My name is Shannon. I'm currently 41 years old, I've been married to a wonderful man named Micheal for just under nine years, and we have an almost four year old Soft Coated Wheaten Terrier named Finnian; Finn for short.
We have Finn primarily because we tried to have children but couldn't. Despite seven years, eight IUI's, three IVF's, one frozen embryo cycle, two fertility clinics, one absolutely heartbreaking miscarriage and about $50,000 in medical bills, we never realized our dream to have kids (even one kid) of our own. [A glimpse of what life was like in the IVF trenches can be found here http://seedsininfertilesoil.blogspot.ca/ if you're so inclined to know more].
May 19-28 is Infertility Awareness Week (even though it's longer than a week, but let's not squabble over semantics) in Canada. The Infertility Awareness Association of Canada is doing a great job trying to heighten awareness (fancy that) around all things infertility and highlight the fact that 1 in 6 couples face fertility issues when it comes time to start a family.
1 in 6. Rather mind boggling when you think about it.
Well, Micheal and I are 1 of those 6. And always will be.
When I was younger I had wonky cycles and generally feared that if and when I ever met that person I wanted children with it would be a challenge. Boy howdy was I right. Before we were even married we decided to let nature take its course just to see what might happen. Frankly I wasn't really worried that anything might happen given my history, and if nothing else we'd be starting the clock on the waiting period we'd need in order to get a referral to a fertility clinic which we planned to do shortly after we returned from our honeymoon. Little did I know that my cycle issues could have helped accelerate that process but alas...
In October of 2006 we began at one clinic and had a horrible experience, then switched to Hannam Fertility Centre. If by some chance you're reading this and you're thinking a fertility clinic is in your future I urge you to click on that link and get yourself in there, stat. They truly were fantastic in every way, and I say this despite the fact that we walked out every time with empty arms. But I digress...
In the spring of 2011, probably right around this time of year, actually, we had what would be our last review appointment with the incredible Dr. Tom Hannam and together we made the heartbreaking decision to stop treatment and consider our 'journey' over. I think he was almost as upset at the whole thing as we were, but he fully supported us in every way and that, as they say, was that.
Four years ago. Hard to believe now.
Four years is a long time. More than half as long as the period of time that we tried to get pregnant. There's distance now from that whole world...where I was once knowledgeable about all things infertility related, my science is now rather rusty. I know much less about the latest techniques because, well, I have no use for them anymore and in a strange way, keeping my head in a game I was no longer playing was kinda painful, too.
I've done what I can to distance myself from that world while at the same time being the best cheerleader, coach and advocate I can be for friends still in the trenches. But bottom line? Fertility treatments are a thing of my past, not my present.
But - just because my feet no longer grace a set of stirrups on a regular basis doesn't mean that infertility isn't a part of my day to day reality - far from it, in fact. While four years has given me some distance from the depth of the grief I repeatedly felt over failed cycles, time does not, contrary to conventional wisdom, heal all wounds.
Not this one, anyway.
All the mornings that I get to sleep in because I have no little ones to wake me up. All that extra money I supposedly have because I don't pay day care bills or incur the general costs of raising a child (which is laughable considering we're still paying off all of our IVF debt). The ability to do things on a whim because I don't have to shuffle tweens to baseball or dance or karate or art class. The general sense of quiet and calm that pervades my home. The simple fact that we can travel, and to adults only resorts to boot, because we have no children to consider when booking accommodations.
The so called pros of childfree living.
They're all nice, sure. They're the silver linings that I cling to on the hard days. The 'this ain't so bad after all' reassurances that I ply myself with when I'm feeling low, all the while cautious not to feel like I'm taking what is, for all intents and purposes, a great life, for granted.
But in the end? I'd trade it all, every single benefit, big or small, to have a child of our own. That magical combination of his DNA and mine, a mini me or him, the delightful mix of our qualities wrapped up in one tiny human package.
That will never happen.
I've done everything in my power to come to terms with our situation and like many shitty hands we're dealt in life, there are good days and bad days. Thankfully the good significantly outnumber the bad and the bad are more moments than days, but when they hit they still pack an overwhelmingly emotional wallop.
Mother's Day's the obvious one. The lead up sucks (signs and ads and reminders everywhere) and the actual day is just as bad. I generally try to hibernate and avoid it like the plague but that's hardly fair to my own mother who lives five minutes away and is very much an important person in my life. Juggling my own self care on that day with my desire to celebrate her and everything she's done for me is probably one of the most emotionally distressing parts of Mother's Day and I tend to hate myself for almost every feeling I experience that day.
Delightful. It's a phenomenon that few others understand unless you've really lived it.
Now we celebrate Mothers' Day somewhat quietly at our house with a card and a small gift from Finn.
And for the past two years I've elected to take the day back and do something uber positive for me by running the Sporting Life 10k race in downtown Toronto. Both the cards and the run help to take the edge off the pain but regardless, I always breathe a guilty sigh of relief when that second Sunday in May comes to an end.
The other days are harder to specifically pinpoint. These are the days or moments that creep up on you when you least expect it. The tears that, out of nowhere, prickle the edges of your eyes when your five year old niece steps out on stage at her annual dance recital. These are not tears of joy or wonder (cue the guilt again) but tears of mourning because in that moment you realize, once more, that you'll never experience this for yourself. You'll never see your daughter's dance recital because there is no daughter. And you're very thankful that the theatre is dark and that no one, not even your husband, realizes you are crying big, fat tears of loss that snuck up on you from out of nowhere.
There are the moments of being left out. Of not really fitting in amongst your friends who have children because you can't relate. At all. You know nothing of feeding routines or baby carriers or what diapers to use or the latest toys. When you're dealing with infertility you spend all of your active treatment time learning everything there is to know about GETTING pregnant...not BEING pregnant or actually HAVING kids. That's superstitious. Foolhardy. Temping fate. And crucial to sparing your already fragile sense of emotional wellbeing.
But your childlessness creates yet another loss. You're not asked to come along to the playdates at your friends' houses because, well, why would you? You're not included in the trips to the park or to the Babytime shows or the Mama and Me whatever it is that they have (I really don't actually know what they're called) because you're not a mama and there is no 'me' to take with you.
And friends are damned if they do, damned if they don't because really, what kind of friend wants to invite their infertile buddy over for a playdate? Can you say salt and wound? Which I totally understand, but it doesn't make the change in the closeness of the friendship suck any less. I delight in your family - of course I do! You're my friend and I want you to be happy. I want what you have desperately, so of course I'm happy when you are able to create your own family, with or without intervention. But at the same time I'm reminded of what I don't have and I mourn a loss of the closeness that once existed.
Infertility robs so many of so much.
But.
There is an 'other side'. It's not all sunshine and roses (as evidenced by the majority of this post so far!) but things do get better. You learn to make a family of your own, you and your partner (and any furkids you may have) and you grow together in ways that you may not have been able to otherwise. Personally I've put a lot of effort into becoming a better me, whether it's with running races or trying to maintain the weight loss or volunteering or throwing myself into work or writing or puttering around in the back garden or figuring out how to redo our kitchen/dining room. These days it's easy to keep busy, children or not, and we do. We have time for ourselves and time for each other and together, we do make a family. We even have a sign up on the wall that says so. ;)
Having Finn in our lives has helped a lot. He's always happy, sleeps on the bed with us, and yes, there are even daycare bills so I can feel the burn, albeit to a lesser degree, of that burden. He'll never actually call me mom (though Micheal does it for him) and while he can't tell me he loves me in words that tail of his and the look in his eyes does sooth my sad soul more often than not.
Sure, I may go overboard from time to time, making him our substitute child. Yeah, we dress him up for Halloween and get pictures done with Santa each Christmas. So what??
I even had a puppy shower before he came into our lives because I'd been to enough baby showers and since I'd never have one of my own and needed things for the little guy it seemed like a good thing to do.
Life after infertility? There's no such thing, despite the name of my post. Infertility will continue to impact us for the rest of our lives in one way, shape or form. But life after fertility treatment? I'm living proof that it most certainly exists and can be pretty darned sweet.
I am 1 in 6. If you're fortunate to be one of the remaining 5, please hug your kids extra tight this week (and every week, for that matter) and continue to be kind to friends and family that struggle so desperately to have what you have.
And if you're another of those 1's still trying everything to fulfill your dreams, I wish you every bit of luck as you go through all those ultrasounds, needle sticks, retrievals, shots to the belly, hours of stress waiting for the phone to ring, nerve wracking 2 minute blocks of time before you'll allow yourself to peek at a pee stick...you know the drill. And for any of you nearing the end of the possible, be it because of financial reasons or you're simply out of options, please know that you're not alone*, your feelings are real and valid, and that there is hope for a lovely, wonderful life if and when you decide enough is enough.
*Feel free to contact me at shanburbia@gmail.com if you ever want or need to vent/cry/scream at someone who's been there.
 |
| Photo credit Michelle Collis |
May 19-28 is Infertility Awareness Week (even though it's longer than a week, but let's not squabble over semantics) in Canada. The Infertility Awareness Association of Canada is doing a great job trying to heighten awareness (fancy that) around all things infertility and highlight the fact that 1 in 6 couples face fertility issues when it comes time to start a family.
1 in 6. Rather mind boggling when you think about it.
Well, Micheal and I are 1 of those 6. And always will be.
When I was younger I had wonky cycles and generally feared that if and when I ever met that person I wanted children with it would be a challenge. Boy howdy was I right. Before we were even married we decided to let nature take its course just to see what might happen. Frankly I wasn't really worried that anything might happen given my history, and if nothing else we'd be starting the clock on the waiting period we'd need in order to get a referral to a fertility clinic which we planned to do shortly after we returned from our honeymoon. Little did I know that my cycle issues could have helped accelerate that process but alas...
In October of 2006 we began at one clinic and had a horrible experience, then switched to Hannam Fertility Centre. If by some chance you're reading this and you're thinking a fertility clinic is in your future I urge you to click on that link and get yourself in there, stat. They truly were fantastic in every way, and I say this despite the fact that we walked out every time with empty arms. But I digress...
In the spring of 2011, probably right around this time of year, actually, we had what would be our last review appointment with the incredible Dr. Tom Hannam and together we made the heartbreaking decision to stop treatment and consider our 'journey' over. I think he was almost as upset at the whole thing as we were, but he fully supported us in every way and that, as they say, was that.
Four years ago. Hard to believe now.
Four years is a long time. More than half as long as the period of time that we tried to get pregnant. There's distance now from that whole world...where I was once knowledgeable about all things infertility related, my science is now rather rusty. I know much less about the latest techniques because, well, I have no use for them anymore and in a strange way, keeping my head in a game I was no longer playing was kinda painful, too.
I've done what I can to distance myself from that world while at the same time being the best cheerleader, coach and advocate I can be for friends still in the trenches. But bottom line? Fertility treatments are a thing of my past, not my present.
But - just because my feet no longer grace a set of stirrups on a regular basis doesn't mean that infertility isn't a part of my day to day reality - far from it, in fact. While four years has given me some distance from the depth of the grief I repeatedly felt over failed cycles, time does not, contrary to conventional wisdom, heal all wounds.
Not this one, anyway.
All the mornings that I get to sleep in because I have no little ones to wake me up. All that extra money I supposedly have because I don't pay day care bills or incur the general costs of raising a child (which is laughable considering we're still paying off all of our IVF debt). The ability to do things on a whim because I don't have to shuffle tweens to baseball or dance or karate or art class. The general sense of quiet and calm that pervades my home. The simple fact that we can travel, and to adults only resorts to boot, because we have no children to consider when booking accommodations.
The so called pros of childfree living.
They're all nice, sure. They're the silver linings that I cling to on the hard days. The 'this ain't so bad after all' reassurances that I ply myself with when I'm feeling low, all the while cautious not to feel like I'm taking what is, for all intents and purposes, a great life, for granted.
But in the end? I'd trade it all, every single benefit, big or small, to have a child of our own. That magical combination of his DNA and mine, a mini me or him, the delightful mix of our qualities wrapped up in one tiny human package.
That will never happen.
I've done everything in my power to come to terms with our situation and like many shitty hands we're dealt in life, there are good days and bad days. Thankfully the good significantly outnumber the bad and the bad are more moments than days, but when they hit they still pack an overwhelmingly emotional wallop.
Mother's Day's the obvious one. The lead up sucks (signs and ads and reminders everywhere) and the actual day is just as bad. I generally try to hibernate and avoid it like the plague but that's hardly fair to my own mother who lives five minutes away and is very much an important person in my life. Juggling my own self care on that day with my desire to celebrate her and everything she's done for me is probably one of the most emotionally distressing parts of Mother's Day and I tend to hate myself for almost every feeling I experience that day.
Delightful. It's a phenomenon that few others understand unless you've really lived it.
Now we celebrate Mothers' Day somewhat quietly at our house with a card and a small gift from Finn.
And for the past two years I've elected to take the day back and do something uber positive for me by running the Sporting Life 10k race in downtown Toronto. Both the cards and the run help to take the edge off the pain but regardless, I always breathe a guilty sigh of relief when that second Sunday in May comes to an end.
The other days are harder to specifically pinpoint. These are the days or moments that creep up on you when you least expect it. The tears that, out of nowhere, prickle the edges of your eyes when your five year old niece steps out on stage at her annual dance recital. These are not tears of joy or wonder (cue the guilt again) but tears of mourning because in that moment you realize, once more, that you'll never experience this for yourself. You'll never see your daughter's dance recital because there is no daughter. And you're very thankful that the theatre is dark and that no one, not even your husband, realizes you are crying big, fat tears of loss that snuck up on you from out of nowhere.
There are the moments of being left out. Of not really fitting in amongst your friends who have children because you can't relate. At all. You know nothing of feeding routines or baby carriers or what diapers to use or the latest toys. When you're dealing with infertility you spend all of your active treatment time learning everything there is to know about GETTING pregnant...not BEING pregnant or actually HAVING kids. That's superstitious. Foolhardy. Temping fate. And crucial to sparing your already fragile sense of emotional wellbeing.
But your childlessness creates yet another loss. You're not asked to come along to the playdates at your friends' houses because, well, why would you? You're not included in the trips to the park or to the Babytime shows or the Mama and Me whatever it is that they have (I really don't actually know what they're called) because you're not a mama and there is no 'me' to take with you.
And friends are damned if they do, damned if they don't because really, what kind of friend wants to invite their infertile buddy over for a playdate? Can you say salt and wound? Which I totally understand, but it doesn't make the change in the closeness of the friendship suck any less. I delight in your family - of course I do! You're my friend and I want you to be happy. I want what you have desperately, so of course I'm happy when you are able to create your own family, with or without intervention. But at the same time I'm reminded of what I don't have and I mourn a loss of the closeness that once existed.
Infertility robs so many of so much.
But.
There is an 'other side'. It's not all sunshine and roses (as evidenced by the majority of this post so far!) but things do get better. You learn to make a family of your own, you and your partner (and any furkids you may have) and you grow together in ways that you may not have been able to otherwise. Personally I've put a lot of effort into becoming a better me, whether it's with running races or trying to maintain the weight loss or volunteering or throwing myself into work or writing or puttering around in the back garden or figuring out how to redo our kitchen/dining room. These days it's easy to keep busy, children or not, and we do. We have time for ourselves and time for each other and together, we do make a family. We even have a sign up on the wall that says so. ;)
Having Finn in our lives has helped a lot. He's always happy, sleeps on the bed with us, and yes, there are even daycare bills so I can feel the burn, albeit to a lesser degree, of that burden. He'll never actually call me mom (though Micheal does it for him) and while he can't tell me he loves me in words that tail of his and the look in his eyes does sooth my sad soul more often than not.
Sure, I may go overboard from time to time, making him our substitute child. Yeah, we dress him up for Halloween and get pictures done with Santa each Christmas. So what??
I even had a puppy shower before he came into our lives because I'd been to enough baby showers and since I'd never have one of my own and needed things for the little guy it seemed like a good thing to do.
Life after infertility? There's no such thing, despite the name of my post. Infertility will continue to impact us for the rest of our lives in one way, shape or form. But life after fertility treatment? I'm living proof that it most certainly exists and can be pretty darned sweet.
I am 1 in 6. If you're fortunate to be one of the remaining 5, please hug your kids extra tight this week (and every week, for that matter) and continue to be kind to friends and family that struggle so desperately to have what you have.
And if you're another of those 1's still trying everything to fulfill your dreams, I wish you every bit of luck as you go through all those ultrasounds, needle sticks, retrievals, shots to the belly, hours of stress waiting for the phone to ring, nerve wracking 2 minute blocks of time before you'll allow yourself to peek at a pee stick...you know the drill. And for any of you nearing the end of the possible, be it because of financial reasons or you're simply out of options, please know that you're not alone*, your feelings are real and valid, and that there is hope for a lovely, wonderful life if and when you decide enough is enough.
 |
| Photo credit Del Sol Photography |
*Feel free to contact me at shanburbia@gmail.com if you ever want or need to vent/cry/scream at someone who's been there.
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