So many of us struggle with infertility,
yet we do so in the shadows. The unspoken struggles of eerily white negative pregnancy tests.
The heartbreak of another month gone; our
wombs longing for children. Something so natural, something so normal, something we cannot do.
It divides us from the rest of the world.
This
month, The Band, we're inviting all of you who have struggled with infertility and miscarriage to bring your stories to the light.
It's time to shine the spotlight on infertility and destroy the shadows we live in.
At six-years old, I was burned by hot cooking oil. That same year, I had my appendix removed.
I gained a cesarean scar at the age of 27, and again at 30 and 35.
These are only the big scars among the visible scars on my body.
I barely notice these scars anymore. I really only think of them when chronicling my medical history.
These are not the scars that mark me the most. These are not the scars that mark my soul.
The scars that mark my soul are much more subtle. They are something not even a doctor could find.
They are the scars left behind by infertility.
Infertility stripped away my faith in my body.
When you grow up and dream of a family, you assume that when you want to start a family it will happen without delay or trouble.
With infertility, that is proven false.
I no longer automatically believed that my body would do what it was supposed to do.
I no longer believed every pregnancy would bring a baby.
Infertility destroyed my faith in medical odds.
Sure, we had occasionally ended up on the wrong side of the medical odds before infertility; once we started down the IF highway, the odds were never in our favor.
Time and time again, things should have worked out but then they didn't.
I honestly think that the next doctor who tells me it only happens to 5-10% of patients might get bitch-slapped because it seems that I'm always one of them.
Infertility stripped me of the pure joy I had previously felt when a pregnancy was announced.
I'm still happy for my friends when they announce their pregnancies, but the happiness is tainted by worry and a little side helping of "why not me."
Now, years later, the scars of infertility have faded. They are no longer a throbbing, painful reminder of all we fought against and all we lost.
They've, instead, faded into a silvery map covering my heart and soul.
Every now and then something triggers the memories and longings, and those scars become painfully real again.
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