Not looking for understanding, looking for…?

My parents have been here visiting these past few days, and usually, on its own, that is the condition for the Perfect Storm.  I grew up as the Perfect Child–good grades, feared and loved my parents, involved in the church, probably even was a bit of a goody-goody.  I was the typical First Child.  My younger brother was the party boy, the cool kid.  So after 22 or so years of pleasing my parents, I finally grew tired of that.  My brother didn’t give a rat’s ass what they thought (love that phrase) and they didn’t treat him any differently or love him any less…so what was I doing?  There were a few skeletons in my closet that were no doubt linked to my childhood and teen years at home, and as I grew older and grew up, I began to pull away.  I saw in my husband’s family how husbands and wives should treat each other–and that was something different than what I had seen growing up.  I always knew that deep down my parents loved each other–but they too had skeletons that affected their relationship….


But I digress.  Fast forward to my late twenties when we start to have problems conceiving.  My parents have  My mom tried to show care and concern after the first failed cycle, but at that time we were separated by an entire continent, and this whole IVF thing was only something they had vague knowledge of (and as a Good Catholic Family, we all know where the Church stands on this matter…)  When I found out I was pregnant with P, my parents wanted to tell everyone they knew, buy things, talk about it, all the usual stuff grandparents-to-be get to do.  But I was so scared and worried the pregnancy wouldn’t make it, so I wouldn’t let them.  I wasn’t even doing it.  I wasn’t buying clothes or other baby things until the month before he was due–I was just so scared.  I know my mom didn’t understand that at all. 


And then with my pregnancy this past winter, I kind of let go of the fear.  I was determined to enjoy this pregnancy the whole way through.  I decided to tell people, and to be joyful and hopeful as we talked about if we would need a new house, or a new car or how I would manage the twins plus P.  And we know where that got me.  So if I am ever blessed to be pregnant again (IhopeIprayIhopeIpray) I will not be letting my guard down again for a while.  My parents were certainly crushed when they heard the news of the miscarriage, but even still, I don’t think they “got it.”  They knew I was sad.  They knew I was hurting.  But after a week or two, I was kind of expected to be better.  Even though I wasn’t.  Perhaps it is a generational thing, or perhaps because they were at a loss for words, but both sets of my current “parents” have often pointed out the miracle we have in P, even going so far as to saying Well, at least you have P.  He is truly a miracle.  Yes.  He is.  But what if you never had my brother, Mom?  And to my inlaws–what if you stopped after your first born, and never had the next two sons?  I think that is one of the most hurtful things to say to someone who is suffering from secondary infertility (have I mentioned yet how I HATE THAT CLASSIFICATION?  I am fighting Infertility.  It sure as hell doesn’t feel secondary to anything.  It feels like it is something I have been fighting like crazy for the last four years.  Secondary my ASS).  The miracle of one child does not make any loss any easier, does not make any failed cycles any easier–for me, anyway.  I love my son more than anything in the whole world, and I am even tearing up as I type that.  But I love him so much that I want him to know a brother (or sister), I want to give him a family, not just the crazed-overprotective-indulgent mom that I am afraid I will be if he remains an only child.


I don’t expect my parents to understand what I go through–just as I cannot ever really understand what it will be like for my mom when my dad has his heart surgery at the end of the year.  Or what it was like for my parents when they lost their own parents.  As in all life situations, we cannot truly understand the pain or the hurt or even the experiences of others, because everyone is affected differently.  So I don’t expect my parents to understand–I just want them to continue to try and learn what they can about what we do–to recognize that our experiences in infertility have shaped us in unique ways.  It affects the type of mom that I am, the type of wife that I am, the type of friend that I am (must remind myself to write future entry on the way this affects my friendship with Fertile Ones), and of course, the type of daughter I am.

One Comment, Comment or Ping

  1. Hi! I was surfing and found your blog post… nice! I love your blog. :) Cheers! Sandra. R.

    September 9th, 2009

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