Genius Toiling in Obscurity

Guilt. Pointless, but inevitable.

Last weekend, David and I visited some friends who are just preparing to start trying to get pregnant with their first child. We talked about pregnancy, babies, and parenting all evening [even though that is expressly what they invited us over for, I worry that I was a bit pedantic all night]. As we left, the biological-mom-to-be and I bumped bellies for luck, since I am the amazing Pregnant in One Try Both Times Woman.

I hope the belly-bump worked. I hope not only that everyone I know who wants a baby gets pregnant as easily as I did, but that the pregnancies themselves are easier than mine have been. And that labor and delivery is just long and hard enough to give them a feeling of accomplishment, while proceeding smoothly and being conveniently timed and easy to recover from. I hope their babies start nursing minutes after birth and their nipples are never sore. I hope their babies sleep through the night even earlier than Eric's seven weeks. I hope that when I see them after the baby is born and ask how things are going, they say, "I like being a mom even more than I expected to and it has all been easier than I thought it would be."

I hope all this in part because I have a generous heart. But it is partly selfish. I recently found my way to some weblogs on infertility, and since many of these women are not only infertile but good writers, I have hung around. I am now following the sagas of a good half-dozen women who are trying to get pregnant, or pregnant and hoping not to have yet another miscarriage, or waiting for adoptions to come through. And it's wrenching.

The closest I have come to infertility was about a year ago, when I got some incomplete medical advice and believed that I should not get pregnant a second time (the issue wasn't getting pregnant per se, but carrying a baby to term, and the invasive treatments that we thought would be required if I was going to have a chance to do so). It was heartbreaking, during the months I thought I wouldn't get to have a second child, so heartbreaking that eventually we decided to do it even with the risks involved (which turned out to be smaller than we thought, once we got some really good medical advice...but my rants against certain doctors belong in a different entry). I would hope that, even had I not had that experience, I would feel sympathy for infertile moms-to-be. But having had that experience, and getting closer every day to the arrival of Little Number Two, and knowing how much becoming a mother has fulfilled me, my heart breaks with every negative pregnancy test these women take.

And I feel guilty. I feel guilty for getting pregnant in one try--twice--even though I was on a Clomid/IUI protocol when I did it. I feel guilty for having one beloved son and for being so close to having another. It's not my fault I get pregnant easily. But it's not these woman's fault that they can't get pregnant easily, or that they are "habitual aborters" (one of those horrible medical phrases that makes it sound like the patient has volition). I know they all feel, at least some of the time, like it is somehow their fault. I know I feel, somehow, like my fertility sucks a little of the fertility out of the world, thus cheating all these other women out of some of their share (OK, it took me one month with Clomid and IUI and so-and-so fourteen months with injectibles...can we split the difference next time, say, 6-7 months each with only mild interventions? That would be fair). I know, because they say so, that infertile women feel that way sometimes, too, and every now and then I want to give them permission to go ahead and kick the next pregnant woman they see.

It's foolish to feel guilty. It's foolish to feel that I ought to muffle my joy at the impending arrival of Little Number Two because some of the infertile women whose blogs I visit sometimes visit mine, and I do not want to add to their pain in any way.

There's been a good discussion at one of the blogs (I can't remember which, but will link if I come across it again) about just how careful people should have to be to anticipate things that might cause pain to others. I believe in being very cautious when you know someone's history (I found myself very tentative a few weeks ago about even telling an acquaintance who had adopted after infertility that I was pregnant a second time, but then it was my very nervousness that led me to, when I did mention it, babble a little and say more than I maybe should have). But you can't be so careful that you protect others from things that cannot be known to you. I remember one day last spring, during the time when I thought I would not be able to have a second baby, when Eric and I showed up at his music class only to learn that several of the other moms were expecting second babies and that several more were trying for them. "Oh, look how tired Eric is! I'd better get him home for a nap!" I said, and hauled him out to the car so I could cry (he really was tired. But it was convenient anyway). And just last week, a friendly acquaintance asked me how far along I was. I said, "Coming up on 34 weeks," and she said, "I'm so glad to hear it, because now you're home free. Even if the baby were born early, it would almost certainly survive with no disabilities."

Well, yes. But her comment made me realize that, while I don't think about it much and am certainly not fretting, knowing that I carry an antibody that in some women causes late-term miscarriage and stillbirth means that I am not going to be completely easy until this baby is alive in my arms. It's not her fault she brought up that fear in me; it's not her fault that she was wrong about us being "home free." I chose not to correct her, but to agree that it is a relief to pass certain milestones in pregnancy.

I had a point, somewhere, but I've lost it now. That's a pregnancy symptom for me: inability to think clearly. Let me just add one thing for the benefit of the trying-to-get-pregnant everywhere:

Infertile women often dislike hearing pregnant women complain about pregnancy. I myself hate hearing women complain about nursing. The infertile women say, "If I am ever pregnant, I will never complain about the nausea, the vomiting, the hemorrhoids, the backache, the heartburn, the constipation, the belly-button tenderness." As a failed breast-feeder, I tend to say that, should I be able to nurse this second baby, I will never complain about engorgement, leaking, nipple tenderness, thrush infections, or being wakened in the night. Nor will you ever hear me say, as so many friends do as their nurslings reach the age of three or so, that I just want it to be over so I can have my body back! No, indeed!

But I will. I'll say, "I love nursing, but if I can't shake this thrush infection I'm going to put my fist through a window in frustration!" I'm going to say, "I love nursing, but now that this kid is old enough to put his request to nurse in writing, I'm seriously thinking about cutting back a little."

And that's OK. Just like it's OK for me to have spent the last 34 weeks whining about the discomforts of a pregnancy that I wanted more than I have wanted anything before. This baby is the fulfillment of all my deepest hopes for my life, and I still wish I could have gotten him without the 20+ weeks of nausea and the backache and the heartburn and the crushing fatigue.

Infertile moms: I am going to rejoice like a sonofabitch when you get pregnant. And when you habitual aborters pass the first trimester and other milestones. And when your children are born. And I will never reproach you if, during those pregnancies, you let slip that you are not loving every moment. That maybe you even hate some parts of it. This is true of motherhood, too. I am one of the happiest moms I know and I still have days when I wish I could just put the kid down and wander off on my own for awhile. I have one of the easiest kids on the planet (if he were any easier, he wouldn't be human) and I still have days when I want to call David at work and say, "You need to come home now or something regrettable might happen." I have even done it, once or twice. (The call, not the regrettable thing.)

That's how it is. And it's OK.

Posted by Su Penn at March 2, 2004 11:59 PM | TrackBack