One thing we find out on our journey through the valley of infertility is that perfectly nice, intelligent and kind people, who often care about us deeply, will say awful, stupid and downright mean things in an effort to cheer us up. I am very much not a Christian, but “Forgive them, for they know not what they do” should be our motto here. They really don’t know any better, usually. And we probably wouldn’t either, if we were in their shoes. People react inappropriately to grief and loss most of the time; we’re not taught how to deal with it at all, except for sending a condolence card at best. Moreover, infertility is still largely taboo, not something people are usually ready to discuss openly at all. So there is a high level of general ignorance about it. Unless they experience it, most people will never know that infertility has dozens of causes, on the male side as well as the female side, and none of them can be cured by a bottle of wine, chilling out, headstands, not worrying about it, or adopting a child as a foreplay to sudden pregnancy.
“Don’t be upset,” one of my clients, a wonderful and kind woman, told me upon hearing about my latest IVF failure. She was one of the very few clients I told, mainly because I’ve known her for many years. “At least you will have freedom to do what you want. Free as a bird!” She shook her head and added: “I don’t know why people put themselves through these things… “ “Because it won’t work any other way!” I wanted to shout. “I didn’t exactly enjoy this ride, you know?” What do you think, on a scale from one to ten in helpfulness… a 1.5? 1.2?
When my mum died, I had just turned twenty. She died unexpectedly of a brain haemorrhage. It crushed me. I loved her, as much as a child can love a parent, all the more so because dad had already gone years ago. When choosing the announcement for the public notice board, my sister and I didn’t want anything moribund and gloomy, such as dead doves on a cross and tear-jerking quotes. Instead, we chose a blue frame with a yellow sun. I admit that it probably wasn’t the prettiest announcement ever produced, given the limited quality of printing in those days, but it was at least a little bit less depressing than the rest. Imagine then my surprise when my dear friend, my best one from childhood, remarked: “You know, the announcement was a bit tacky, don’t you think?” I don’t know, was it? And even if it was the tackiest announcement you’ve ever seen, does that matter? Do you know, dear friend, how incredibly painful it was to sit in the funeral director’s office and try to come up with something that would help us deal with the fact we had just lost our second beloved parent?
And so it goes. We all probably have a clenched fist or two within us, when we were hurt and our loss was belittled and misunderstood. I am almost certain that somewhere along your journey you were told: “Well, you’ve got …” insert name of your child. It’s supremely irritating when people say this to me. Yes, of course I am grateful!! I love my son with every fibre of my being, and the thought of losing him terrifies me, all the more so because he is my one and only and there won’t be any new additions. Stop giving me a guilt-trip already! In the minds of people who haven’t experienced infertility, an unborn child doesn’t really count as a true loss. If you had two children and one died, a comment like that would be unacceptable – and they would never say that. But somehow they feel it’s okay to say that about your unborn one. What they don’t understand is that if a child dies, or a woman miscarries, there is usually a silver lining. When the couple is fertile there is always a chance to have another one. Yes, it is utterly devastating to lose a child and if that happens, all sympathy and support should be given, not for months, but years. However, not being able to make one, ever, is also devastating, especially because of its finality. There will never be another chance. Our factory is closed, for good.
Then there are those who are silent. A good friend of mine and a mum of three, who lives in America, got in touch as she and her family are coming to Europe in the summer, and wanted to see if we could meet up in Germany. I wrote back, describing my infertility struggle, saying I’d love to see them but didn’t know where we would be financially and treatment-wise when they arrive. I have yet to hear back from her, and it’s been two months. Does she not have the time to reply? Or does she not know what to say to me? Either way, opening up to someone close and having it ignored doesn’t feel great.
Yet however unkind and ignorant people’s reactions are, we have to let them go, for our own sake. They really don’t mean it — they just don’t get it. But there is one thing we can do. We can let their inept words and the wounds they leave teach us to be better at saying and doing the right things when the time comes and it’s our turn to console. Things like “It must be so hard for you. I’m sorry.” “Please let me know if you need anything.” “Would you like to talk to me about this?”. “I feel for your loss.” “How are you handling things today?” And we should get really good at giving hugs, too, and at not pretending their world hasn’t just collapsed on them. Acknowledging grief helps so much more than expecting someone to “suck it up and smile”.
LIFE FOR THE THREE OF US
Things people say…. and don’t
One thing we find out on our journey through the valley of infertility is that perfectly nice, intelligent and kind people, who often care about us deeply, will say awful, stupid and downright mean things in an effort to cheer us up. I am very much not a Christian, but “Forgive them, for they know not what they do” should be our motto here. They really don’t know any better, usually. And we probably wouldn’t either, if we were in their shoes. People react inappropriately to grief and loss most of the time; we’re not taught how to deal with it at all, except for sending a condolence card at best. Moreover, infertility is still largely taboo, not something people are usually ready to discuss openly at all. So there is a high level of general ignorance about it. Unless they experience it, most people will never know that infertility has dozens of causes, on the male side as well as the female side, and none of them can be cured by a bottle of wine, chilling out, headstands, not worrying about it, or adopting a child as a foreplay to sudden pregnancy.
“Don’t be upset,” one of my clients, a wonderful and kind woman, told me upon hearing about my latest IVF failure. She was one of the very few clients I told, mainly because I’ve known her for many years. “At least you will have freedom to do what you want. Free as a bird!” She shook her head and added: “I don’t know why people put themselves through these things… “ “Because it won’t work any other way!” I wanted to shout. “I didn’t exactly enjoy this ride, you know?” What do you think, on a scale from one to ten in helpfulness… a 1.5? 1.2?
When my mum died, I had just turned twenty. She died unexpectedly of a brain haemorrhage. It crushed me. I loved her, as much as a child can love a parent, all the more so because dad had already gone years ago. When choosing the announcement for the public notice board, my sister and I didn’t want anything moribund and gloomy, such as dead doves on a cross and tear-jerking quotes. Instead, we chose a blue frame with a yellow sun. I admit that it probably wasn’t the prettiest announcement ever produced, given the limited quality of printing in those days, but it was at least a little bit less depressing than the rest. Imagine then my surprise when my dear friend, my best one from childhood, remarked: “You know, the announcement was a bit tacky, don’t you think?” I don’t know, was it? And even if it was the tackiest announcement you’ve ever seen, does that matter? Do you know, dear friend, how incredibly painful it was to sit in the funeral director’s office and try to come up with something that would help us deal with the fact we had just lost our second beloved parent?
And so it goes. We all probably have a clenched fist or two within us, when we were hurt and our loss was belittled and misunderstood. I am almost certain that somewhere along your journey you were told: “Well, you’ve got …” insert name of your child. It’s supremely irritating when people say this to me. Yes, of course I am grateful!! I love my son with every fibre of my being, and the thought of losing him terrifies me, all the more so because he is my one and only and there won’t be any new additions. Stop giving me a guilt-trip already! In the minds of people who haven’t experienced infertility, an unborn child doesn’t really count as a true loss. If you had two children and one died, a comment like that would be unacceptable – and they would never say that. But somehow they feel it’s okay to say that about your unborn one. What they don’t understand is that if a child dies, or a woman miscarries, there is usually a silver lining. When the couple is fertile there is always a chance to have another one. Yes, it is utterly devastating to lose a child and if that happens, all sympathy and support should be given, not for months, but years. However, not being able to make one, ever, is also devastating, especially because of its finality. There will never be another chance. Our factory is closed, for good.
Then there are those who are silent. A good friend of mine and a mum of three, who lives in America, got in touch as she and her family are coming to Europe in the summer, and wanted to see if we could meet up in Germany. I wrote back, describing my infertility struggle, saying I’d love to see them but didn’t know where we would be financially and treatment-wise when they arrive. I have yet to hear back from her, and it’s been two months. Does she not have the time to reply? Or does she not know what to say to me? Either way, opening up to someone close and having it ignored doesn’t feel great.
Yet however unkind and ignorant people’s reactions are, we have to let them go, for our own sake. They really don’t mean it — they just don’t get it. But there is one thing we can do. We can let their inept words and the wounds they leave teach us to be better at saying and doing the right things when the time comes and it’s our turn to console. Things like “It must be so hard for you. I’m sorry.” “Please let me know if you need anything.” “Would you like to talk to me about this?”. “I feel for your loss.” “How are you handling things today?” And we should get really good at giving hugs, too, and at not pretending their world hasn’t just collapsed on them. Acknowledging grief helps so much more than expecting someone to “suck it up and smile”.
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