things you shouldn't say to a person struggling with pregnancy loss or infertility (even though you mean well)

It's a minefield, trying to figure out what to say to a person dealing with miscarriage or infertility.  You want to say the right thing, be comforting, but you don't want to set them off or dredge up terrible feelings.  Most of the people in my life were amazing and said the right thing or at least, the less bad thing.  Occasionally, however, I heard people say things that were extremely unhelpful and the following is a list of some of those things.

• "Just relax.  It'll happen."  Anyone who's ever heard this when trying to reproduce, knows how supremely unhelpful it is.  An ordinary woman who is trying to have a baby and has never had issues with miscarriage or infertility is likely already wound up tighter than a long tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs.  Throw some infertility or pregnancy loss into the mix and you have a volatile combination of emotions and telling her to, "Just relax," might get you a filthy look at best, and at worst a telling off.  (Unless she's particularly combative; then you might get punched.)

• "If you stop trying, you'll get pregnant."  This is a subset of, "Just relax."  For a woman who has a modicum of awareness for how her cycle works, not trying is not an option.  It's like telling someone to not think about something.  Suddenly it's all you can think about.  Or forget about spring.  Spring is going to happen, whether you think about it or not and before you know it you're planting flowers and vegetable gardens, watching baseball and having cookouts.  

• "It's not God's plan for you."  This is extremely unsettling for people to hear.  Maybe it's true, but we don't want to think that God doesn't have our hopes in mind.  Everyone knows that God's plan for us and our own plan for ourselves doesn't always converge, but when you say this to a person, all they hear is, "God thinks you'll be a crappy mom."

• "You can always just adopt."  This is always said with the nonchalance of someone saying, "You can always just order pizza," when you don't feel up to cooking.  "Just adopting" is not as simple as one would think.  It involves unreal amounts of paperwork, time, energy and money.  Not to mention, strength, patience, and courage.

• "You wouldn't be so eager for a kid if you knew how hard being a parent really is."  Don't say this.  We're not stupid.  We don't think that the hard work ends when we get to hold our baby for the first time.  If anything, we have more time to think about the realities of parenthood than our counterparts who spent one month trying to conceive.  Plus, we hear you when you tell us about your kid that doesn't sleep, eat vegetables, stop pooping every nine minutes.  We don't have an idealized vision of parenthood, where we're super parents and our kid is perfect.  We might have fantasies, but we're still realistic.

• "At least you can get pregnant."  This is obviously directed at those dealing with repeat loss and not infertility.  It may sound like a positive point, but honestly, we don't live to see those positive pee sticks.  The whole point is to have a baby, not just get pregnant.  We want to experience the whole thing, from the positive test, to the anatomy scan, to the huge baby bump, to the actual, live baby.

This list is, by no means, complete, and some of the things might not bother every person.  Basically, you should be sympathetic and understanding, and strive to not be condescending or unrealistic.  It won't happen every time.  You'll say the wrong thing at some point, everyone does.  But knowing how some of the things you say could be received by a person dealing with these issues should help you navigate the minefield.

testing, testing... 1, 2, 3...

     A month ago I initiated a boat-load of testing to find out why I kept miscarrying.  I met with an infertility specialist and she explained all of the myriad reasons why this possibly kept happening.  For those of you who don't know, I am a microbiologist and in general a science geek, so the doctor and I spent a happy half hour discussing genetics and coagulation and thyroid issues.  She told me the tests she was going to order - genetic screening for me and Eddie (determining whether or not we are cousins - just kidding), a coagulation screening panel, thyroid testing and diabetes testing.  She also wanted to test my anti-mullerian hormone level, which would tell the approximate age of my eggs, which apparently, might not be 31 as I had thought.  This was news to me - I'd been taught in middle school sex ed that females are born with all the eggs they will ever have.  Since I'd been born 31 years ago, it stands to reason that my eggs were also born 31 years ago.  Apparently this might not be the case.  She also wanted to do a saline sonohysterogram to check the integrity of the lining of my uterus and the overall shape to see if there are any abnormalities that would cause improper implantation.
     The doctor went on to explain that 50-70% of couples who undergo this type of testing will never get an actual diagnosis or reason as to why this is happening.  I did not like these odds, but felt that we had to have the testing done because what if the issue was something we could fix?
     Eddie and I went to get our blood drawn after my doctor's appointment.  The vampire-disguised-as-a-phlebotomist drew a staggering twelve tubes of blood in a rainbow of colors from me and a single green top tube from Ed.  She actually told Eddie that he would be fine but, "I'm going to drain your wife!"
     Two weeks later we had our answer.  Or rather our lack of answer.  Our genetic screen came back normal (as my brother-in-law said, "It's a good thing you guys are genetically normal as you are certainly not normal in any other way).  My thyroid gland works like a well oiled machine.  So does my pancreas.  My coagulation system is something to be proud of, clotting my blood at the perfect rate - neither too fast, nor too slow.  My eggs are as youthful as the month of May, my uterus the perfect basket in which to house them (or at least the embryo).
     This news was met with mixed reactions from me.  On one hand, it's good to know that I have nothing really wrong with me.  On the other hand, something HAS to be wrong with me!  It is not normal to have three miscarriages inside one year.
     According to my doctor we had a few options.  Option 1.) Keep trying.  It will likely happen eventually.  (I did not like this option.  It was the reproductive equivalent of Whack-a-Mole.)  Option 2.) Use of a low dose fertility drug to make me ovulate multiple eggs, with the hope that at least one would survive.  (I was more interested in this option.)  Option 3.) IVF with pre-implantation genetic screening.  (This is the fall-back, safety net of options - expensive and hard on the body.)
     I decided to go with the low dose fertility drug.  I will start Clomid with my next cycle and by all accounts will turn into a hot flashing, exposed hormone with pseudo-homicidal tendencies.  Good luck, Eddie!

it was supposed to be easy...

     All my life, I've operated under the impression that having kids is quite simple.  (Not the actual act of childbirth, mind you.  I'm not quite that naive.)  Step 1.) Find husband.  Step 2.) Have sex with husband.  Step 3.) Nine months later, pop out a beautiful baby.

     For me, step one was only marginally easy.  I may have had a minor panicky thought around age 26 or 27 that I might never get married.  That I might end up the one all my friends' kids would call Aunt Jen, and who had a lot of cats.  Or worse - birds.  But I did find a guy who, quite surprisingly, really, wanted to marry me.

     Not surprisingly, step two was also easy.  Step two, subcategory A - actually orchestrating a meeting between husband's spermatozoa and my ovum, could have presented a far greater challenge, but the meeting went off without a hitch and Presto!  Pregnant.

      I was enthralled with the idea that my uterus had a function, other than every 29 days causing me untold pain and suffering and generally behaving as if it was in the throes of end-stage Ebola virus.  It was incubating a human, one that would ostensibly grow into said beautiful baby.

     At almost ten weeks, after we'd announced to everyone and their uncle's step-cousin that we were expecting, I started cramping and bleeding, went to the hospital and was told, in no uncertain terms, that this was a miscarriage.  I was completely devastated and felt (perhaps unnecessarily) embarrassed that we had announced to all and sundry about the baby not three days before, and now we were left with nothing.  It was all erased, like a roll of film you'd accidentally exposed to light.

     As of now, this has happened two more times.  I, perspicaciously, didn't announce to one and all either of the following times and only told a few close friends and our families about my pregnancies.  This way I didn't have to untell quite as many people.  It has been difficult and trying and quite nearly soul-destroying.  

     When I see women who have been impregnated when their husbands have barely sneezed lightly in their direction, and then nine months later they pop out their own beautiful baby, it becomes maddening to me.  I've feared greatly for the safety of our computer because when I see a six week old embryo on an ultrasound picture, proudly displayed on my newsfeed, I want to shriek with the unfairness of it all.  I also want to tell the uninformed woman that six weeks is way too early to announce and that you might be setting yourself up for a terrible disappointment.

     As I have experienced these miscarriages and the trials and tribulations of reproduction, people come out of the woodwork with similar stories.  Suddenly people everywhere have had miscarriages and now that I was part of the club, they made this known to me, whereas before they never mentioned it.  It seems as though infertility and repeat pregnancy loss are taboo subjects that shouldn't be discussed in polite company.  I don't think this should be.  One out of every five pregnancies ends in miscarriage.  It's not anyone's fault that they have fertility issues.  Things happen and life is hard, but no one brings these things on themselves.  Part of the reason I'm writing this, aside from the act of writing being therapeutic to me, is to bring this issue to light.  Granted, probably only five people will ever read this, but maybe one of the five (one in five, remember?) will benefit from my experience and not feel so alone.