“What I Didn’t Know” by Cindy

Well, we are 8 months into this adoption journey, and I have to admit that I feel overwhelmed a lot more than I would like to admit.

It would be easy to say that I didn’t know how hard it would be, but the truth is I did know it would be hard. I knew it would be hard, but I didn’t feel that it would be hard. The immense distinction between those two is surprising. I think that is a kind of defense mechanism – if we could actually feel it, would we still choose it?

Oh, the discussions we had. We read the scary book, we talked about the resources and support we have, we told each other that we are good partners and we could figure out anything we need to figure out. The PRIDE training we received through CAS was great. I wish everyone could take that training and gain a better understanding of the experience of kids from hard places. So, I knew that our kids would be impacted by the trauma they experienced and that they will have to process that repeatedly throughout their lives. I knew that we would have to get to know these kids as we get to know ourselves as parents. I knew that we would probably not always love being parents. I knew we would have to adapt to lifestyle changes and new priorities.

I didn’t know:

• Just how pervasively the trauma would impact on our parenting and decision-making. As much as we would like our kids to have all the experiences and relationships they deserve, their trauma means that we need to be very selective and cautious about where we take them. We don’t tell them about day trips ahead of time because we need to be able to make the decision on the day whether or not we think they can emotionally handle that stimulation. This is hard for us because we spent so many years avoiding certain events because we didn’t have children to take, and now that we have children, we are avoiding events because our family just isn’t ready, yet. Cue visceral grief over the unfairness of it all – it’s not fair that these kids have to miss out because adults in their past screwed them over, and it’s not fair that we have to miss out because biology screwed us over.
• That my default parenting style would be totally different from my ideal parenting style. This has definitely been my greatest area of frustration and growth. I thought that I would be calm, easy-going, flexible, and affectionate. It turns out that I have a subconscious belief that children should obey their parents, and I feel triggered when they question my authority or act with defiance. I want to parent with connection, but when I am triggered, I accidentally parent with anger, and anger is counter-productive to building attachment. So, yes, while parents with securely attached kids can get away with responding in anger to their kids sometimes, parents of kids with attachment disruptions or issues cannot.  We still do, of course, and if we handle it well – apologizing and taking responsibility for our feelings – we can minimize the damage done, but then we still have to deal with our guilt for flipping our lids. Cue parent-guilt to the extreme.
• How hard it would be to juggle getting things done and giving our kids the attention they need. Yes, we knew this would be difficult – all parents struggle with this on some level. I think what we didn’t know is how awful it would feel to rather wash dishes than play Barbie with our daughter. I slip into getting task-focused much more often than I thought I would. More guilt for that pile.
• How frustrating it would feel to have no control over parenting decisions made before we entered the picture. There are the big things, of course, the things that I can’t talk about, and on some level, I was prepared to be a therapeutic parent for the tough stuff. On another level, I wasn’t quite so prepared to deal with the frustration of not having had the chance to build family traditions from birth (see an upcoming post on the Easter fiasco).
• How heart-breaking it would feel to know that my kids love other moms more than they love me right now. I absolutely understand why this is the case. It is completely logical that they would have more love and trust for the caregivers they knew longer. They also feel a betrayal from losing that relationship, and so I logically know that this impacts on their ability to develop trust with me. But it still sucks. I can only hope that one day they are able to trust me as their mother. I can only hope, but I cannot expect.
• That it would be hard to love these kids sometimes. There, I said it.  Sometimes, I resent their intrusion into my space, and that is so unfair to them. They didn’t choose this – I did.  In the first few weeks, we delighted in every move they made to come closer to us.  We want them to want to be close to us and to depend on us. That is what they need for their optimal brain development. They need to have adult caregivers that they trust and depend on and that love them unconditionally, no matter what.  At first, I was able to see every opportunity to help them as an opportunity to build attachment.  Here’s the thing that I get on a logical level – kids ask us to help on things that don’t matter so they can build up enough trust in us to ask us for help with the things that do matter.  Yet, even knowing this, I feel irritated when they ask for help with things they can do on their own.  And let me just say that Irritated Cindy is no fun to be around, and I dislike myself for inflicting her on anyone. There’s another good chunk of guilt to throw on that pile.
• How much harder it would seem to have 2 instead of 1.  We thought, “Great! Insta-family! We’ll get it all done at once – it will be great!” In reality, it is literally impossible for me to give both kids all the attention they need and deserve, and there are times when they each need my full attention, but I am unable to give either of them what they need because I need to care for both of them. It is frustrating to think that if I could give this one 100% of my attention, I could deal with this situation and build connection, but I can’t do that. I love them both, and I am glad they have each other, but sometimes, I think one would be so much easier.  I cannot believe there are families out there that adopt sibling groups of 5. That is just crazy talk.
• How hard it would be to maintain healthy self-care while learning to be a parent. I do not want to admit how often John and I end the day by bingeing on junk food and Netflix. We know it is not healthy. We know we can take better care of ourselves, but it is so hard to feel motivated at the end of the day to not turn to the comfort of the couch and some carbs. We are so lucky that our kids are pretty good sleepers, and we know we should be able to take advantage of that at the end of the day, but our brains just want to shut off. We are managing to lessen our guilt by reminding ourselves that even though it feels like much longer, we have only really been parents for 8 months. John likes to say that we have twin 8-month-olds who are 7 and 3. This is a succinct way of saying we are new parents, and we really don’t know what we are doing. We hope and expect it will get easier, but in the meantime, let’s throw a little guilt over the unhealthy habits onto that guilt pile. It isn’t quite big enough, yet.
• How powerful routines would be. What a lifesaver to have a schedule to guide the day when I am feeling overwhelmed and unable to make decisions. On many days, I am only able to look at one chunk of the day at a time. I just have to make it to snack time. Then lunch time. Then snack time. Then dinner time, and then bed time.  Made it. Now, time to feel guilty for just making it through the day instead of cherishing the moments. Wow, look at the size of that guilt pile!

• That it would be the little moments that would make it all worthwhile. Like when the 7-year-old makes a joke that shows she gets our sense of humour, or when the 3-year-old sits patiently at the dinner table with his food in front of him and turns to me and says, “What grateful today, Mommy?” I thought that being called Mommy for the first time would be the most powerful moment, but it wasn’t.  It was just a word to them, so it wasn’t loaded with meaning for me when they began to use it. For me, it is these small moments when something gels just a little bit that show we are becoming a family unit.

And we are becoming a family unit. We have come a long way in 8 months.  When I think of how much has happened and how different we all are already, I am amazed that it hasn’t even been a year, yet. Still, if I had really known how difficult it would be, would I have still chosen this? On most days, I would say, “for sure”.  But there are some days when I think I was a bad choice to parent these kids, and I made a mistake in saying I could do it. Thank goodness I am not alone.

And thank goodness there are amazing resources out there to help me learn.  I have, unfortunately, wasted some time on resources that turned out to be outdated, so if I can save you some time, or you only want to read a couple of books, here are my current favourites: The Connected Child by David R. Cross, Karyn B. Purvis, and Wendy Lyons Sunshine (I actually think that this book should be included in the PRIDE training or assigned as pre-reading – although I struggle with the Christian bias, it is an amazing resource), Peaceful Parent, Happy Kids by Laura Markham (and Peaceful Parent, Happy Siblings by the same author). Karen Purvis also has a number of good Youtube videos about TBRI (Trust-Based Relational Intervention), which are worthwhile checking out.  I am also finding Diane Poole Heller’s Healing Your Attachment Wounds (which is an audio book) to be quite enlightening in helping me understand how my attachment style is impacting on my parenting style.

One step at a time.

“An Update on Fostering” by Cindy

As many of you know, at the end of August last year, we got a super exciting phone call from the Children’s Aid Society – there was a newborn who needed to be placed with a family. Just a few weeks earlier, I had told our worker that having a newborn placed with us would be a dream come true, and there it was. The timing wasn’t perfect (when is it ever?), but we had some amazing support from John’s parents, so we said yes.

There wasn’t much they could tell us about him, so we didn’t know if he was likely to become available for adoption or not. We were classified as a Foster with a View family, meaning that our ultimate goal was to adopt. The idea of this classification is to place children who are more likely to become wards of the state, and thus available for adoption, with families who are interested in adopting; the hope is that this will provide more stability for the child in the long run.

We met him in the hospital, and he was so perfectly adorable. A tiny precious being – we could not believe that we were going to be entrusted with his care. Whatever people say about how invasive they found the home study, it seems so minor in comparison to the responsibility of caring for a live vulnerable child.

The little one came home on the same day I had a little surgery on my nose (deviated septum and some rhinoplasty to enlarge my nostrils a bit… cause you would have wondered if I didn’t tell you), and our fostering adventure began.

The learning curve, as it is for all new parents, was steep. Neither of us had ever experienced sleep deprivation to that degree before, and we had many laughs (and, yes, some tears). We took turns pretending to be more asleep than the other person, but we never let that baby cry for long. One night, I was holding him in bed and he made one of those adorable baby gurgles, and before I could do a thing, a sleeping John was leaping out of bed. He seemed to simultaneously register the empty crib, the baby in my arms, and the fact that he was still moving, and he said, as his legs took him around the end of the bed, “I don’t know why I am getting out of bed.” He was back asleep long before I stopped laughing.

A sign of a rough day… many unfinished bottles and the nose sucker thing.

Over the months, we had a lot of support from a lot of people. This happy little guy met and giggled with our families at Thanksgiving and Christmas, he slept through rehearsals as I directed one play and John starred in another, and he enchanted the members of the curling club over the winter. We joked that his family would one day wonder why he seemed to have an interest in curling and musical theatre.

We tried to remember that he wasn’t ours, and in fact, there are lots of ways that we were reminded of that: forms that have to be filled out, permissions that have to be granted, innocent comments from strangers about how he looks like us or how great I looked for having such a young baby, and of course, access visits with his family. We were always Cindy and John, never Mommy and Daddy.

Still, there were moments when we hoped, just a little, that we might get to keep him.

Then, suddenly, after 6 months in our care, we learned that the court was ordering him back to his biological family. Even though we knew that was the goal of CAS all along, and that this was the most likely scenario, we were still crushed. We didn’t have any idea how to say goodbye to this little guy who had become the centre of our world. We focused on doing what we could to make things easier for him, and over the next 6 weeks of transition, we kept as positive as we could.

We are happy for his family. We know this is the right choice in this situation, and we are very proud to have been part of a case where the system worked. But our hearts are broken.

I wish it wasn’t true, but our struggle with infertility has made us particularly vulnerable to feelings of loss, and this experience has made us question what we are capable of doing as foster parents.

The Foster with a View program is a good idea in theory, but in practice, it is very hard on the foster parents who hope to adopt. We knew that going in, and we tried to keep perspective, but the thing about grief is that knowing that it is coming doesn’t stop it from coming. You still have to feel the feels. Dammit.

Going forward, we have decided we want to keep fostering, but we wish to remove the ‘intent to adopt’ from our profile. We have love and space to give, but we do not have enough reserves to go through many cycles of hope and loss. I know a Foster with a View family who has cared for nine kids, each time hoping to adopt, and each time losing the child. This does not mean that we may never adopt – it is possible that a child in our care could become available for adoption, and we could choose to go down that path, but we need our goal in this process to be clear to us – we are caregivers until the children can go home.

Of course, we have no regrets in this. We love this little guy – he gave us so much joy during the time he was with us, and the memories are precious. We will always be grateful for that experience and for the support of our families and friends during this process – all parents, biological or otherwise, need support, and we are fortunate to be connected to amazing people.

A few weeks after the little guy joined us, I posted this video talking about the joy of fostering. People asked me if they could send the video to friends who were considering fostering, and of course, I said yes (I only post things that can be shared, so share away), but I did ask people to be careful. There are times during my journey when I would not have thanked anyone for encouraging me to consider fostering or adoption, and there are a lot of reasons for that.

Fostering and adoption are not a replacement for fertility, and somehow, until you have actually dealt with infertility on a personal level, that is very difficult to understand. You may agree intellectually, but actually feeling the difference is where the reality lies. That being said, some people dive in and it works, so I wouldn’t discourage anyone from moving forward in this.  Most people know intuitively what they need, and over time, those needs may change, so I encourage patience and listening above all else.

I share our experience for three reasons: to let the people who care about us know what is going on, to maybe help prepare others who might be in the same situation or heading down the same path, and finally, to give some information to people who plan to support people like us. At least, I hope this is helpful.

We look forward to seeing what comes next, and in the meantime, we are catching up on sleep and all those home projects we forgot about when there was a baby to play with in the house.

I hope we get another call soon.

Infertility and Friendship

Here is another article I wrote for Fertility Matters: Infertility and Friendship

Being a Good Partner

Here is a another article I wrote for Fertility Matters: Being a Good Partner When Your Heart is Breaking

“When you don’t get your happy ending” by Cindy

Here is a link to a blog I wrote in 2016 for Fertility Matters Canada: http://fertilitymatters.ca/2016/08/08/dont-get-happy-ending/

I have so much more to share and write, so more soon, I hope!

“Your Infertile Friend and You” by Cindy

A few months ago, after I posted something about infertility on Facebook, a friend came to me because she wanted to know how to support family members who had just found out that they would not be able to conceive children. The fact that she reached out to me to ask this question shows how naturally strong her instincts were on this, but we talked for quite some time, and ever since then, I have been meaning to write a post about this.

The holidays can be a very tough time of year for people grieving the loss of their fertility. A year ago, the front page of our local news magazine looked like this:

It’s hard to go anywhere at this time of year and not be overwhelmed by images of happy families preparing for the holidays, and Facebook is loaded with posts about children. And then there are the family gatherings where if there isn’t a new baby to coo over, there are other children who take centre stage (as they should – I don’t want to take that away from any children, and I, too, love to coo over babies).

I tell people to skip Christmas their first year of grieving and go to Mexico, but most of us struggle to be that selfish at this time of year, so we suck it up and do the best we can (but if anyone wants to send us to Mexico…) This doesn’t mean that we can’t enjoy the holidays, it just means that it is perfectly valid for us to lower our expectations of how much we will enjoy the holidays. It is very likely there will be some tough moments mixed in with all the fun and celebration. Christmas time is almost as hard as Mother’s Day for us infertiles.

So, all that being said, this seems like a good time to talk about how to support someone going through this. Of course, my experience is not universal, and everyone responds differently to this journey, but there are a few things that seem true for many of us.

A couple of years ago, I touched on things not to say in this post, and I’m pleased to say that I enjoyed lots of chocolate and wine in response (it was not my goal, but it was a nice benefit).

Let’s start with how to respond to the news. Because we’ve moved to a new town and have started making new friends here, I have found that there is this weird kind of uncertainty zone where the topic of us not being able to have kids hasn’t come up, but I know it will, and I’m not sure how they will respond. When it finally does come out, the best response is a simple: “I’m sorry.” Express sympathy as you would if the person has just told you a loved one has died.

In fact, this is a good rule to always follow – if you wouldn’t say it to someone who has lost a loved one or who has been diagnosed with a serious illness, then don’t say it to someone experiencing the grief of infertility. Someone recently responded to our situation with the phrase, “well, everything happens for a reason”, and although I know that person truly meant well and is a kind loving person, this is a comforting phrase for the person saying it, not the person hearing it. I do not believe that my infertility happened for a reason. I believe it is an absolutely shitty situation that I have to live with, and trying to make me feel better about it sounds like you are trying to minimize my grief.

If you are open to letting that person talk about their grief, that is wonderful. You can follow your sympathy with an open-ended question like, “how are you handling that?” Avoid giving advice or telling stories about other people you know who struggled and ultimately succeeded or who are super happy with their decision to adopt. This is the time to listen and get to know this person’s experience. It’s an amazing opportunity to get to know the person better and to show you care, just by listening.

The next step is to understand that people going through this journey may need to avoid certain trigger situations. Last year, I had to say no to a family gathering because I just didn’t have the energy to deal with more than two kids at a time. I have sent my regrets to children’s birthday parties and baby showers, not because I don’t want to be there showing love for my friends and their beautiful kids, but because I don’t want to be the one holding back tears in the corner. It is important to extend invitations so that the person doesn’t feel excluded, just be open to understanding if they need to decline.

Don’t be surprised if a couple coming to terms with infertility suddenly feels a need to make some major life changes. When the infertility journey becomes final, and the couple is no longer trying to conceive by any means, a kind of identity crisis settles in. Most of us spent much of our adult lives setting up so that we could welcome children. We bought a house that we could expand in, with a room that we pictured as a nursery.  We borrowed a friend’s car seat when we were test driving new cars so we could pick a good family vehicle. When it became clear that that room was never going to be a nursery, walking by it every day just reminded us of our loss. We still struggle with the car situation, and if someone wants to trade their fun car for a family vehicle… let’s talk.

Many couples choose to move. I have even heard of couples selling their houses and going traveling for months or years. When we find we are permanently excluded from the parents’ club, there is a desire to find a way to at least try and enjoy the “freedom” that comes from being childfree. This does not mean that the couple is OK with their inability to conceive. It means they are trying their best to move on. Believe me, the grief travels with them. Some people will want to share about this grief more than others, and that is OK, too.

Part of this move may be about searching for a community of people where we don’t feel like outsiders. Do you know how hard it is to find people to hang out with when all your friends and peers have children and you don’t? A couple of weeks ago, I was excited to go to a party with new people, and somehow, I hadn’t put together that since it was starting at 5 p.m., and the people were in our age bracket, that there would be as many children as adults there. I felt a bit blindsided, and it was no one’s fault. They had no way of knowing that this could be a difficult situation for me, and really, I was grateful for the invitation.

You may think you know what your loved ones need to do to move on in this situation. You may think that if they would just adopt, they would be able to give that love to a child in need, and it would be wonderful for everyone. You might even be right, but it is not your place to say. Adoption is not a substitute for fertility. Adoption is a wonderful option for every person who has the ability and space in their life to love a child in need, and it is not reserved for the infertile. So, before you ask the question, “Why don’t you adopt?” make sure you can answer that question yourself (and even then, really, just don’t ask it).

Your friend or family member may choose to pursue adoption, and that is wonderful. The pain of their infertility will not suddenly disappear. We will always feel the loss of the experience of conceiving a child and giving birth to that unique combination of our genes. We will never get to bond with a child in utero and experience every aspect of the miracle of pregnancy. We will never get to see whether our kids get John’s blue eyes or my curly hair.

Many couples will choose to live childfree rather than pursue adoption because they have considered deeply what adoption would mean for them and they recognize that it is not what they want to do. This is a perfectly valid choice and a difficult one to make and share. There is the fear of judgment from people who do not understand that adoption is not like going to the kennel and rescuing an animal instead of going directly to a breeder. Pursuing adoption means putting your life through a scrutiny that no other parents have to endure. Anyone can get fertility treatments without having to explain their parenting philosophy, take training, or have their house examined, and the decisions you have to make when applying to adopt can be absolutely heartbreaking.

One of the trickier situations to deal with is over how to tell your infertile loved one your own wonderful news of pregnancy. How we like to receive this news varies widely from person to person, with some preferring a more personal phone call, and some preferring an email so they have time to prepare a response. Intent is the key – if you tell us with compassion in mind, we will feel it. We will be happy for you, so please do not try to diminish your own happiness because then we will feel guilty on top of sad.

The feeling of being an outsider is a huge aspect of this journey, so making an extra effort to spend time with your grieving loved one is perhaps the most important thing you can do. Plan activities both with and without your children and be willing to do something different in order to support your friend or family member. We are so often expected to be the flexible ones because we don’t have children’s schedules to fit our activities around, that if you can make an effort to join us, it will be a great gift.

Finally, recognize that this experience may change your loved one in ways you can’t predict or understand. Be willing to get to know this new person without judgment. Grief is extremely powerful, and studies show that depression rates in women dealing with infertility are similar to depression rates in women after a cancer diagnosis – here is an article that discusses this. Since I have never had cancer, I cannot comment on how that would affect me, and I certainly don’t want to compare my situation to someone who is dealing with cancer. All I can tell you is that the grief of infertility hit me much harder than I ever would have expected. When we first started trying to conceive, we genuinely thought we would be OK if it didn’t happen, that we could just adopt. I had no idea how much coming to terms with the loss of my ability to reproduce would have me questioning my identity and what I should do with my life. I have long considered myself to be an optimistic positive person, able to find the humour in any situation, but the grief brought on by infertility took me to a darker place than I ever thought I could go.

One of the best things a support person can do is recognize the pain of this situation and encourage the person to get help. Support groups are an amazing place to meet people who truly understand the experience, and although it can be hard to find a counsellor who specializes in this type of grief, they are out there. Antidepressants can be extremely helpful, but many people are afraid to pursue this route out of fear of the stigma of mental illness. Sometimes, all a person in this situation needs is someone to say it’s OK to need some help and a gentle push in that direction.

We are extremely fortunate and grateful for the support we have received from family and friends, and I share this post in hopes of helping other people get this kind of care. With that support (and some medication), I ammuch better equipped to deal with the holidays this year. I know that it will not be easy, and I know I will meet people who do not understand, but having the support of people who do and people who try makes all the difference.

Thank-you for caring.

 

“Heartbreak and Drugs” by Cindy

I haven’t blogged in a while. I’ve wanted to. I even wrote a long one, but it had too much in it, and I couldn’t get the message across that I wanted, so I ditched it. There are so many things I want to share that I don’t know where to begin.

It hasn’t been an easy year. It’s been an amazing one in many ways, but it’s also been really tough. My heartbreak seemed to consume me, and a few months ago, I could barely get out of bed. I wanted so desperately to grow and take control and find a purpose, but I just couldn’t care enough about anything.

When my niece was young, she cheerfully declined to do something with the phrase, “No, I just can’t want to”, and it was so cute that I never forgot it. Now, that phrase has a much more serious feeling because it defines depression for me. We had so many wonderful possible futures to consider, and I couldn’t get excited about any of them. I wasn’t sleeping well, but I didn’t want to get out of bed in the morning. I just couldn’t want to do anything, even though I wanted to want to. I kept doing stuff, and even enjoying activities with people, but I honestly felt broken inside, and I started to wonder if I could just be put away somewhere where I wouldn’t have to make any decisions, and where I wouldn’t be a burden on anyone I love. I just wanted something to fix me.

Finally, I went to the doctor to talk about antidepressants. My doctor in Calgary had recommended I try them the previous year, but my mind couldn’t piece together how a drug to deal with chemicals in the brain could help with the pain in my heart. I was also really afraid to add drug side effects to my life because I couldn’t imagine having to deal with anything else.

That might sound like a funny thing to say, considering that we sold our house, moved across the country with no set destination, and bought a house in a new town, but I thrive on change. Change distracts me.

My doctor agreed right away to prescribe antidepressants. The adjustment was hard. I started on a half dose because of my fear of side effects, and there were two days where the only place I felt safe was on the couch with television to distract me from my own thoughts. This happened again when I went to a full dose, but other than some sleep trouble, those are the only side effects I have experienced.

I guess I am feeling better. It’s not a dramatic change – I don’t suddenly feel like the sun is shining, but slowly, it seems that I have become more able to talk about big decisions and to make plans more than a week in advance. I don’t cry all the time anymore, and I can face trigger situations without feeling the walls close in. I still feel very sad about our infertility, but I can feel the sadness without feeling like I’m dying inside.

I am also able to focus on how grateful I am for the wonderful parts of my life. I can’t even express how grateful I am to have the most amazing, supportive, loving husband in the world, and I wouldn’t give him up for anything – not even a baby. We have a beautiful house (sure, it needs a lot of work, but I am still amazed that this is our house), in a nice community, and we have lots of loving support from family and friends.

Perhaps the biggest change is in my confidence. Depression sucked the confidence right out of me. My comfort zone shrank and could only be pushed in certain directions. It didn’t make sense, but that’s depression for you. I could push myself by taking a part in a play, perhaps because that was something I have always wanted to do, but I couldn’t push myself to consider applying to the school board because the idea of teaching, as much as I love it, just seemed too intimidating. Now, I am able to picture myself as a teacher again, and I can remember that I am a good teacher and that I can learn what I need to learn in order to teach what I need to teach. Things that seemed really impossible seem possible again, and that is huge.

It was important for me to share this because I want other people to know that it is OK to need help when you are feeling bad. I think part of the reason I was reluctant to start medication, even though I knew many people who benefitted from it, was that part of me felt I needed to hold onto that pain or I wouldn’t be true to myself, and I didn’t want to minimize my grief. As it turns out, the pain is not gone. The grief is still very much present, and I don’t feel like I am a different person. I just feel less broken somehow, and that is a good thing.

I know that there are a lot of people out there who are suffering in silence, and on the other side, there are people who believe that we need to just ‘get over it’ and move on with our lives. The truth is, I don’t want to ‘get over’ my pain. I just want to be able to live with it and still enjoy life. That loss, that pain, is part of my life journey, and it is part of who I am. I can’t pretend that it never happened, that I never wanted children anyway, or that ‘everything happens for a reason’. I can find reasons to laugh every day and be grateful for how lucky I am to be who I am when I am with the people I am with, and I can take the next step in my journey with the love of my life.

I am OK. And I will be OK. It just might not be as easy as it used to be.

“Still Grieving; Still Living” by Cindy

I have kind of hit a bit of a dark place again.  I’m not sure why or how exactly, but perhaps spending a whole summer helping parents and grandparents choose cute shoes for the little ones in their lives, and then feeling left out of the back-to-school excitement are contributing factors.

Somehow, I have returned to that place of easy tears, where I just want to cry all the time.

The first time I really noticed was last week when a family came into the store with an adorable 5-month-old baby. I have a slightly masochistic side that means I feel compelled to get a closer look and try to connect with every baby I see (this also happens with dogs). The proud grandfather was happily pushing the stroller around and was so pleased to tell me what a good baby she was as he made sounds and faces to make her laugh. I see proud grandmothers all the time, but there was something about it being the grandfather that was especially affecting. All of a sudden, I had to walk away because I could feel the tears in my eyes, and I wasn’t sure I could keep them in. I’m not sure which thoughts hit me first – that it was unfair that we would never get to coo at our own child, that it was unfair that we would never get to see our parents coo at our child, or that it was unfair that we would never get to be the grandparents cooing.

I feel so disappointed in myself because I was starting to believe that I was doing better. Maybe I was. I have lots of other things to focus on and be grateful for (there’s that gratitude problem again), and yet, here I am struggling to make it through a day without crying. It takes a lot of effort not to let my coworkers see my pain, and then I come home, and poor John is the person who has to deal with a broken Cindy. Then, I feel guilty about making his life harder, and I dive into a downward spiral of negative emotions.

At first I tried, in the spirit of authenticity, to share my difficulties with my coworkers, but one day, after I shared that seeing families day after day was hard, my coworker, who is a proud grandma, said something along the lines of, “we need to figure out a way for you to be OK about this kids thing”, like it was a problem that needed a solution. I realized that she was feeling inconvenienced by my grief, and I decided it was better for work life for me to just try and keep it inside.

My younger coworker (much younger), went with the, “why don’t you just adopt” approach. I tried to explain it, I really did. I explained that adoption is much harder than most people think (see this post), and she countered with a story about a friend or relative who seemingly had a great time adopting. I explained that I didn’t think I could bear the ups and downs and uncertainty of the adoption process, and I could see that she didn’t understand.

John and I are experiencing a kind of culture-shock here. The stereotypical protestant work ethic is deeply ingrained in the psyche of the people who have lived here their whole lives. They value work and the ability to work hard very highly. When we ask them what they would do if they had time and financial freedom, they say, “well, I would have to keep working”, as if working determines a person’s value. It is the first thing they say. People take pride in forcing themselves to work when sick or injured, and they look down on people who do not want to work as hard as they do. This attitude is evident in all generations here – people much older than us and much younger than us give the same answer. This glorification of work-ethic is kind of problematic for us as we value other aspects of our lives more highly than work, and we are actively striving to build a lifestyle where work is optional.

This work-ethic spills over into other areas – if you want something badly enough, then surely you will do anything in your power to get it, and not give up until you have it. So we, in giving up on our dream to be parents, must seem weak to people who believe that hard work is the answer. To be honest, sometimes we think the same. Were we not willing to make enough sacrifices to become parents?  Should we have tried harder, invested more of ourselves, given up on any other dreams and put all our energy into trying again and again? We know people who experienced success by trying over and over again despite loss after loss. We also know people who didn’t experience success through trying over and over again despite loss after loss. There are no guarantees.

I found a blog post at www.traceycleantis.com that explains my position better than I have, and I think I will start using Lisa Manterfield’s words: “we have maxed out our heartbreak cards”.

My problem these days is that I have such a hard time suppressing my emotions (they have a tendency to leak out in unexpected ways), and conversely, I have a hard time expressing them. I give John a hard time about finding someone to talk to, but when I am feeling down, I don’t call anyone. I don’t want to talk about my feelings and tell anyone I care about that I am struggling. I want people to come to me when they want to talk about their feelings, but I don’t want them to see me cry. I have been thinking about this a lot lately, and I realize that this has always been true. As much as I have always loved delving into other people’s feelings, I have always kept mine quiet. I don’t know why. I logically know that I need to open up to people in order to make meaningful connections, but I simultaneously fear that these same people will judge me or use my feelings against me in some way.

My work-around to this problem is this blog. I can write my feelings, and the people who care about me can read my words and know a bit more about what is going on with me. The downside is that I have substituted blog interaction for real life interaction, and it isn’t quite the same. I actually feel disappointed when someone I care about hasn’t read my blog, even though I don’t really expect everyone to read it. I know people have their reasons for not reading it (I have a friend who has written a bestseller, and I haven’t read any of her books because all of her writing is about grieving moms). I also feel disappointed when people reveal that they don’t know me as well as I think they should because part of me believes that I am an open book – after all, I blog about my feelings.

Still, I feel better after writing. It organizes the mess in my brain a bit, and sometimes, a little virtual connection is better than no connection at all.  Plus, it takes some of the pressure off of John.

I have written about feeling changed by grief before, and I still don’t know what that means for me. The image above seems true, even though I don’t want it to be. I don’t want to be more sensitive, more emotional, more vulnerable. I am certain I was enough of all these things before.

Who I want to be and who I am are very different people right now, and I’m not sure how to reconcile the two.

A friend posted this anecdote on facebook:

“I was preparing to speak at an I Can Do It conference and I decided to bring an orange on stage with me as a prop for my lecture. I opened a conversation with a bright young fellow of about twelve who was sitting in the front row.
“If I were to squeeze this orange as hard as I could, what would come out?” I asked him.
He looked at me like I was a little crazy and said, “Juice, of course.”
“Do you think apple juice could come out of it?”
“No!” he laughed.
“What about grapefruit juice?”
“No!”
“What would come out of it?”
“Orange juice, of course.”
“Why? Why when you squeeze an orange does orange juice come out?”
He may have been getting a little exasperated with me at this point.
“Well, it’s an orange and that’s what’s inside.”
I nodded. “Let’s assume that this orange isn’t an orange, but it’s you. And someone squeezes you, puts pressure on you, says something you don’t like, offends you. And out of you comes anger, hatred, bitterness, fear. Why? The answer, as our young friend has told us, is because that’s what’s inside.”
It’s one of the great lessons of life. What comes out when life squeezes you? When someone hurts or offends you? If anger, pain and fear come out of you, it’s because that’s what’s inside. It doesn’t matter who does the squeezing—your mother, your brother, your children, your boss, the government. If someone says something about you that you don’t like, what comes out of you is what’s inside. And what’s inside is up to you, it’s your choice.
When someone puts the pressure on you and out of you comes anything other than love, it’s because that’s what you’ve allowed to be inside. Once you take away all those negative things you don’t want in your life and replace them with love, you’ll find yourself living a highly functioning life.
Thanks, my young friend, and here’s an orange for you!” ~Wayne Dyer

It spoke to me a lot because lately, when life squeezes me, bitterness comes out, and I’m not happy about that. I want to give more; I want to love more.

I also want to run away and not have to strive for anything. I want an easy life where things fall into place and nothing feels hard and complicated. Of course, I don’t know anyone who has that, so I have no idea why I would think I deserve it, or that it is possible in any way. This kind of thinking leads me into a darker place – contemplating the meaning of life does not take me to good places in my psyche.

I know I will be OK. Logically, I just have no other choice. I do not choose to go through life feeling crappy, so I will keep focusing on the good things, and I will do what I can to minimize the moments of crapitude. I will keep taking small steps to align who I am with who I want to be, and I will live with hope that I will one day feel completely at peace with who I am and how I interact with the world.

In the meantime, I will try not to mentally beat myself up for needing to cry sometimes, even if it happens at inopportune times. I will remind myself that grief is a process and that I don’t need everyone to understand in order for me to get through it. I will keep moving forward because there really isn’t any other place for me to go.

“The Disappointment Monster” by Cindy

John and I are in a funny place in our infertility journey. We know that the chances of my getting pregnant are less than 1%, and we are not really able to consider adoption at this point, both from a financial and an emotional standpoint. What this means is that we are working to accept the reality of a ‘childfree’ life, but we haven’t ruled out adoption later down the road.

Although we are very rational people and able to be grateful for all the amazing people and circumstances in our lives, we are still sensitive to emotional triggers, and while we are used to coming across them every day, every now and then something jumps up and catches us by surprise.

I realized last week that the biggest trigger for me, the one that is hardest for me to just breathe through, is the feeling of disappointment.

Last week, John and I auditioned for a play in a neighbouring community. I went with few expectations, since I have never had a speaking role in a play before, but I had a great time reading, and against my better judgment, I let myself hope that this could happen. I began to imagine how much fun it would be to be part of the cast and learn all the lines and perform on stage. I got excited about the possibility. As you have probably figured out, I did not get a part (John did, of course). Logically, I told myself that it didn’t matter – I can audition for future plays, and I can find something else exciting to do over the next few months. My emotional response was a lot more excessive. I couldn’t control it, and after managing to hold it in for about 24 hours, I finally lost it.

At first, I couldn’t understand why I was so upset. ‘It’s just a small play,’ I kept telling myself. ‘It’s not a big deal.’ Then, I realized that it wasn’t the play that was getting to me, it was the feeling of disappointment. It brought back to the surface all those months and months of disappointment and the pure powerlessness of it all.

I was explaining this to my infertility support group over the weekend, and every one of them understood immediately. One of the ladies articulated exactly what I didn’t want to be thinking but was, “You mean I can’t have a baby, and I can’t have this, either? It’s so unfair!”

Sometimes, because we have experienced this big loss, we start to believe that the universe owes us something in return – that there must be some kind of consolation prize. There is no consolation prize.

There are a lot of things I have learned from this journey. I understand grief and pain in a way that I didn’t before, and I know that will help me better relate to people. I have more patience and understanding for people going through tough times, and I know better than to judge people as I can never know everything about their struggle. I would happily trade all that understanding to be part of the mom club.

It came out at the audition that one of the women there has three young children and is already in rehearsals for another play in the community. When I knew I didn’t get a part, I started to feel unreasonably angry that she might have gotten a part. I admit to feeling a little judgmental towards her being willing to be away from her children five nights a week instead of being happy with three, but mostly, I just felt slighted by the universe. Of course, I don’t know anything about her story. I don’t even know for sure whether or not she got a part. It was just interesting to see where my mind went and how I felt thinking these things. I’m not proud of feeling that way, and I know that comparing my life to others’ is not productive or helpful, but sometimes, it just sucks to be on the outside.

So, I’m at a bit of a loss on what to do with this. Obviously, I can’t go through life without experiencing disappointment. That’s just the way it is. I also don’t want to give up on feeling hopeful, and yet, the ecstasy of hope makes the despair of disappointment that much more intense. I am an optimist, and I believe that if I go through life expecting the worst, then that is what I am more likely to get. I watched “The Secret”. I get it. I also understand its limitations. I feel bothered that no one ever talks about the limitations of the law of attraction. Yes, it is powerful, but it is not limitless.

I listened to a motivational speech yesterday, and the speaker was wonderful. She had a lot of meaningful, insightful things to say, but she lost me when she spoke of being able to get anything you want in life. I know all too well that that just isn’t true. I’m not only speaking of my own loss here – there are millions of people stuck in bodies with very real limitations. No amount of positive thinking is going to change that. I do believe that anyone can do amazing things, and that we all have the ability to do a great deal more than we may think possible, and I believe in encouraging people to step outside their comfort zones and go for their dreams.

I also believe in speaking the truth, and the truth is that sometimes, we just don’t get what we deserve.

So, given that I cannot control everything that happens in my life, how can I minimize my emotional response to the feeling of disappointment? How can I show that monster who’s boss? Right now, all I can do is let it knock me down, take some time to feel bad, and then get up and start something else, but I kind of feel like a bit of a punching bag when that happens, and I do not enjoy feeling weak. I guess I can take comfort in the knowledge that I am always stronger when I get back up.

“Ups and Downs” by Cindy

I’ve had a couple of tough days this week.  I’m not sure why exactly, but this infertility grief seems to well up out of nowhere from time to time. Sometimes, it will seem like a series of triggers, sometimes it is one trigger, and sometimes, I bang my hand on something and I just can’t hold it in any longer.

I know – I’m not supposed to try and hold it in all the time.  I need to acknowledge my feelings and blah blah blah.  (yes, I really do teach this stuff).  But how do I acknowledge my feelings and also play a constructive role in my life?  We’ve got a lot going on right now, what with buying a house and moving to a community where we don’t know anyone, so it’s pretty hard to deal with these feelings and also figure out the logistics of our new life and get to know our new town.

“Hi, nice to meet you. Sorry if I don’t smile much. I’m not feeling great today – I’m sad about the fact that we can’t have children and my heart feels like it is breaking as I am standing here talking to you.”

Not exactly high on the “how to make friends” list.  I don’t want to be the weird lady who is always talking about her pain.  That’s what blogs are for, right? (honestly, it’s not, I really intend to write about other things as well, I just find that writing helps me process, and I’m still processing this a lot)

I was so looking forward to meeting new people, but I am still kind of shy. I don’t like being the only person in the room who doesn’t know somebody unless I have a very clear role to play (I know – there is a solution in that statement – I will think on that later). Despite my shyness, I love parties with people I know. I miss university for that so much these days, because back then, we were all in the same stage. I miss going out with friends – the lead up, the adventure, the recovery. I miss living overseas with expats who are always ready to party. That doesn’t happen anymore. I know that there were times when I felt lonely those days as well, but the parties were definitely fun, and I didn’t feel like an outsider. I honestly don’t know what the my age and life stage (which is completely incongruent with my peer group) equivalent of the university kegger is. I’m open to suggestions here.

The other thing I am finding with meeting new people, is that I have this internal dread over when the children question will come up and how I will respond.

One of our movers, perhaps in a misguided attempt to elicit a tip from me, very proudly started telling me about being a single father of 5 children and already having 3 or 7 grandchildren. I nodded and said, “wow”, or something, but I didn’t smile. I used to say things like, “Good for you,” but if having children is an accomplishment, then not having children is a failure, and even though that is often how I feel, part of me rejects that concept entirely now.  (here’s a good blog on this: http://nokiddinginnz.blogspot.ca/2014/11/the-f-word.html) Later on, I thought, I should have just said, “That’s nice. We can’t have children, and we are really sad about it.”

This is essentially how we responded when a friend’s young child asked why we didn’t have children. Well, that’s what John said. I had a lump the size of Newark in my throat.  (I actually have no idea how big Newark is, it just sounded right for that sentence for absolutely no reason). In that moment, it seemed absolutely the right response. Her parents weren’t the type to sugarcoat reality, and I appreciated that they trusted us to give a response and be honest. I aspire to be able to say that sentence aloud to someone without tearing up.

So, on the one hand, I want to be open and honest with everyone I meet. On the other hand, I don’t want to come across as weird and make people uncomfortable (well – maybe I’m a little curious to see how people would respond, in a slightly evil social scientist kind of way, but again, unleashing that alter ego is probably not the best way to make friends).

Something interesting came up in John’s new enterprise this week. Basically, it had to do with recognizing what people it makes sense to spend more time networking with. Something about apples.  Anyway, what hit me is that I am not a ‘yes’ person, but I want to be. I want to be the person that says “yes” when a friend calls up and says, “Hey, want to try this?”  I also want to spend more time with people who are ‘yes’ people. I want to be a positive, energetic influence on people.

My ability to do this is hampered by two things: my personality and my mood. I’ve never been very effusive (there is a blog in my archives about that somewhere), and It’s just so damn hard to project positive energy when I feel so dark. So when I feel this way, my instinct is to hide away and try not to influence people with my negative feelings.

It is just possible that I have an elevated sense of my power over other people’s feelings. Or is it that I am so easily influenced by other people’s feelings that I believe everyone else is as well? Either way, I do not want to be an energy vampire (I do warn people away from those in my classes), AND I want to be authentic. Tricky.

I found this blog today, too: “We Don’t Heal from Suffering, We’re Changed by It“.  Comma splice aside, this resonated with me, and the comments from readers acknowledging their changes and their anger about those changes helped me realize that maybe it’s OK that I’m not OK, yet. It is going to take some time to figure things out.

And, boy, are there are lot of triggers out there. Sometimes, it is just unbelievable. That seemingly innocuous rom-com we borrowed from the library has a couple struggling with infertility in it. A main character in the show we just started watching has a botched abortion leading to a hysterectomy.

And… the holidays are upon us. It’s that time of year that the family is most celebrated. Y-ay.

Actually, I love Christmas. I love the holiday spirit and Christmas trees and singing Christmas carols and trying to find the perfect gifts for loved ones and eating good food and getting together. I just don’t know how I am going to handle being around children this year. I love children. Sometimes, I even find it healing to play with them and then run away when it’s time to change diapers. Other times, I feel angry when parents think I am incapable of changing diapers.

I want it to be great. I really really do. I want to enjoy children for the amazing beings they are and all they can teach us, but holy shitballs, does that hurt. I want to get lovely presents for all the children in our lives who we love, but at the same time, part of me feels resentful about buying presents for other people’s kids. I don’t feel good about that, but I do. Part of me thinks we should save that money and go to Mexico (not that we are that extravagant in our gifts, but over time, that would add up).

It also turns out that there is a downside to sharing all I have shared about our experience – everyone knows. As much as I wish to avoid unconsciously insensitive comments, I also don’t want people feeling like they have to be careful in interacting with me.

There is going to be a new baby around this year, and I am excited to meet her. I am also probably going to cry. Because you know – baby smell. I cry just thinking about that smell. I don’t want meeting this baby to be strange for her parents, but I also don’t know how to make that not strange. They know our story. They know I know they know. So… yeah.

Maybe, if I can just cry enough before the holidays, I won’t have any tears left…

That was only a semi-serious suggestion. I couldn’t think of anything else to write after that, but I didn’t want to end the post on such a melancholy note, so here is a picture I took in Lake Louise and edited to make it look like a fairyland. That seems hopeful to me somehow.