“I’m feeling anxious about going through the two-week wait again,” my friend, who has also faced infertility, shared with me just days before discovering she was expecting her little one. We both experienced the trials of infertility and found ourselves pregnant around the same time; her baby arrived only a couple of weeks after mine.
As our children, Mason and Wyatt, transitioned into their roles as big brothers, and Stella embraced her new position as a sister, I couldn’t help but notice that my online support network was also announcing their second pregnancies one after another. Yet, I remain in the shadows of longing, grappling with my own struggles.
I’ve lost track of everyone’s journeys. When I offer my congratulations and they express being “pleasantly surprised,” I can’t help but wonder if that means their success was unexpected or if their treatments had gone better than anticipated. Did they opt for implanted embryos, or are they among those rare individuals who achieve pregnancy naturally after their first child?
Unfortunately, I don’t belong to that latter category. Nope, I’m someone who faced primary infertility and, if I muster the courage to try again, I’ll inevitably encounter secondary infertility as well. I’ve become acutely aware of how flawed my body is, and while I’ve come to terms with my situation, the idea of facing another round is daunting. My daughter is now two, and the memories of my journey to get pregnant still haunt me, despite having only needed three rounds of Clomid to achieve that long-awaited positive test result.
This is precisely why I stepped back from the blogs that once provided solace. I can’t bear the emotional turmoil of revisiting those painful experiences. The phone calls from medical professionals delivering disappointing news, the endless streak of negative pregnancy tests, and the constant push and pull between hope and despair have taken their toll. My pregnancy was shadowed by anxiety, and the period between deciding to start a family and finally holding my baby felt like a blur of stress and sadness.
I feel guilty for distancing myself from others who are still fighting their battles, yet I’m not equipped to endure that struggle again. Right now, I’m content with my life as a mother to my one daughter, and the thought of expanding our family feels overwhelming. Currently, we aren’t actively trying to conceive. We’re not taking tests daily or scheduling medical appointments. In a way, it could be argued that I’m not facing infertility at all.
But then there’s the knowledge. What do you do with all that you’ve learned through this experience?
In my early days of dealing with primary infertility, I often thought that at least those who had successfully had a child understood the joy that came with it. I recognized that secondary infertility can be just as painful, but that didn’t lessen my own feelings of anger and despair at the prospect of not having what they had. I often reprimanded myself for harboring those thoughts, as I too experienced the heartache of yearning for a child and the crushing disappointment of realizing that life doesn’t always play out as we hope.
Primary infertility embodies the fear of missing out on experiences you may never have, while secondary infertility brings the agony of knowing what you’re missing.
For those seeking more insights on fertility, you might find our post on fertility boosters for men helpful. Additionally, this resource on donor insemination can provide valuable information for those considering home insemination. For a broader understanding of the topic, check out this article on Modern Family Blog, which delves deeper into the nuances of infertility.
In summary, the journey through infertility—whether primary or secondary—is filled with emotional complexities. Acknowledging your feelings and finding support can make a significant difference as you navigate this challenging path.