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At least you’ve already got one
It’s surprising for just how many people misery comes in the form of a single blue line in an oval window. Hope and despair neatly packaged up in a little white stick. Not pregnant. Again.
The official figures are that one in six couples in the UK experience infertility. It’s the numbers underneath
People don’t talk about infertility very much because it’s a very personal subject and a very private pain. And even more secret is the
And the very worst thing about secondary infertility is this: At least you’ve already got one.
It’s so awful largely because it’s TRUE. You do already have one. And you are so, so lucky and so, so privileged to have that little person in your life. Some people
But at least you’ve already got one is also complicated, as truth often is. Because underneath it really means several different things.
It means, look at everything you DO have.
It means, get some perspective.
It means, stop being so ungrateful.
It means, quit feeling sorry for yourself.
It means, your pain is out of proportion.
It means, you’re not allowed to be sad.
And it means you feel guilty for your ingratitude – and confused as to
The fact is that whether you’ve physically lost a baby or lost your ideal ‘image’ of your 2.4 family – you have still lost something important. Something real to you. Something you desperately wanted. It doesn’t really matter if you’ve already got a kid or
Society has an unhealthy obsession with comparing human hurt. Anguish is not a competition – there are no winners here. Only losers. You simply cannot categorise negative experiences on an arbitrary scale and then assign appropriate reactions to them. The death of a loved one does not ‘trump’ a miscarriage. A cancer diagnosis is not ‘better’ than a heart attack. It ALL SUCKS. Pain is pain. Shit is shit. Does it really matter how brown and sticky it is?
Yet for some reason we persist in making those judgements, and in continuing to
At least you’ve already got one is mindfulness gone mad. You can be thankful, but that doesn’t mean you can’t ever be sad. That’s far too simplistic a view.
If you want simple, try thinking of it like this. Person A is drowning in a puddle. Person B is drowning in the Atlantic. There is a great deal more water in the
And as person A takes their last gurgling gasp, I’m pretty fucking sure they’re not feeling grateful that at least it’s muddy rainwater and not giant volumes of sea filling up their lungs.
Now Person A is thrashing around wildly, and making a mess. Person B is taking it rather more on the chin. Who’s to say which one is having the ‘right’ level of reaction to their situation? Because really, we don’t know how either of them ended
For me, secondary infertility was so very raw (not by any means any worse than infertility, NEVER that, just raw) precisely because it was secondary. Because I KNEW.
I knew exactly what it
I knew what it was like to hold that tiny, tiny body, push my finger into that crinkled palm, hear the first mewls of life and see that sticky sweep of hair and scrunched up, perfect face.
I knew the impossible weight of that small body folded into my neck, the smell of new baby filling my nose, my head, my heart.
I knew that surging crash of LOVE and awe and wonder. I knew the crush of fear and overwhelm. I knew the swell of
I KNEW, and I wanted it again. I craved it. And I could feel it, a physical ache, a gap – a ghost.
Because I could feel the outline of another hand in mine as I crossed the road with my daughter.
I could feel the press of another small person in my arms as we cuddled up on the sofa.
I could feel the imprint of another soul on mine that was never really there, but left a gaping, jagged hole
Oh I’m quite sure it doesn’t make any sense. I’m sure half of the people reading this are running to call the little men in white coats. (That’s why this blog is anonymous. They’ll never take me alive!!!)
I’m also sure that the other half – the half that’s been there – will know exactly what I mean.
When the giant pulses of grief and rage would fade, in my more normal moments, there was still the nagging feeling of something missing, something not being quite as it should. The world slightly out of kilter. I would
Now I freely admit to being a supremely selfish being, but my sadness wasn’t all reserved for myself. Some of it was also for my husband and my daughter.
I fell in love with my husband all over again when I saw him as a father. His kindness, his gentleness, his patience – his love for the little life we’d made. And I wanted that for him again. For us. Four of us. One-on-one, two by two. It just added up to US.
Perhaps more though, I wanted it
Not everybody has these feelings – nor should they. For some, their vision of the perfect family was only ever one child.
The point is only that I SHOULD be allowed to have these feelings. That it’s okay to feel them without feeling guilty. And it’s taken a long time for me to be able to acknowledge that to myself. Because of course in the background I was thinking – and I was
Look, no one likes a wallower. But there is a line to be trodden between letting someone wallow and letting someone grieve. I think we can all agree that there has to be a bit of space before ‘get over it, ‘buck up’ and ‘at least you’ve already got one’. And it’s really not up to you to judge how much space someone else needs.
My particular secondary infertility tale had a happy ending, after a lot of heartbreak, strain, and surgery. And I am so very thankful that I finally got
Not long after my second daughter was finally born, the Big Small Person fell over, and scraped her knee. And I caught myself saying, quite literally, ‘At least you’ve already got one’. In shock news, it didn’t help. It didn’t take the pain away. It didn’t make her feel better. And that got me thinking about what we should say instead.
As a Queen of social gaucheness, I fully appreciate that it’s not malice or lack of awareness that causes people to say the wrong thing at the wrong
If you know someone who is drowning (in whatever body or depth of water – this isn’t just about infertility), please do throw them a lifeline if you possibly can. You don’t need to risk being pulled into the drama-lake if you’re not up for a swim, but you don’t need to make things worse either. Don’t throw them a guilt-trip. Don’t belittle their pain, their experience, or how their
Instead, just try this. Just say:
I’m so sorry this has happened to you.
Simple. Easy. If you can look in their eye and hold their hand for the briefest of moments, that’ll help too.
Because that acknowledgement, that moment of human connection, that stark truth, is sometimes just enough to keep someone’s head above water.
It certainly helped with the skinned knee, anyway.
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