12/10/2018 0 Comments InfertilityEverything they say about infertility is true. The struggle month after month after month. The grief and anger. The jealousy that turns you green with envy, crying out with rage: "Why them and not me?!" The stripping of your identity as a calm and rational person in those moments when emotions (and hormones) run high, rendering you into an unidentifiable monster. The quiet yet gripping fear that it will never happen. They way that it takes every ounce of your energy to maintain hope and some semblance of a normal life. The invisibility of it all.
Infertility is very much the same and very different in a queer family. The emotions are much the same, though at times there is little recognition that this would be the case. It seems that there is an unspoken assumption that if you've "chosen" to be in a queer relationship then that somehow must erase your desire to have children, or at least you shouldn't expect to get what your heart desires. As you probably learned in health class it takes sperm, an egg and a uterus to make a baby, so if you don't have those ingredients at your disposal you may already be facing situational infertility and need to get creative with the conception process. Those who go through fertility treatment know that there are only so many chances that you get. While it's a gift to not have to dread the period every single month, each precious chance that you get has very high stakes. Whereas a straight couple may be able to try naturally for years - and I understand that this comes with its own struggle - those who rely on a doctor and a clinic and an expensive process don't have the luxury of "just trying again next month." Hope, it seems, is a little more precarious. In my case, I have both situational infertility and surgically diagnosed endometriosis (initially staged at 1-2 but has since been upgraded to stage 3-4; stage 4 is the most severe). Chances are that I would have had difficulty conceiving even if I was going about it the old fashioned way. In the midst of the struggle I count it as a gift that I have been spared those years of potential heartbreak and jumped ahead in the line, taking the direct route to a fertility clinic. My doctor did a thorough fertility workup so I had a clearer picture from the beginning of what it might take to get pregnant, though there have still been many, many unforeseen twists and turns in the fertility journey. I recognize that my education, relationship with my partner, ability to access resources, circles of professional and personal support, and the very fact that I have a uterus already affords me a lot of privilege in this trying to conceive process. I also count it as a gift that because I am in a same-sex relationship and have to rely on external assistance to get pregnant, I have been spared the trauma of fertility treatment that many women in hetero relationships report having experienced. Infertility has a way of bringing all the big questions to the fore, such as "Who am I?" and "Where is God in all of this?" Here, too, I have been lucky. I have sensed God's guiding presence with me as I've walked this path of infertility. I have been reassured that the desire to be a mother is not just something that I've made up but rather finds its source in the Divine spark within. My faith and the prayers of a close circle of friends have carried me through some of the darker parts of the journey, when my most earnest prayers went seemingly unanswered. There are days when infertility feels like an injustice, a sign of a broken body living in a broken world. There were days when all I can do is tend my tears in the presence of a God who weeps with me. And then I choose to keep going, to believe once again in the mystery of it all and in the God of life who is making all things new.
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