super sweet

Dairy Queen is my absolute favorite. Okay, I have a lot of absolute favorites, but Dairy Queen blizzards are definitely one of them. I always order the same, high maintenance concoction, and it goes something like this, "Hi, yeah...um, I'll have a medium cookie dough and peanut butter cup blizzard. Like a cookie dough blizzard with an extra helping of peanut butter cups on top of the regular amount of cookie dough. I'll pay the fifty cents for extra stuff. And please hold the chocolate sauce."

Andrew and I have had several conversations about how to minimize the word count on my order, but every time I try, I seriously regret it. If I risk leaving out the chocolate sauce instructions, they inevitably put it in. If I just order a blizzard with cookie dough and peanut butter cups, they tend to skimp on the mix-ins, giving me just one ration rather than the double scoop that I really truly do need. 

So if you work at Dairy Queen, thank you from the bottom of my heart for not spitting in my suped up blizzard. And if you actually have spit in my blizzard...I honestly don't care all that much. They're delicious every time, spit or no spit.

Anyways, last summer Andrew and I headed to the nearest Dairy Queen to celebrate a lazy, beautiful Sunday evening. Andrew went in ahead of Harriet and I to grab a spot in the fairly long line. I hoisted Harriet from her carseat, set her on my hip and slowly made my way towards the door. As I was walking, I noticed a high school kid pulling his car up beside ours. The front corner of his bumper looked like it was coming quite close to our car..and then it made contact...and he didn't even slow down. I heard the grind of metal on metal as he continued to pull into his parking spot, leaving a significant scratch/dent in our door.

"Um, you just hit our car," I informed him as exited his vehicle and started towards the building, totally unphased.

"Ooooh. Sorry about that," he answered as he kept walking.

I'm kind of embarrassed to say that at this point, I honestly had no idea what to do. Usually the person who hits you offers their insurance info, phone number, and to pay for the damage. I should know. I have been on that side of the equation a few times. But never on this side. So I went to get Andrew who explained to the kid what happens in situations like this.

"Oh man," the kid started to sweat a little bit. "Do you think we can just let this one slide?"

Yes, he actually said that. We tried hard not to laugh.

"My parents are going to be super mad at me," he said and then paused, waiting for us to start our next sentence with "oh, well in that case..." We didn't.

"Yeah," Andrew replied with lots of genuine empathy. "I know it really sucks. We've been there. It's just kind of part of life. They'll get over it eventually."

"Is there anything I can do to make it up to you?" the kid asked in desperation.

"Yeah," we answered again with apologetic expressions, "Pay for the repair."

He walked away completely and utterly defeated.

Two minutes later, it was almost our turn to order our food. I heard nervous breathing behind me and turned around to find the kid very much in my bubble. He asked us again if we could just "let this one slide." He reminded us how angry his parents were going to be. We apologized and talked him through the fact that it was an honest mistake, but that even mistakes have to be paid for in life.

He gave up and exited the store.

A minute later, we were collecting our blizzards when out of the corner of my eye, I spotted the kid again, about a foot behind us.

"Have you ever heard of [insert name of very expensive private school]?" he asks us.

"Yep."

"Well, I go there. And I'm super stressed out with finals."

I wanted to be like, "Kid, this is not helping your case."

"And my mom has a stressful job," he pauses to think of something else to throw in there but goes back to the always reliable - "my parents are going to be so mad."

Andrew just asks him straight up, "Kid, are your parents actually going to hurt you when they hear about this?"

"Weeeeell...I don't think so."

Well played, kid. Well played.

So we had the same conversation for a third time and sent him on his not-so-merry way. Andrew called his mom that night who seemed very nice and everything was handled smoothly.

I just hope his finals went okay.

One would think that this experience would have dampened the delight I experienced while savoring my blizzard...not one bit. In fact, I was back two days later...and two days after that.

I love sugar. You may remember the cake mix incident. I know that it's not the greatest thing for my polycystic ovarian syndrome (in fact, it's probably the worst), so I'm really trying to cut back. Right now, I'm craving one of the white chocolate s'mores bars that I made last night, but I'm not...giving...in.

Thankfully, Marcy at No Maybe Baby sweetened my day by nominating me for the Super Sweet Blogging Award! Marcy is a wonderful blogger whom I feel blessed to have discovered during National Infertility Awareness Week. She's a great writer and is the author of No Maybe Baby: My Journey Through Infertility. Thanks, Marcy, for the recognition!

So here's what I need to do:

Thank Marcy (done) 

Answer 5 super sweet questions

Include the Super Sweet Blogging award image in the blog post (done)

Nominate 12 other bloggers

Super Sweet Questions: 

1. Cookies or cake? Cookies, but only if they're soft and chewy. These are my specialty:

2. Chocolate or vanilla? Vanilla, hands down.

3. Favorite sweet treat? Remember the white chocolate s'mores bars I was talking about earlier? Yeah, those. Here's the recipe. And by the way, I ended up caving. I just ate one...a big one.

4. When do you crave sweet things the most? When I'm not asleep.

5. Sweet nickname? When I was really little and my brother was even littler, he couldn't say Emily so he called me Embellina. It's odd that the more complicated version was easier for him, but I love the sound of it.

Now for a blogroll of 12 Super Sweet Bloggers! 

Genuine Greavu
Amanda chose the perfect word to title her blog - genuine. Because that's exactly what she is. She's genuine in her blog posts and also with her comments. Her faith is an inspiration to me, and I have been blessed by her time and time again.

Old Lady and No Baby
Amber is to be admired not just for her honest writing and steadfast encouragement but also for the mentoring role she plays as a softball coach. Many times while reading her posts, I have prayed that someday my daughter will have a role model like Amber in her life.

ladyblogalot
Kate is a delight. She continually finds the humorous side of infertility and writes about her journey in a way that makes me laugh out loud every time. She's a fighter and I'm so glad to be able to share this blogosphere with her.

Operation Baby Gage 
Lindsey is a fairly new addition to my blog list, and I'm thrilled to have found her. She is in the midst of something really big right now, so stop on by her wonderful blog and show her some love. You'll be so glad you did.

Team Harries Beats Infertility
Caroline's blog posts have spoken straight to my heart right when I needed some encouragement. She is a courageous woman of faith who has become a friend. I'm always glad to see something new from her in my reader.

Who Shot Down My Stork?
Risa is a refreshingly funny writer whose posts are full of raw, unedited stories about the highs and lows of infertility. Her husband Chris sometimes blogs too, which is always a treat. This lovely couple is starting IVF so stop by Risa's blog and offer some encouragement.

Starbucks, Peace, and the Pursuit of a Baby
Chelsea is a lovely blogger whom I have had the privilege of following for a while now. She is currently going through a tough time, and although she is handling it with courage and grace, I'm sure she could use some extra love. Please check out her blog and leave a comment of kindness.

You've Got a Friend in Me
I met Karolyn a long time ago when her sister was one of my college roommates. We've recently reconnected because she's weathering the storm of infertility and blogging beautifully about it. I always feel really grateful for her posts - such positivity, faith, and perseverance.

Bereaved and Blessed
Kathy is truly dedicated to this community and her blog is just fabulous. She writes about loss and secondary infertility in a beautifully transparent way. She is a very faithful, thoughtful commenter, and she has been a great encouragement to me over email as well.

Midwest Pillow Talk
Sarah is a lot of fun. I always look forward to her posts because they're inevitably hilarious, heartwarming or both. She and I recently set up a little blogger blind date, so I'm really looking forward to meeting her in a few weeks.

Fertile Healing
Tanya's blog is an excellent resource - a place of serenity and safety in the midst of the chaos of infertility. Tanya is using her journey through infertility to help others survive the journey. Stop by her site to check out her IVF survival guide, infertility book reviews, and tips for coping with the infamous two-week wait.

Bruce's Running Blog
Is it okay if I nominate my dad? His blog isn't about infertility...obviously. It's actually about running. He ran competitively in high school and then didn't run at all for thirty-two years. The year he turned fifty, he ran his first marathon. He was injured during his training, so the longest run he completed in preparation for the big race was a ten mile. He didn't expect to finish the marathon...but he did. And he did pretty well. Since then, my dad has run a bunch of marathons, including the Boston Marathon which I was privileged to attend. He has won lots of medal and I always jump at the chance to brag him up...like right now. His best marathon time is 3:11:44. In a 7K last year, he placed 20th out of 8,786 runners and won his age category of 84 finishers.  If you are interested in running...or even if you're not, stop by his blog and check it out. He hasn't written since last November because his last five races have been canceled (or he's decided not to run) due to awful weather. We're hoping he gets to race again soon. My dad is a huge inspiration to me and has really shown me the meaning of discipline and hard work.

hope

That's it.

I'm calling my doctor. I'm going to be my own advocate. I'm going to demand a change in my protocol.

I need a prescription for hope. 

I need my doctor to pick up his fancy pen and almost illegibly scrawl the word hope on his prescription pad. I need him to pick a dose - the perfect dose for my circumstance, my personality. I need a dose that's big enough to count as positive thinking but small enough that the side effects won't leave me incapacitated if this cycle's a bust. I need to stop by the pharmacy later today, pick up my white paper bag, and undo the single staple to find tiny vials of hope clinking together alongside my femara and ovidrel.     

And if this wasn't a daydream...if it was really, truly real...I would sit down in the driver's seat of my car and plunge that tiny needle through the vial's rubber cap. I'd draw up that perfect dose - the one predetermined by my doctor to lift my spirits without diminishing my ability to be realistic. I'd pinch some fat on my belly, count to three, and with a long exhale and a wince, I'd set that hope formula free in my system and wait for it to kick in.

"It's working," I'd tell my husband as I walked through the door.

"How do you know?"

"I had a vision of us at the hospital, introducing Harriet to her new brother or sister...and I didn't even feel silly," I'd answer.

church

If there's one thing I've done a lot of in my life, it's church. 

I’ve fidgeted through seemingly endless elementary school chapel services.

I’ve caught the short-lived fever of confession and spiritual renewal at youth rallies.

I’ve sung from my soul in the darkness at Vespers in college.

I’ve sweated through my sundress at four-hour gospel services.

I’ve joined my spiritual family to worship under a tent the week after our beautiful church burned to the ground.

I’ve worshiped in whispers with an underground church community in Turkey.

I’ve tucked my head around the thick curtain of a Tibetan Buddhist monastery in Nepal and reveled in the intoxicating chants.

I’ve stood silently and breathed the wet, sacred air inside a ramshackle leper colony church outside Kathmandu.

I’ve visited the Vatican three times and have marveled at the mystery and majesty of that space.

I’ve spent many nights sleeping in the choir loft of a dear old London church.

I’ve been forever changed by witnessing Sabbath at the Western Wall in Jerusalem.

And now…I attend a massive church with several campuses and thousands of attendees. A church where I couldn’t name more than fifteen friends and most weekends, I attend services without seeing a single one of them. A church with stadium seating and its own coffee shop.

It’s a far cry from some of the other places of worship I’ve visited, but I love it. I love taking Harriet there and entrusting her to the kind-faced grandmother in the nursery. I love the loud music and that irresistible urge to not only sing along, but to dance a little too. I love gleaning the wisdom of the Word and of those who faithfully study it.

But there have been times in my life when church is the very last place I want to be. When I was small, sunny days tempted me into praying that the pastor would forget his last few points and let us out early. But as an adult, I’ve dreaded church the most on Mother’s Day.

I’m not sure why but churches make a big deal out of these parent holidays. They give flowers to the moms, candy to the dads. They share messages about how wonderful mamas are and how men need to step up to the plate. (I’m not sure why this is, but it just is.) Women and their little daughters dress in coordinating outfits while guys don shirts declaring “#1 Dad” and “World’s Greatest.” And all the while, men and women who are in the throes of infertility sink deeper into their seats and hide their broken hearts behind bulletins and Bibles.

So the year after Ethan died, I sent an email to my church leadership. I got the main template off of the Resolve website and then altered it a bit to make it more personal. 

Dear Pastors and Staff,

My name is Em. My husband and I are church members and have been attending and volunteering for about four years now.

As you know, Mother’s Day and Father’s Day are quickly approaching, and I’m sure you’re busy preparing your messages.

  

Please consider the fact that 1 in 8 couples of childbearing age are struggling with infertility. My husband and I have been personally touched by this issue. We became pregnant with our son, Ethan Andrew, as a result of infertility treatments. Sadly, we lost him at about five months gestation. We started treatments a few months after his death and ended up losing a second baby very early in the pregnancy. We are still undergoing infertility treatments and after much prayer, discussion, and research, we are currently in the middle of the in vitro fertilization process. I never would have guessed that nearly two years after we first started trying to conceive, we would have two babies in heaven, and none here on earth with us. Infertility takes an incredible toll on families - emotionally, financially, relationally, mentally, and spiritually.

Infertility has stolen so much from us - financial security, relationships, even aspects of our personalities. Infertility affects couples for years after their infertility journey, even if they are able to have children on their own. 

Unfortunately, church can be one of the most difficult places to be when you have lost a baby or are struggling with infertility. Walking by the nursery, listening to announcements about kids’ programming, seeing children everywhere, hearing pastors tell stories about kids, listening to a message series on raising children, attending parent/child dedications...it all can be painful and can make church feel like an emotionally dangerous place. Many religious and social events revolve around children, and couples without them sometimes feel uncomfortable or left out of activities altogether. Because the topic of infertility involves reproduction, it is an extremely personal problem that couples face. For this reason, it is often a very difficult topic to discuss, even with a trusted pastor.

Although infertility is rarely physically life threatening, it can be devastating to a person's sense of hope. Couples often endure monthly cycles of emotional roller coaster rides, ranging from optimism and excitement to despair and depression. Infertility sometimes lasts for years and people often go through this experience in isolation, as their desire for a larger family remains unfulfilled.

I ask that you keep these points in mind, particularly during worship services, and that you remember couples with infertility in your prayers just as you honor all the mothers and fathers in our congregation. Especially as you prepare your Mother's Day and Father's Day messages this year, please know that these particular holidays are two of the most painful days for those struggling to have children and those who have lost children. These days can also be incredibly painful for single people who have never had the opportunity to have children, parents who have lost grown children, and those who are estranged from their families.

One quick word about child dedications: Please always remember to announce them ahead of time so couples facing infertility and baby loss can either choose not to attend that service or can at least be prepared for it. Being surprised by a child dedication service is incredible painful. Our son Ethan would have been dedicated at the most recent child dedication service. Sitting in that service and seeing all of the other babies who would have been his peers brought me to tears. I am not sure if it would be possible to have flowers up front on child dedication days to recognize the babies who would have been dedicated that day if they would have lived, but I thought I'd throw the idea out there. I know that child dedication is a joyous time, and I do not want to take away from that. But up to 50% of pregnancies end in miscarriage, so chances are, there are many, many families in the audience who would be blessed by a simple gesture or recognition of their children in Heaven. My husband and I would be more than happy to contribute some money if that is an issue. 

If you would like more information about infertility, please visit the RESOLVE website at www.resolve.org.  

Before I close, I want to mention that one of the pastors contacted us the day after we lost Ethan, and two pastors came to our house with flowers and prayers. I have also sought prayer about this issue after services from the prayer volunteers and have been incredibly blessed by them. I am now an after-service prayer helper because I want to offer others the same encouragement the prayer volunteers have offered me. We love this church and have no complaints. But because we have been so deeply touched by this issue, I want to be an advocate for other childless moms and dads and those who want children but have yet to become pregnant. Even if you decide not to say anything from the stage or make any changes to the way child and parenting matters are handled, I think I speak for all of us dealing with infertility when I say that we will be very grateful if you keep us in your minds, hearts, and prayers.

Thank you in advance for your consideration in this matter.

Sincerely,

Em

Both times I sent versions of this email, it went unanswered. But a few weeks later, our senior pastor spent some time in his sermon talking about the many years he and his wife struggled to get pregnant. And since then, I have noticed infertility mentioned many times. I’m not in any way saying that this was a result of my email. In fact, they may have always been sensitive to this issue. Perhaps I just missed it when it didn’t yet seem to apply to me. At the time, I questioned whether I sounded whiny or self-focused, but in retrospect, I’m glad that I spoke up.

Feel free to cut and paste portions of the above email if you’d like to share it with your church leadership. But you might be better off visiting the RESOLVE website and using the templates they have written.

To all of my infertile friends out there, may peace follow you on Mother’s Day and Father’s Day. May you find a way to honor yourself and your struggle. And may church someday feel like the safe spiritual home it was meant to be…for all of us.

join the movement...validate

I'm realizing more and more that I am a voice for infertility. I'm not a loud voice or an especially unique voice or a brilliant voice or anything like that...just a voice. Many issues are close to my heart - the education of women around the world, racism, fighting the stigma surrounding mental illness...the list goes on.

But right now, infertility is my focus. Maybe it's because I'm in the procreating stage of life. Maybe it's because at least every other day, I hear from another woman who is struggling through infertility and loss. We are 1 in 8. We are everywhere.

But I've got to be honest. Sometimes, in moments of self doubt, I wonder whether my cause is worthwhile. Don't get me wrong. It's important. That's for sure. 

But it's not cancer.

It's not AIDS.

It's not domestic violence.

It's not starvation or malaria or sex trafficking. 

It's not killing anybody.

And maybe that's true. Maybe deaths directly related to infertility are extremely rare. Maybe it's never even happened. But if that's our measuring stick - whether anyone dies from it - then aren't our standards pretty low?

Infertility may not steal lives from this earth but it does steal dreams, joy and life savings. It steals emotional stability. It steals friendships and even marriages. Infertility can steal our self esteem, our careers, even our faith.

I remember reading a study that states that the rates of depression and anxiety in individuals suffering from infertility rival those of patients diagnosed with other very serious diseases, including cancer and hypertension. Infertility is an excruciating journey, one that seems to swallow our lives whole. It's surrounded by stigma and ignorance. Infertility diagnoses such an endometriosis can cause debilitating chronic pain. Polycystic ovarian syndrome can make it very difficult to maintain a healthy weight, which in turn can contribute to all sorts of physical problems. In certain cases, miscarriages and ectopic pregnancies can be extremely dangerous to the health of the mother. 

I also want to make the point that people are dying from infertility...our children are dying. After miscarrying our son Ethan at 19 weeks, my doctor told us that my specific infertility diagnosis played a role in his death. I've read many definitions of infertility that include "recurrent miscarriage" as a factor. We, as an infertility community, are losing babies every day.

But despite all of this, I know that many of us remain unconvinced that infertility is a big deal. Insurance companies still put infertile people in a category with those seeking breast augmentations. We still hear things like, "You can borrow my kids any time!" and "Maybe you're just not doing it right." Like I mentioned earlier, sometimes even I, as a self-proclaimed voice for infertility, struggle with doubts about whether I should be focusing my efforts on something...bigger. But earlier today, a thought dropped into my brain that will stick with me forever...

Those of you who have children, grandchildren, nieces and nephews...imagine with me for one awful moment what it would be like to lose them...to cancer...or a car crash...or a senseless act of violence. Imagine the devastation of that loss. Imagine the grief that would sink deep down into your soul and just stay there. Imagine the anger. Imagine the loss of joy, of faith, of purpose.

Now, instead...imagine never having had them at all. Imagine that they were never here, that those precious lives never even existed. That you were never able to touch them, talk to them, read to them, play with them. Imagine that they never had names, never had personalities. Imagine never being able to bury your laughter in their hair or see their picture hanging on your wall. Imagine that they were...nothing. But this isn't just a blank, benign nothingness. This is the type of nothingness that leaves a gaping, aching hole in your heart.

That's what it's like to have infertility. That's what it's like for the countless men and women for whom the most expensive, invasive treatments never work. That's what it's like for families who stay on the adoption waiting list for years and never receive a match. That's what it's like for couples who miscarry over and over. That's what it's like for families who know in their hearts that they were meant to have a large family but every evening, they set the table for only three or four.

That's why it's so important to know that infertility is a disease and that our struggle matters. So if you have someone in your life who is weathering the storm of infertility, please validate their journey. If you don't know how to do that, here are a few ideas to get you started:

• Say something like, "I'm so sorry that you have to go through this. I don't know what it's like to be in your shoes, but I would like listen if you feel like talking."
• Do a little bit of research on your friend's condition. Sometimes infertile people feel overwhelmed by having to explain their disease over and over and over, so it helps if you start out with even the most basic knowledge.
• Vow to never give advice unless your friend specifically asks you for it. Oftentimes, suggestions like "maybe you just need to relax" or "you can always adopt" end up doing more harm than good.

Please, join the movement. Validate the infertility journey and come alongside the ones who walk this path.

What is infertility?

About National Infertility Awareness Week

join the movement...smile courageously

I have been sitting here for a while now, staring at this smudged computer screen, trying to decide whether my idea is over-the-top crazy, borderline worthless, or downright life-changing.

Well, maybe every powerful movement starts out that way…so here goes nothing. This little dream was born a couple months ago as I wrestled with my thoughts and wrote these words…

I sat in the waiting room at the fertility clinic for 50 minutes. Fifty whole minutes. I was getting annoyed. Maybe I'm crazy, but there's a weird vibe in fertility clinic waiting rooms. When you sit in a regular doctor's waiting room, the people around you are there for all kinds of boring reasons - sore throat, ear infection, ingrown toenail...but at the fertility clinic, we're all there for the same exact reason. We want a baby. Really, really bad.

I try so hard not to stare at the people sitting near me, but I can't help it.

There is a woman in scrubs. She is my age and has a kind face. There's no way she's infertile, I think. She looks way too normal.

There's a really tall guy sitting behind me. His wife shows up and they talk quietly together. I want to give them some privacy, but I also kind of (okay, more than kind of) want to hear what they're saying. Are they doing IVF? Is it her issue or is it male factor infertility? Maybe both? How is their relationship holding up under this stress?

Another woman walks through the door, checks in and sits nearby. She leaves her coat on. She looks tired. I wonder how long she's been at this, how many cycles she's done, what meds she's tried, whether she's miscarried.

This happens to me every time I go to the clinic. Give me more than thirty seconds in that waiting room and I get this urge to start talking to the people around me. I want to ask the woman in scrubs how her treatments are going. I want to ask her if she has PCOS, endometriosis or low ovarian reserve. I want to ask about her husband's sperm count and whether they have any friends who have been down this road. I want to ask if they've considered IVF, whether they've gotten second opinions. I want to ask about their insurance coverage and how she's doing with all of this. Like really, how are you doing?

And I want her to ask me.

I want it to be a conversation. I want us to sit next to each other and laugh about the crazy places our men have given us shots and all of those birth control pills we religiously took way back when. I want the tired girl with the coat to hear us and move to where we're sitting, join in with a story about a pregnancy test she was sure was going to be positive...and wasn't. I want to put my hand on hers and tell her I'll say a prayer for her every time she comes to mind. I want to stand up when the nurse calls my name, turn back toward them and smile as I walk away. I want to say, "Nice talking with you."

But none of this happens. We just sit there - on our phones, in our magazines, sinking deeper into the collars of our shirts. We keep our mouths shut because we've heard of HIPAA and there's that sign ten feet from the front desk telling us to stand back to protect each other's privacy.

For some reason, all of this reminds me of the time I ran a marathon. The first thirteen miles were a breeze. Thousands of people lined the streets, cheering for us until their throats were sore. The spectators' roar mingled with my adrenaline to create the sensation that my feet were barely even hitting pavement. It was like I was floating. But then mile fourteen hit. It got really hard. The crowds lessened a bit. The day got hot. And I wanted more than anything to give up.

But there was this lady.

Her race badge said she was in the 70-75 age category and she ran with a limp, almost like she'd had a stroke. She passed me, and as she did, she spoke a word of encouragement that kept my feet moving. I passed her later on and made sure I returned the favor - just a "you go girl!" or "you're doing great!" to lift the spirits of a fellow runner. She passed me again. And again, she used a bit of that precious, fleeting energy to keep me going.

She wasn't the only one. There was a middle-aged guy, a couple of teenage girls, a group of moms. All of us runners were finding the strength to look past our own journey and speak words of encouragement to those who were struggling beside us. This is the reason I ran that marathon. It wasn’t just some crazy idea or something I wanted to check off my bucket list. Looking back, I know I was supposed to run that race so that I could feel that camaraderie...with total strangers.

And maybe this fertility stuff is kind of like a marathon. We're all running the same race with the same finish line. Some are young. Some are older. Some run with partners. And some run alone. Some run a little more smoothly and others really struggle. For some of us, it's our first race. And some of us know what it's like to cross that finish line. It can be exciting at first, even fun.

But then we hit mile fourteen. Maybe it's the realization that the money we set aside for treatments is running out. Maybe it's the third miscarriage, the eighth negative pregnancy test, the second canceled IVF cycle. And when we hit mile fourteen, we need more than we can offer ourselves. We need that 70-year-old lady. We need each other.

We're running the same race, with the same goal in sight, just an arm's reach from one another, but we're still really lonely.

So maybe someday, I'll do it. I might just speak up, take the risk.

"What are you in for?" I'll say to a woman in skinny jeans, clutching her insurance card. Maybe she'll be offended. Maybe she'll tell me it's none of my business.

Or maybe she'll take a deep breath and talk about it...actually talk about it. Maybe for the first time. Maybe she...maybe we...won't feel so lonely in that fertility clinic waiting room. Maybe I can be her lady with the limp. Maybe she can be mine.

And maybe someday, we won't really care how long it takes for the nurse to call our names.

It started with that dream, with that maybe. And then one day in the waiting room, I gathered up my courage…all of the courage that I’d earned from the infertility treatments and the blood draws and the tough conversations and the financial risks that infertility requires…and I used it to give my maybe a shot.

I decided to talk to someone. I picked a woman who looked really nice and friendly. I sat close enough to her to have a conversation but kept some distance between us to avoid freaking her out.

I took a deep breath and just dove in headfirst. 

"Are you here for blood work or an ultrasound?" I asked.

She didn't speak English.

So I just smiled. A genuine, smile that said both “this sucks, doesn’t it?” and “you’ve got this, girl.”

And she smiled back. A smile that said both “this is so awkward,” and “this is really great…really important.”

That weird, seemingly insignificant interaction changed me. I decided that I was going to begin a personal mission to light up the waiting room. To smile. To gulp down my fear and insecurity and maybe even say something to somebody. To make eye contact with other men and women who are struggling through this journey like I am.

So how many of you want to join the movement? It’s a humble, scary, little movement, but it’s a movement nonetheless. A movement towards making infertility clinic waiting rooms warmer and more friendly. A movement about deciding that advocacy starts by learning how to look one another in the eye and offer a gentle smile, a kind hello, an unspoken commitment to be the lady with the limp.

What is infertility?

About National Infertility Awareness Week

join the movement...tell your story

National Infertility Awareness Week is April 21-27. RESOLVE, the national infertility association, is sponsoring a Bloggers Unite event, centered around the theme - "Join the Movement." So this week, I plan to write several posts inspired by this idea.

Last year at this time, I participated in National Infertility Awareness Week by being interviewed for a local news story about infertility and The Family Act. Here's a link to the video and accompanying article that feature my story.

Less than twelve hours before the news program was set to air, I received a mass email from my former RESOLVE support group leader, asking if anyone was willing to talk to a reporter.  I emailed back immediately. I didn't even think twice. I was a little scared, of course. Would I be able to articulate my thoughts and feelings clearly? How would I be represented after the editing process? How would the story be received by the general public?

But I felt this visceral drive to tell my story, a drive that was much more powerful than fear and insecurity. I knew that by sharing our experience with infertility, late miscarriage and in vitro fertilization, I was also sharing the stories of millions of men and women who have walked, are walking, and will walk the unsteady path of infertility. I knew that I had to do it and I felt honored to be a voice for a group of people who often suffer silently.

I looked up the story a few days after it aired and read the comments. Of course, the comment that stuck out was the mean one. Someone stated that he questions the mental stability of "these people," meaning me and other IVF-ers. He said that wanting a child that badly suggests that we have underlying psychological problems and should see a shrink. He also added that there are lots of kids out there who need to be adopted.

Ouch. I don't even know this man, but his words hurt. I typed and then deleted four different responses to his comment. I'm so glad that I chose not to engage with him. I'm so glad that I chose to keep things positive. I'm so glad that I started a blog instead.

Sharing my story on this blog has changed my life. I have received countless emails, comments and texts from people who have lost a child and/or are having trouble conceiving. Many of them tell me that no one knows their struggle, that this is the first time they've talked about it, that they don't know anyone else who is infertile. I admire their courage in reaching out and starting to tell their story, even if it's just to one person. Even if I'm the only one reading their unborn child's name and sending back a little hope and encouragement. I feel humbled every time I get to share in their journey, even if it's just for a few steps.

So what's your story? It may not seem like much to you, but every story that's shared - whether spoken or written, whether whispered or broadcast around the world - matters. And every story adds an individual voice to our collective song. A song of heart break. A song of dreams unrealized. A song of hope. 

So join the movement. Tell your story.

We're listening.

What is infertility?

About National Infertility Awareness Week

the conservatory

It's late April and we're in the middle of a winter storm warning. I have a twelve-foot pile of snow in front of my house. I had to run my car for twenty minutes this morning in order to be able to chip the ice off. So today, we went to the conservatory...where it was warm. We saw beautiful flowers, mingled with koi fish, and breathed in the sweet and spicy scent of plants whose names we couldn't pronounce.

Here are some pictures from our fun (and warm!) afternoon.

(We also saw a twenty-foot-long anaconda squeezing/drowning a frozen guinea pig. It doesn't really fit the mood of this post, but it was actually really amazing, so I had to share.)