Facing the possibility you may never be able to conceive is a hard pill to swallow, says Tania Seward.
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Scrolling through Facebook, a photo catches my eye. It’s a toddler, the daughter of someone I used to work with, wearing a tshirt emblazoned with I’m going to be a big sister. The post has 121 likes already, so the Facebook algorithm has determined I must be interested too.
I hit the like button (of course) and write a line or two of congratulations. Then, very deliberately, I turn off notifications for that post, so my phone won’t vibrate with the 43 congratulatory comments that will follow mine.
But the lump that’s now formed in my throat reminds me there’s one more thing I need to do. A couple of mouse clicks later, I’ve unfollowed her. Now I won’t see when she Instagrams her latest onesie purchase, or uploads the baby shower video of the cake being cut to reveal the gender.
Unfollowing my pregnant friends on Facebook might seem harsh, but it’s one of the few tools I have to manage the emotional rollercoaster I’m on. Most of my friends and family don’t know what I’m going through. It’s not exactly the sort of thing that you shout from the rooftops.
What the Facebook algorithm doesn’t know is that for reasons that are unclear, I don’t seem to ovulate the same as most women do. Periods are irregular, if they happen at all. I don’t get PMS or cramping or any of the other side effects that come with properly functioning plumbing.
All I get from my reproductive system is silence. A silence only broken when the voice inside my head wonders if I am infertile.
The clinical definition of infertility is set by the World Health Organisation, and it leaves little room for interpretation: “Infertility is a disease of the reproductive system, defined by the failure to achieve a clinical pregnancy after 12 months of regular, unprotected sexual intercourse.”
Disease. System. Failure. Clinical. It’s pretty black and white. I’m 28 years old and it could well be my reality. Like every other millennial out there, I’ve consulted Dr Google. My search history could be mistaken for that of a trainee gynaecologist, with terms like ‘anovular’, ‘ovarian drilling’ and the side effects of various fertility drugs.
Being faced with the prospect of infertility has inadvertently curtailed my social life. I quit attending my church’s Bible study when the organiser revealed she was pregnant, as it was too painful to watch her lovingly rub her belly for two hours every week. I make up excuses not to visit friends with babies under 1. It’s not that I don’t want to see my friends - I do - but seeing them so happy and pregnant and cuddling their babies can send me into a funk for days on end.
I’m grateful for the small group of friends who do know what’s running through my head. They’re the ones who gently remind me to eat well and go running three times a week, because staying healthy can only help me have the family I so desperately want. They’re the ones who occasionally ask how everything is going, but understand completely if I answer with ‘I don’t want to talk about it’.
Family events present something of an emotional minefield. The fact that I’ve been married for a couple of years apparently constitutes an open invitation to comment on my lack of offspring. On Christmas Day just gone, my brother passed me the potato salad and at the same time casually enquired if there would be a baby joining us around the table next Christmas. It was all I could do to stammer out the words, ‘When I’m pregnant, I’ll let you know,’ and turn away to pass the salad onto someone else.
My one small consolation is that time is on my side. I’m still a couple of years this side of the median age for a first time mother here in New Zealand - enough time, my GP assures me, to reduce my work-related stress and maybe look at having a few tests done, if the plumbing doesn’t magically spring to life over the next couple of months.
One in five New Zealanders will experience infertility. Chances are you’ve got a friend, family member or colleague silently struggling. Maybe I’m that friend, family member or colleague, and you don’t know because I haven’t told you.
If someone you know does let on that they’re experiencing infertility, don’t suggest that they radically change their diet or take a trip to Fiji. Don’t tell them it’ll all be okay in time, because it might not be. Instead, wish them all the best with their journey. It might be a long one.