Some thoughts and struggles with Mother's Day.

Mother's Day has been a rough holiday for me for many years, this year was no exception. Of course everyone thinks that once you have a child this should no longer be a struggle, but the frustration and sadness over what could be doesn't seem to go away. This year has been especially rough and it got me thinking, I really wish that others could understand what things are like on my side of the fence. I found these two letters and I really want to share. Whether you know it or not at some point you will know someone that has experienced infertility or pregnancy loss or both. I thought I would share these so you don't say some of the same things that hurt so much that people are continually saying to me. I know there are only about 5 people who read my blog, but hopefully those 5 people will gain a little more understanding and have a little more compassion. I normally don't share anything this personal here, but I had to get it out somewhere since I'm still not at a point where I"m ready to talk about it very often typing seemed easier. These were not written by me, so not everything applies to every person in this boat, but it may give some perspective. What we wish you knew about pregnancy loss: A letter from women to their friends and family by Elizabeth Soutter Schwarzer I assert no copyright for the material. Please use it as you see fit to help women who have endured this terrible grief. Thank you. Date: Sat, 23 Mar 2002 When women experience the loss of a child, one of the first things they discover they have in common is a list of things they wish no one had ever said to them. The lists tend to be remarkably similar. The comments are rarely malicious - just misguided attempts to soothe. This list was compiled as a way of helping other people understand pregnancy loss. While generated by mothers for mothers, it may also apply similarly to the fathers who have endured this loss. When trying to help a woman who has lost a baby, the best rule of thumb is a matter of manners: don't offer your personal opinion of her life, her choices, her prospects for children. No woman is looking to poll her acquaintances for their opinions on why it happened or how she should cope. -Don't say, "It's God's Will." Even if we are members of the same congregation, unless you are a cleric and I am seeking your spiritual counseling, please don't presume to tell me what God wants for me. Besides, many terrible things are God's Will, that doesn't make them less terrible. -Don't say, "It was for the best - there was probably something wrong with your baby." The fact that something was wrong with the baby is what is making me so sad. My poor baby never had a chance. Please don't try to comfort me by pointing that out. -Don't say, "You can always have another one." This baby was never disposable. If had been given the choice between loosing this child or stabbing my eye out with a fork, I would have said, "Where's the fork?" I would have died for this baby, just as you would die for your children. -Don't say, "Be grateful for the children you have." If your mother died in a terrible wreck and you grieved, would that make you less grateful to have your father? -Don't say, "Thank God you lost the baby before you really loved it." aka "at least you lost it early" I loved my son or daughter. Whether I lost the baby after two weeks of pregnancy or just after birth, I loved him or her. -Don't say, "Isn't it time you got over this and moved on?" It's not something I enjoy, being grief-stricken. I wish it had never happened. But it did and it's a part of me forever. The grief will ease on its own timeline, not mine - or yours. -Don't say, "Now you have an angel watching over you." I didn't want her to be my angel. I wanted her to bury me in my old age. -Don't say, "I understand how you feel." Unless you've lost a child, you really don't understand how I feel. And even if you have lost a child, everyone experiences grief differently. -Don't tell me horror stories of your neighbor or cousin or mother who had it worse. The last thing I need to hear right now is that it is possible to have this happen six times, or that I could carry until two days before my due-date and labor 20 hours for a dead baby. These stories frighten and horrify me and leave me up at night weeping in despair. Even if they have a happy ending, do not share these stories with me. -Don't pretend it didn't happen and don't change the subject when I bring it up. If I say, "Before the baby died..." or "when I was pregnant..." don't get scared. If I'm talking about it, it means I want to. Let me. Pretending it didn't happen will only make me feel utterly alone. - Don't say, "It's not your fault." It may not have been my fault, but it was my responsibility and I failed. The fact that I never stood a chance of succeeding only makes me feel worse. This tiny little being depended upon me to bring him safely into the world and I couldn't do it. I was supposed to care for him for a lifetime, but I couldn't even give him a childhood. I am so angry at my body you just can't imagine. -Don't say, "Well, you weren't too sure about this baby, anyway." I already feel so guilty about ever having complained about morning sickness, or a child I wasn't prepared for, or another mouth to feed that we couldn't afford. I already fear that this baby died because I didn't take the vitamins, or drank too much caffiene, or had cough medicine in the first few weeks when I didn't know I was pregnant. I hate myself for any minute that I had reservations about this baby. Being unsure of my pregnancy isn't the same as wanting my child to die - I never would have chosen for this to happen. -Do say, "I am so sorry." That's enough. You don't need to be eloquent. Say it and mean it and it will matter. -Do say, "You're going to be wonderful parents some day," or "You're wonderful parents and that baby was lucky to have you." We both need to hear that. -Do say, "I have lighted a candle for your baby," or "I have said a prayer for your baby." -Do send flowers or a kind note - every one I receive makes me feel as though my baby was loved. Don't resent it if I don't respond. -Don't call more than once and don't be angry if the machine is on and I don't return your call. If we're close friends and I am not responding to your attempts to help me, please don't resent that, either. Help me by not needing anything from me for a while. If you're my boss or my co-worker: -Do recognize that I have suffered a death in my family - not a medical condition. -Do recognize that in addition to the physical after effects I may experience, I'm going to be grieving for quite some time. Please treat me as you would any person who has endured the tragic death of a loved one - I need time and space. -DO understand if I do not attend baby showers/christening/birthday parties etc. And DON'T ask why I can't come. Please don't bring your baby or toddler into the workplace. If your niece is pregnant, or your daughter just had a baby, please don't share that with me right now. It's not that I can't be happy for anyone else, it's that every smiling, cooing baby, every glowing new mother makes me ache so deep in my heart I can barely stand it. I may look okay to you, but there's a good chance that I'm still crying every day. It may be weeks before I can go a whole hour without thinking about it. You'll know when I'm ready - I'll be the one to say, "Did your daughter have her baby?" or, "How is that precious little boy of yours? I haven't seen him around the office in a while." Above all, please remember that this is the worst thing that ever happened to me. The word "miscarriage" is small and easy. But my baby's death is monolithic and awful. It's going to take me a while to figure out how to live with it. Bear with me. And to help give perspective on infertility. It is really a struggle for me sometimes when those around me assume I am so "driven" in my career that I simply don't want much of a family. And the tears, sadness, and feelings of failure don't simply go away because some one tries to tell you it isn't our fault. So this part is again not written by me and all doesn't apply to everyone but teh struggle and frustration is pretty universal: Here are the statistics: Number of women ages 15-44 with impaired fecundity (impaired ability to have children): 7.3 million Percent of women ages 15-44 with impaired fecundity: 11.8% Number of married women ages 15-44 that are infertile (unable to get pregnant for at least 12 consecutive months): 2.1 million Percent of married women ages 15-44 that are infertile: 7.4% Number of women ages 15-44 who have ever used infertility services: 7.3 million Number of couples eventually successful with fertility treatments: Estimated at between 10% and 20% I want to share my feelings about infertility with you, because I want you to understand my struggle. I know that understanding infertility is difficult; there are times when it seems even I don’t understand. This struggle has provoked intense and unfamiliar feelings in me and I fear that my reactions to these feelings might be misunderstood. I hope my ability to cope and your ability to understand will improve as I share my feelings with you. I want you to understand. You may describe me this way: obsessed, moody, helpless, depressed, envious, too serious, obnoxious, aggressive, antagonistic, and cynical. These aren't very admirable traits; no wonder your understanding of my infertility is difficult. I prefer to describe me this way: confused, rushed and impatient, afraid, isolated and alone, guilty and ashamed, angry, sad and hopeless, and unsettled. My Infertility makes me feel confused. I hope this will be a brief difficulty with a simple solution such as poor timing, but it is proving to be a longer struggle everyday. Surely if I try harder, try longer, try better and smarter, I will have a baby. My infertility makes me feel rushed and impatient. I learned of my infertility only after I’d been trying to become pregnant for some time. My life-plan suddenly is behind schedule. I had to wait to become a parent and now I must continue to wait again. I wait for medical appointments, wait for tests, wait for treatments, wait for other treatments, wait for my period not to come, wait for my partner not to be out of town and wait for pregnancy. At best, I have only twelve opportunities each year. How old will I be when I finish having my family? My infertility makes me feel afraid.Infertility is full of unknowns, and I’m frightened because I need some definite answers. How long will this last? What if I’m never a parent again? What humiliation must I endure? What pain must I suffer? Why do drugs I take to help me, make me feel worse? Why can’t my body do the things that my mind wants it to do? Why do I hurt so much? I’m afraid of my feelings, afraid of my undependable body and afraid of my future. My infertility makes me feel isolated and alone. Reminders of babies are everywhere. I must be the only one enduring this invisible curse. I stay away from others, because everything makes me hurt. No one knows how horrible my pain is. Even though I’m usually a clear thinker, I find myself being lured by superstitions and promises, I think I’m losing perspective. I fell so alone and I wonder if I’ll survive this. My infertility makes me feel guilty and ashamed. Frequently I forget that infertility is a medical problem and should be treated as one. Infertility destroys my self esteem and I feel like a failure. Why am I being punished? What did I do to deserve this? Am I not worthy of a baby? Will my partner want to remain with me if I can't have a family? Is my child going to be alone if I ever have one? Will my family be ashamed of me? It is easy to lose self confidence and feel ashamed. My infertility makes me feel angry.Everything makes me angry, and I know much of my anger is misdirected. I’m angry at my body because it has betrayed me even thought I’ve always taken care of it. I’m angry at my partner because we can’t seem to feel the same about infertility at the same time. I want and need an advocate to help me. I’m angry at my family because they’ve always sheltered and protected me from terrible pain. My younger sibling is pregnant; my mother wants a family reunion to show off her grandchildren and my grandparents want to pass down family heirlooms. I’m angry at my medical caregivers, because it seems that they control my future. They humiliate me, inflict pain on me, pry into my privacy, patronize me, and sometimes forget who I am. How can I impress on them how important parenting is to me? I’m angry at my expenses; infertility treatment is extremely expensive. My financial resources may determine my family size. My insurance company isn’t cooperative , and I must make so many sacrifices to pay the medical bills. I can’t go to a specialist, because it means more travel time, more missed work, and greater expenses. Finally, I’m angry at everyone else. Everyone has opinions about my inability to become a parent. Everyone has easy solutions. Everyone seems to know too little and say too much. My Infertility makes me feel sad and hopeless. Infertility feels like I’ve lost my future, and no one knows of my sadness. I feel hopeless; infertility robs me of my energy. I’ve never cried so much nor so easily. I’m sad that my infertility places my marriage under so much strain. I’m sad that my infertility requires me to be so self centered. I’m sad that I've ignored any friendships because this struggle hurts so much and demands so much energy. Friends with children prefer the company of other families with children (or similar numbers of children). I’m surrounded by babies, pregnant women, playgrounds, baby showers, birth stories, kids’ movies, birthday parties and much more. I feel so sad and hopeless. My infertility makes me feel unsettled. My life is on hold. Making decisions about my immediate and my long-term future seems impossible. I can’t decide about education, career, purchasing a home, pursuing a hobby, getting a pet, vacations, business trips and houseguests. The more I struggle with my infertility, the less control I have. This struggle has no timetable; the treatments have no guarantees. The only sure things are that I need to be near my partner at fertile times and near my doctor at treatment times. Should I pursue adoption? Should I take expensive drugs? Should I pursue more specialized and costly medical intervention? It feels unsettling to have no clear, easy answers or guarantees. Occasionally I feel my panic subside. I’m learning some helpful ways to cope; I’m now convinced I’m not crazy, and I believe I’ll survive. I’m learning to listen to my body and be assertive, not aggressive, about my needs. I’m realizing that good medical care and good emotional care are not necessarily found in the same place. I’m trying to be more than an infertile person gaining enthusiasm, joyfulness, and zest for life. And PS: I wish that I was able to adequately explain that just because I have a child or children already, doesn't make the desire for more children go away, just like the desire for more children doesn't go away from someone who does not struggle with infertility. Secondary infertility adds in all these feelings, plus the feelings of the child you do have asking for a sibling and worrying about them being socially "normal" as an only child. You also worry that God is keeping you from having more children because you aren't a good mom to the one you have. That's the one that will rip your heart in two and runs through primary infertility and secondary infertility, the thought that you can't get pregnant because God doesn't want you to have a baby. That goes to your very core. And, I'm posting this because at some point you may be in charge of doing something for mother's day in church. Although this is specifically written by someone with no children, it really applies to many of us who feel pain at this time of year. This year in church was especially hard for me, usually they just give out a gift to the mothers, this year they did something "special". Oh, that was great fun... Not only did they give out gifts but they decided to figure out who was the oldest, the youngest, and the mother with the most children by having folks stand up at certain times. Ya, that was painful. Not only was I not even young enough to stand up with the "young" moms, because I'm older, they all have more children than I do. Yup, I get that it's not a contest, but it's pretty hard to swallow when you've been trying to get pregnant longer than these folks have even been out of middle school. When one of the moms there has two kids and you TAUGHT her in high school. So please, if you think you may ever be in charge of a church meeting like this, please read this and have some compassion. I promise there is someone there struggling who just wants to crawl away and cry. Sadly, in my ward I know I'm not the only one. But at least the other lady who has a similar situation to me is finally pregnant with her second. And of course I"m happy for her, just still sad for me. http://messymiddle.com/2012/05/10/an-open-letter-to-pastors-a-non-mom-speaks-about-mothers-day/ I know it's a long read, and if you made it this far, kudos to you. Hopefully you can have a little more understanding of folks around you who are having a hard time. I don't want pitty or anyone to feel bad I just want others to understand. I'm having a rough time and this is part of the healing process for me. This mother's day marked the due date of the baby I lost last fall. It marks the 3 year mark of us trying to have another. I realize and tell myself that it took 5 years to get Garrison, and anything that happens faster than that is really a blessing. But it doesn't make the waiting and dissapointment any easier. I am happy for those around me who get to have the joy of adding children to their family, but it is difficult to deal with when it doesn't happen for me as easily. I wouldn't wish this trail on my worst enemy, but I'm sorry if I'm not able to show happiness for others in a way those around me can understand.