A guest post by Heather Shellen
It seemed as though my husband, Grant, and I did everything “right.” We were high school sweethearts, graduated college, had jobs we enjoyed, got married and lived in a great neighborhood. But there was one piece of our puzzle missing: children.
Since everything seemed to always fall into place for us, we were not worried about this last step. Besides, making a baby should be fun, right? And in August 2007, just three months into trying, we were overjoyed to see those two pink lines appear on the test stick. Things were happening exactly how they should be, and we were going to be parents. Our joy was short-lived, as the pregnancy was over almost before it began. Three months later, we were in the same situation and I miscarried once again.
After the second miscarriage, while devastated, we were hopeful that we could still get pregnant on our own and continued to try the “old-fashioned way” for about a year, but every month was unsuccessful. We moved on to fertility treatments, which were stressful, scheduled and highly unromantic. Nothing seemed to be working the way it was supposed to be and as the months ticked by, I fell deeper and deeper into depression.
Fearful that my growing depression might be having an effect on my fertility, I was desperate to try to get it under control. I started seeing a counselor and even went on anti-depressants, but I also started journaling about my experiences trying to make a baby.
I resisted starting a journal about my infertility because I had already lived (and was living) it once, and the thought of revisiting the past, even if only through writing, was frankly unappealing. Even if they were just words on a page, why would I want to go back to that emergency room when the insensitive doctor asked me if the baby I was losing was a “planned pregnancy?” Or how I had to sit down in the waiting room of the ER next to a homeless gentleman who was clearly coming down off of some kind of recreational drug high?
Because if I hadn’t used my journal to help me begin the healing process, I also would not have remembered the ultrasound technician who sweetly held my hand and said, “I know, sweetheart. I’ve been here too.” Or the nurse who brushed the hair off of my sweaty, tearful face and told me not to cry or be afraid because I would get my baby someday.
Thanks to journaling, I began to realize that there were actually beams of light even amidst my darkest days. My journal even helped me recall, to my surprise, the humorous moments during our struggles. For example, one of the many things I tried in an attempt to improve my baby-making karma was acupuncture. Through typical doctor/patient small talk, my acupuncturist found out I used to sing in the choir in college. Armed with this new information about a former hobby of mine, she seized the opportunity and asked me to help her with that very same hobby, one she had recently just picked up...in the waiting room of her office. Here is what I had to say about it:
“Right now, in the waiting room, I am being asked to sing ‘Edelweiss’ to my acupuncturist. Because the needle thing was not weird enough...I'm no Celine, but with one eye on the door praying that no on would walk in, I tried to help her as best I could by sitting next to her on her waiting room couch and singing. ‘Edelweiss.’ Oh. My. God. What the hell is happening right now?”
There are still parts of my two-year struggle with infertility that I haven’t written in my journal yet; some parts of it are still too painful to relive. And I grant myself permission to say, “I’m not ready to go to that place right now. Someday, but not yet.” But every time I am willing to spend some time journaling an experience about my past I know it helps me heal all that much more and that is what I am really proud of.
Well, that and the sweet little boy who is running around at my feet these days. The little boy who loves dinosaurs, macaroni and cheese, finding airplanes in the sky and big hugs from his mom and dad. The little boy who took me two years and a journal full of stories to meet and help me realize that everything did actually happen exactly how it was supposed to happen.
About the Author
Heather Shellen is a former caseworker turned stay-at-home mom and blogger. She loves food, wine, family and friends and writes about them all at http://www.ilovetongs.com. She lives in the San Francisco Bay Area with her husband, Grant, son, Charlie and her 13-year-old goldfish, Ernesto.
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