I didn't write about it.
I thought about writing a post on it, and each time I sat down to work on it, I would end up spilling a frustrated mish-mash of words onto the screen. Sometimes I sounded angry. Sometimes bitter. Sometimes resentful. Sometimes sad, sellf-pitying, and pathetic. I stopped trying to write about it.
One pregnancy and two babies later, it is sometimes difficult to know where I fall with infertility.
Then I saw this video, from Hannah Wept, Sarah Laughed:
What IF? A Portrait of Infertility from Keiko Zoll on Vimeo.
Suddenly I found my words, in the form of many "what if's" of my own.
What if my infertility-inflicted wounds do not heal?
What if a small part of me always feels like a fraud?
What if I forget where I came from? What if I can't?
What if my sharing the joys and hardships of motherhood is hurtful to those still struggling through infertility?
What if I don't deserve to describe the hardships of motherhood?
What if people never stop asking if twins run in my family?
What if I make the wrong decision for our four frozen embryos?
What if I never stop being angry?
What if it never stops hurting?
I used to think that the cure for infertility must be a baby. What I didn't count on was the aftermath of infertility; the role of mother has been achieved, but this woman who I have become is not the woman I was when I started on this journey.
Don't get me wrong. I am beyond grateful that IVF worked for us. I love being a mother. Bred into the love I have for my children is the realization of how close I was to never having them in my life.
There are parts of me that just want to live in the moment and forget how I got here. I know that I never can.
For me, infertility has been about acceptance. As I sit here today, I realize that my newest task is to accept the fact that while there is necessary healing that will happen, the inevitable reality is that the fabric of my being is forever altered.
National Infertility Awareness week has passed.
The heartbreak of infertility has not.