3 Thoughtful Ways to Support a Friend Struggling With Infertility

If you've been reading my blog for any amount of time, you know that my husband and I struggle with infertility. We learned of it over six years ago since then have added to awesome school-aged kids to our family via foster-adoption. But I tell 'ya--infertility is freaking terrible. I've got a few friends now who have struggled with it or who are in the middle of their struggle, and I just hate it. I hate infertility, and I hate the insensitivity and lack of awareness in our culture today despite how prevalent it is. So, after talking with a friend who is currently battling these insensitive comments, I wrote this piece. It was posted on Parent.Co this week, so here's a teaser:

"Chances are, someone in your social circle is struggling with [infertility]. Studies show that, “Close to one in six U.S. couples don’t get pregnant despite a year of trying – after which doctors typically recommend evaluation for infertility….”  Most people, especially in the early stages of infertility, won’t wave their infertility banner high. They may not even whisper this fact to their closest family and friends.

My husband and I struggled quietly and carried the load by ourselves for nearly two years. We endured negative pregnancy tests each month and a barrage of medical testing on our own as we struggled to accept our assumed infertility. You may not know for certain if one of your friends or family members is struggling with infertility, but you probably have a hunch. Once we mustered up the courage to share the news about our infertility with those close to us, many commented they suspected we’d been struggling with this.

Whether you know for a fact, or you simply believe that someone close to you may be struggling with infertility, there are things you can do to help folks walking this precarious road..." Click here to read the full post! 

I Don't Have a Birth Story To Tell You

Note: This piece originally appeared on Scary Mommy. It was a difficult piece to write, but as with all of my writing--it's one that I hope reaches those who need it. Here's a teaser:

I don't have a birth story. There are no sweet post-birth photos or memories of my husband gazing at me in admiration, in awe of the incredible act of childbirth. Perhaps our children's adoption days will be that moment for my husband, but those moments feel so ordinary and less monumental than the physical birth of a child. 

I worry that when the chaos of life bites down on us, during those times when I lose my shit--when I'm folding mountains of laundry, bra-less, in my pajamas at 6 PM--I worry my husband will look at me see just a woman, bra-less, in pajamas, folding laundry, not one who  braved searing pain to give him the greatest gift outside of grace. I fear he won't have a defining moment to look back on to revive his sense of love for me when I'm at my worst... Click here to read more! 

My Little Black Dress: A Story of Adoption and Heartbreak

Note: I've been busy lately submitting work for publication. One of my posts that originally appeared on this blog was published a few weeks ago on Sammiches & Psych Meds. While it's not getting the views that some of my other pieces are getting, this is one post I'm most proud of mostly because it articulates a moment that I didn't let break me. Here's a teaser of the post:

My husband always wanted to be a dad, and I wanted to be the person who would give him that desire. But after years of trying to conceive and then an eventual medical diagnosis of infertility--one that loomed like an ironic scarlet letter--we decided to pursue infant adoption. We waited for a year before we got the call--the one that every potential adoptive parent hopes for each time his/her phone rings. There was a birth mom. She picked us. Baby boy was due in three months. There were three potential fathers. Legal risk. Could she meet us? We were hesitant and thrilled at the same time; of course we didn't say no to meeting her....Click here to read more. 

My little black dress

My husband had always wanted to be a dad, and I wanted to be the person who would give him that desire. But after years of trying to conceive and then an eventual medical diagnosis of infertility--one that loomed like an ironic scarlet letter--we decided to pursue infant adoption. We waited for a year before we got the call--the one that every potential adoptive parent hopes for each time his/her phone rings. There was a birth mom. She picked us. Baby boy was due in three months. There were three potential fathers. Legal risk. Could she meet us? We were hesitant and thrilled at the same time; of course we didn't say no to meeting her.

Over the course of the next three months, we spent time with this birth mom building a relationship. We took her out for meals, answered every text message and email she ever sent, ignored every quirk, honored her seemingly bizarre requests (like what we would wear to the hospital to see the baby for the first time), prayed like crazy that this would work out, and even began building relationships with her grandparents and her aunt (who all raised her). My husband and I and the birth mom picked the baby's name--Micah Aaron. We got a call sometime during the week of Father's Day letting us know that the Micah was born and a father was identified. During the month we had to wait for the birth father's rights to be terminated, Micah was placed in temporary foster care. One week after he was born, we met him for the first time.

I don't normally wear dresses, but I bought a dress specifically for the occasion. It was a plain black dress.

Not me...not my dress; but it's a nice pic, eh?

Image source

A sleeveless cotton number with a cinch around the waist and pockets--a practical dress for a new mom. Dressy enough to wear to a nice dinner but casual enough to wear to all the farmer's markets I'd obviously be taking my new baby to. Remaining guarded, my husband snapped a single photo of me in my plain black dress holding Micah for the first and only time.

Off her medication for too long, our birth mom ended up in jail. She retaliated by refusing to sign the relinquishment papers. The caseworkers tried to reason with her, her family tried to to talk with her--but nothing changed her mind. She stayed in jail, Micah stayed in foster care, and we were left with nothing but grief, broken dreams, and a stupid, black sleeveless cotton dress.

I don't want to get into how numb I felt for a good year, how it took me two years before I felt strong enough to hold another baby, how many times in that first month I cried myself to vomiting (5), or how many Google searches I have done (4) since then to try and track down our birth mom or her son. Slowly and painfully, we picked ourselves up. It took me about a month to delete the picture I had of him with me. Strangely, though, deleting the picture wasn't as difficult as getting rid of my dress. I couldn't give it up. The dress was appropriately colored and became a symbol of mourning for me. I wore it several times in the months following our failed adoption, and each time I put it on, I cried and prayed that God would protect little Micah.

Nine months after I wore it for the first time and held the baby who was almost ours, the dress had become so faded that I had to give it up. It was the last remaining connection I had to Micah, but one night, determined to move on, I dropped off the plain and black sleeveless cotton dress at a Goodwill. I expected to cry but was surprised at my sudden display of strength as I dropped my dress in the donation bin. I walked away empty handed--a feeling I knew well. Only this time...this time I was empty handed on my own terms.