Infertility Has Turned Me Into a Jerk

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In November of last year, I sent a playful emoji message (two hearts, a bed, an hourglass, and a baby bottle) to my dear friend, excitedly sharing that I was pregnant. It was a funny mix-up since she thought I was asking if she was expecting. Her reply? Yes! Turns out, she was pregnant too. I was only five and a half weeks along, but I felt the urge to tell someone. After experiencing a miscarriage a year earlier, I figured if it happened again, she would be someone I could confide in. I never imagined I’d go through that heartache again. My friend was eight and a half weeks along and younger than me.

You can probably guess what happened next. I miscarried. It felt like déjà vu, with that same bright red blood on the toilet paper and the familiar cramping. I received one of those newsletters saying the fetus was the size of a poppy seed and that a heartbeat would have been detected soon. My little boy patted my head, saying, “Mama, you’re OK,” every time he noticed me crying. Early in a pregnancy, that tiny embryo is merely a whisper of hope. It’s hard to call it “miscarrying” when what you’re carrying feels like just a fragment of a dream. But I still remember the pregnancy test showing a solid line.

Since then, I’ve seen photos of my beautiful friend with her growing belly, and I can’t help but feel… disgusted with myself. I can click “like” on her Facebook posts, but I struggle to express genuine joy. Envy can be such a nasty emotion.

Another friend recently announced she is pregnant with her third child, and I still haven’t managed to send her a congratulatory message. I want to be happy for her, truly, but somehow, my good intentions don’t reach my heart. They freeze there. When I see acquaintances celebrating their pregnancies online, my first thought is often, “How nice for you.” Walking home with my son, I see young moms with their kids, and I can feel contempt wafting off me, making the air heavy.

Speaking of my son, I recognize how fortunate I am to have him. I know this. My husband is amazing, and our six-year-old is a delight. On good days, I appreciate the simplicity of our family. On bad days, however, I feel like something is missing. My son, who is already such a cool kid, has been labeled autistic. My husband, who is an incredible father and partner, becomes the man who hasn’t given me a second child during what may be the last years of my fertility. When self-pity sneaks in, I find myself lamenting that I never want to hold another baby—because I’d just have to let it go again—while I wipe angry tears away as I drive to work.

I’m consumed by thoughts of what could have been. I picture my ovaries as pomegranates losing their juicy seeds, leaving me with only a few shriveled ones clinging to the walls of an empty chamber. I even ponder why someone can’t just hand me one of those unwanted babies from the news, the ones who tragically didn’t survive. I remember seeing women on TV who create lifelike dolls of babies, a coping mechanism after enduring multiple miscarriages. Sometimes, I wonder how far I can let my sadness carry me before I’m too far gone.

I find myself obsessing over what-ifs. I once met a poet in Los Angeles whose loft looked out over a beautiful view while Bryan Ferry played in the background, reminding me that love can be consuming. I shared my story with her about my son, who finally feels like he’s here to stay, and our struggles to have another child. She said, “We get what we get,” and “We all have our crosses to bear.” I mentioned my son’s preschool teacher, who finished, “We get what we get” with “…we don’t get upset.” When I asked if she had kids, she revealed, “I had a son, but he passed away.” That moment still hangs heavy in the air, along with my guilt.

I’ve never envied anyone for their big houses or fancy cars, but I desperately wanted a second child, and it seems that dream is slipping away. Meanwhile, my younger friends keep expanding their families. When I see young mothers using WIC vouchers at the grocery store while juggling kids, I can’t help but think, “Why am I paying taxes for you to keep having babies?” When lovely women with large families complain about being tired, I find myself thinking, “Maybe you shouldn’t have had so many kids.” Age-related infertility has turned me into something I don’t like.

There are undoubtedly women who would envy my situation because of my son. I remember the bittersweet moment when he first latched on, that feeling of connection. I stored away the little clothes he wore home from the hospital in a Ziploc bag, hidden in the attic. A family member shared how, during their struggles to have a child, his wife wanted to strangle every friend who announced their pregnancy. The absence of what we desire can make the pain all the more acute. I’m sure that when I announced my pregnancy with my son, someone out there thought, “How nice for her.”

What if I were to admit that I’m still trying? Acknowledging that I’m often overwhelmed by dark feelings might be a step towards healing, right? I’ve sought therapy, but I quit when the advice felt too cliché to be helpful. I’ve tried immersing myself in my work as a writer and repeating the mantra of “practicing gratitude,” hoping it sticks. I’ve even turned to antidepressants, which help me cry less but also make it harder to feel. I feel more capable, but I wonder if I’ll ever get back to the sweetness of my heart before it turned sour.

This isn’t who I want to be.

In summary, the struggles of infertility can lead to complex emotions, including envy and self-disgust. It’s a painful journey that many face, and while there’s no easy solution, recognizing these feelings is a crucial step toward healing. For those navigating similar paths, resources like this blog post on home insemination and this guide on pregnancy can offer valuable insights. Additionally, Make A Mom provides authoritative information on home insemination kits.