage to try again, will likely confront secondary infertility as well. I now understand how complex my body is, and while it’s painful to accept that I’m broken, what troubles me more is the thought of facing another round of infertility challenges. My daughter just turned two, and the trauma of my pregnancy journey still lingers, despite “only” needing three rounds of Clomid to achieve that long-awaited positive test.
That’s why I stepped away from the blogs. I don’t know what it took for my friends to achieve their second positive tests. Reliving those moments became overwhelming: the phone calls with disappointing results, the empty pregnancy tests, and the constant shifts between wild hope and crushing despair. During my pregnancy, I was often consumed by fears of what could go wrong, making the time between “I’m ready to be a mother” and cradling my baby feel like a blur of anxiety and sadness.
I feel guilty for distancing myself from those still in the trenches, yet I’m not ready to face the possibility of trying again. Right now, I’m content being a mom to one, and I struggle to envision life any other way. We aren’t actively pursuing pregnancy. There are no tests to take multiple times a day, no medications to juggle, no doctor visits or blood tests. We’re not in a cycle of hope and disappointment. In that sense, I might not be experiencing infertility, but the knowledge of it lingers.
What do you do with all that you’ve learned? As I navigated primary infertility, I often thought, at least these women have a child. At least they have had the experience of carrying life. I believed that while secondary infertility is painful, it didn’t lessen my own feelings of fear and anger about never experiencing what they had. I often scolded myself for feeling this way, as I shared in the longing for a child and the deep disappointment that comes with the realization that some things are beyond our control. I understood the frustration of being let down by one’s own body. I empathized. I truly did.
But I didn’t truly know. Primary infertility is the fear of what you may never experience. Secondary infertility, however, is the heartache of knowing what you’re missing.
For more insights, check out this excellent resource on pregnancy and home insemination from the CDC. Also, if you’re interested in boosting fertility, you might want to explore this post on fertility boosters for men. And for those considering at-home insemination, here’s a helpful kit that many have found beneficial.
In summary, while the journey through infertility can be profoundly isolating, it’s essential to acknowledge the different phases and emotions that accompany this experience. Whether grappling with the first or second round of infertility, it’s crucial to find support and understanding in the shared struggles and triumphs.
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