Just a chat

This morning I went into the doctor's office for my second follow up appointment. No news yet, of course. (Basically, I'm at the place where most people wouldn't be really even wondering whether or not they were pregnant except that I saw two tiny dot-babies placed inside me.) As I sat in the waiting room, surrounded by silent, strong women, I was struck by the fact that we were all sharing a similar struggle and yet none of us felt comfortable even looking into one another's eyes. Is there something shameful about this process? Is it so private that it becomes secretive? Is it so difficult that we'd rather only whisper about it to the people we love?

I would have completely avoided eye contact (as is the unspoken fertility waiting room etiquette) except that a smiling, young black woman who was practically glowing (really) looked me right in the eye and whispered a polite greeting. In the past three months in that waiting room, I don't think I've ever had that response. Sitting across from us was a woman staring intently at her magazine of choice. A moment later, another woman--this one thin, white with long, blond hair--entered the room with a pained expression on her features. She hadn't even yet signed in and she looked as if she might cry at any moment. As she sat nearby, she made the fourth corner of our silent little female fertility party.

I broke the ice, looking at the friendliest face first. She seemed happy after all. "Are you finished with all your treatments?"

She nodded and smiled the grin of the finished. "I'm in my two week wait."

"Me too," I answered, happy to have been warmly received. Within a few minutes I found out her story, using the lingo that all fertility females know just like our ABC's. Day 5 transfer. 25 eggs. 19 fertilized. Ended with "only" 17 embryos. "Only?" I asked, aware that the women sitting near us may not have dreamed of every being that lucky. But this gal was only 26, an embryo herself in the world of fertility.

"We tried for a while, and then we decided to adopt," she said. "We went through CPS and had our little boy for a year and a half before he was taken back to his mom." She said it with the socially-expected non-emotionalism, but I could tell that baby was hers heart and soul. Still, she seemed cheerful, saying that she just wants what's best for him.

When this young woman and I discovered that our transfers were approximately 45 minutes apart on the same day with the same doctor, she asked another standard question. "Have you been checking your levels?" Of course. And we compared ours. Similar, as expected.

The magazine woman was called into the doctor's office, leaving us with a triad of fertility females. Although the pained woman had interjected occasionally, she began to share more of her story eagerly after the smiling woman and I had talked for a while. She's almost forty, had a successful IVF, and lost the baby at two months. She had no embryos left over to freeze. "It's so frustrating to start from the beginning again," she said, her eyes downcast. Her husband is out of town, so his sperm is on ice, ready and waiting for the next fertilization.

"I'm so sorry. I could tell when you walked in that you were having a hard time." Simple words, but she seemed ready to hear someone who knows what this is like to look her in the eyes and apologize for her body's betrayal of her desires.

At one point during the conversation, I joked that we should start a support group, and I received a few chuckles, even from magazine woman. Perhaps that extreme isn't needed, and maybe eye contact, a grin, and a sincere "I'm sorry. This really sucks, doesn't it?" is all that's needed.

So, to any woman (fertility females or not) who is reading this and struggling through her own difficult place (with a man, a baby/child, a boss/job, an adoption, or your own body), let me take a moment to say "I'm sorry. This really sucks, doesn't it?" Now, let’s go forward together.

We’re strong women after all.