What is infertility really like?

I was thinking about how I might describe my experience with infertility - the rollercoaster ride we sometimes go through and the inner battles that we have at times. The intensity comes and dissipates as life continues, but when the pain is there it can be quite painful. I was describing that pain to my husband this morning and I likened it to a coma....

Infertility is like finding out that someone you dearly love is in coma. You hear the bad news and you run over to the hospital to see what is happening. "What happened? How did this happen? Why? Is she ever going to wake up? What do you mean you don't really know? Oh God, please." You cry, you hold her hand, you pray, you talk to her, you hope, and you wait. As you wait, you dream about her waking up miraculously and this nightmare being all over. You tell yourself, "She will wake up. She must. It will happen sooner or later."

Now, imagine this happening year after year (in my case 6 years so far). Day after day, month after month, year after year, you are hoping that she will wake up. You are hoping for that miracle and you pray earnestly and eagerly. When that moment of doubt comes and you wonder if anything will change, there is a sudden feeling of guilt for losing out on hope. And you do wonder, "How much longer can I hold out on hope or is my hope a mask for denial?"

After a while, you come to realize that you have to move on with your life and that you can't remain by her bedside all the time. So, you continue on with your life. You work, laugh with friends, go on outings, celebrate new births, and enjoy what life has to offer. You still go and visit, and tend to her needs, but it starts to not feel all consuming as it once used to. After a few years, life with a comatose loved one has become a norm.

One day you hear about some amazing success stories of various medical procedures that have proven successful in waking up patients in comas. Although they have proven to be successful in many situations, you are warned that there are no guarantees. "Really, it is a little like gambling," the doctor tells you. "Sometimes it works great. Other times it doesn’t. Sometimes everything goes medically perfectly, and patients don't wake up. Other times, they do." It sounds promising and you wonder if this is what you have been waiting for.... "If it has worked for others, maybe it can work for her too." Suddenly you feel hope lifting its head up again and gaining strength. The next few months, you consult with doctors and decide that it is worth giving it a try.

On the day of the operation, the doctor informs you, "There were minor complications along the way, but her body seems to be responding." There is a surge of adrenaline and excitement that runs through your body with the realization that this nightmare could all end soon. “It could all end with this surgery. Incredible.” However, before you get drowned in hope, you remember the doctor’s warning, “….sometimes patients don’t wake up.” Elated hope has been replaced with cautious hope.

The next day you return to the hospital to see how she is doing, hoping for some reassurance. The doctor reminds you, "There is no way for us to know whether it was successful until after two weeks. We don’t recommend looking for signs of change now. There might be signs, but we won’t know what they mean until we run the tests in two weeks. Small movements are not necessarily a sign that she will recover. I know it will be hard, but try to wait patiently." While the doctor is speaking, you wonder, "So signs are inconclusive, but they are better than no signs right?" You decide to listen to the doctor’s advice and try to be patient for the next two weeks.

You realize that it has been a while since you have been daily by her bed side. Day after day, you find yourself holding and caressing her hands, speaking to her, reminding her how much you love her, and praying that God would answer your prayers for a miracle. There is nothing else that the doctor could do for you. He is waiting with you, hoping for success. So, you pray and let hope live.

"Oh my gosh, did I just see a little movement in her finger?" You feel excited at what you thought was a slight movement in her finger. But then, you quickly realize that maybe it was just a muscle spasm. Even though the doctor warned you that it is not possible to know for certain the final outcome until the end of two weeks, you find your eyes wandering for any sign of alertness and movement. You remind yourself, "Day 5. Okay, nine more days to go." Day 6, day 7, day 8...Each day begins to feel longer than the previous day, and day 14 feels farther than it has ever been.

By day 14, you are pretty worn out, but excited to have finally reached this day. "This is the day we have all been waiting for!" You excitedly and nervously tell yourself. "Today is the moment of truth! It will be good news…" As you speak to yourself, you're not sure whether you have succeeded in reassuring yourself or creating more space for a heart ache. You decide it is better to be optimistic than pessimistic.

“God, I pray and ask for a miracle. I ask that you would bring her back. I pray that I would hear that she will wake up. Please God…” The whole drive to the hospital, all you can hear is your own voice, desperately crying out to God… prayers for success, prayers for peace, prayers for a miracle….

Upon entering the hospital, a few familiar faces greet you. You think, “They seem to be smiling… maybe that is a good sign.” Upon slowly opening the door to her room, you see her chart. She is not smiling or sitting up as you had imagined or hoped, but her chart was hanging by her bed. You reach over and you look, still hopeful, still praying, but not breathing. And, as you scan the page quickly, you see the words, "Movement Not Detected." You repeat the words a few more times, "Movement Not Detected." "Movement Not Detected...." The heart's immediate reaction is to protect itself and you feel numb. You smile, thank the hospital staff, and try to get out of the door as quickly as possible. As soon as you step outside the door, you can still hear the words ringing in your ears, “Movement Not Detected,” and you want to scream, “Why not? Why is it not detected? Why not? Why not? Why not…?”

As tears begin to form everything begins to look a little blurry. You feel cheated by hope. You wonder if hope had blurred your senses. Hope feels like the enemy, for hope had given birth to pain again. You had not realized until now how intricately intertwined hope and pain are. One cannot exist without the other. Because to hope, is to risk pain, and in choosing to hope, you had opened the door for failure. Now you are faced with the question, “Will you dare hope again?”