Infertility isn't going away just because we don't talk about it.

I had a long conversation with a good friend this morning about my infertility journey. I mentioned we wanted to get SS cleared with his doctors' during a flurry of upcoming appointments so we could visit the RE and start focusing on having babies.

When I mentioned it, she said, "You know, I've never heard you talk about why you don't have kids before."

And she's right. In the almost three years we've been friends, I've never discussed the details of our journey.

I rarely ever talk about our infertility journey period. When people ask if we have kids, I simply say no. If they prompt for more, I usually find some way to dodge the conversation… we've been focused on helping take care of my nephew… we'll cross that bridge eventually… we're thinking about adoption… I just finished my education… I just started my career… While these are all true on some level, they're not the whole truth.

The whole truth has always been too personal. Too close. Too real. And most people who ask didn't  sign up for that much reality. They don't want to know that we've wanted children for years or cried our hearts out more times than I care to count. They don't want to know that I miscarried and spent weeks completely devastated. That I haven't been allowed to do IVF because it could kill me.

Just utter the words, "I can’t have kids." and see how fast conversation stops. Watch the half-horrified, awkward expressions. The uncomfortable shifting. The grasping for something to say.

We've all been conditioned to believe that fertility is one of those subjects one just doesn't open up about in polite company. In a world where most women can't even tell you where the hymen is located or name the various parts of their vaginas, getting into the nitty gritty of infertility is just too much. So when someone does bring it up, infertile folks are offered some platitude intended to make us feel better and hurry the conversation along to safer topics.

"A friend of a friend thought she couldn't have kids, then she got pregnant."

"You're still young. There's plenty of time."

"It'll happen for you. Don't worry."

 

Those platitudes fall far too short. They're unintentionally hurtful as hell, so we just don't put ourselves in a position to hear them. We continue to protect ourselves at the expense of making a very real subject a taboo.

 

I mean, no one really asks why you can't have kids or what infertility entails for any given woman suffering through it because the conversation doesn't make it that far. And that isn't because people don't care. It's simply that people don't know what to say to us, or how to act toward us.

For those who've never been there, it's hard to imagine not being able to have a child no matter how hard you try. Having kids is supposed to be natural and normal. We're taught that we grow up, and have kids with no massive effort on our parts. Our bodies are designed to have babies and it just happens. Simple.

 

When it doesn't work that way for someone… it's hard to imagine why not. It's hard to grasp that infertility might be permanent. That, just because Jane Doe overcame infertility doesn't mean Tina Doe can. It's hard to put yourself in those shoes when you don't really understand what wearing those shoes entails.

For those who have been there and now have children, it's just as difficult a subject. Those who have been there genuinely hope those who are currently there will overcome infertility. They genuinely believe that they are a walking, talking testament to the fact that all hope is not lost. And, sometimes, they genuinely don't want to relive the heartbreak they experienced, especially with someone they aren't particularly close to.

For those of us still there… well, we're just tired of hearing those platitudes. Tired of the uncomfortable shifting. The awkward, sympathetic pats. The unhelpful advice. So… we gloss over the subject to spare everyone a conversation no one really wants to have.

 

But not talking about infertility doesn't make it go away.

So those living with infertility look to one another for solace and become partners in arms. We celebrate every victory and mourn every setback or negative test together. Because who else is going to understand the complete devastation that comes after your 50^th pregnancy test says negative? Who else is going to understand your excitement when your basal body temp spikes? Or when you ovulate? Or, yes, even when Aunt Flo actually shows up on time for once?

If you haven't been there, it's hard to relate to someone in that place or to even understand what it's like to be in that place, so we've stopped trying.

And the cycle of not talking continues and everyone suffers.

I think that's unfortunate. Infertility shouldn't be something we're afraid to talk about because no one understands. It shouldn't be something we feel like we go through alone, or something we can only talk about to our other infertile friends. And that's part of why I decided to start blogging about a journey I haven't really talked about in nine years.

Because if I don't open up about it, I'm giving in to the idea that infertility should be a silent ailment that ends conversations instead of starting them. I'm perpetuating the belief that infertility is something to be whispered about but never addressed head on. We have too much of that in society already. We don't talk about things that make us uncomfortable because they make us uncomfortable. But maybe if we talked about them more, we wouldn't be so afraid of those things. And those lovely women and men dealing with those whispered-about-ailments wouldn't feel so alone.

In a world of billions, it's a damn shame anyone should feel as if they're completely alone, isolated by a condition they didn't ask for and would give anything to change if they could.

So why are we running from the conversation instead of meeting it head on?

 

When my friend today asked why I've never talk about it, I told her the truth. "I don't talk about it because I hate the things people say to me when I bring it up."

That's a sad truth. One I don't want to have to tell.So today, instead of glossing over the conversation with her,  I instead explained a little bit of what my husband and I have gone through trying to conceive. I didn't sugar coat it. I told her the ugly truth. And when I walked away, I felt lighter. Because, even though she'd never been there and couldn't really relate, she didn't offer me platitudes. She didn't get uncomfortable. We had a genuine conversation about a real issue in my life. And it was perfectly okay to do so. In fact, it was better than okay.

It was a learning experience for both of us.

 

I don't know when I'll have that type of conversation with someone else, and I can't force anyone else to have that conversation either. But what I can do is share my journey, and hope it helps, because at the end of the day, not talking about infertility should be a choice and not something that feels like a soul-sucking necessity.

 

Like I said earlier, it's not going to go away if we don't talk about it. So what do we really have to lose?

 

xoxo,

Ayden