Back to the quote I introduced a few days ago…

The funny thing is that when I wrote that down, I was in the first month of trying to conceive. We were near Deep Creek Lake and we passed a church on the way to dinner that had this quote from Alain de Botton. I wrote it down because the journey I thought I was on in that moment was the journey to motherhood. I thought I was going to get pregnant on the first try (I mean, seriously, how could you not believe that in the way they freaked us out in high school about practicing safe sex?). In fact, I had a pregnancy week-by-week book with me on the trip so I could look up what I would be feeling in the third week of pregnancy. Yes, I truly mean the third week as in before the implantation that never happened.

So what ultimately was my journey? Trying to conceive with infertility being an obstacle? Or was motherhood the journey with trying to conceive merely the turnstile at the start of the path?

Why did this quote stop me when I found it on my palm pilot? Certainly, I think we can all agree that there are thoughts that came from my journey. An entire blog full of thoughts. But de Botton was speaking literally about travel in this quote. His book is about “how we imagine places before we have seen them” (or…perhaps…babies before we’ve seen them?). And “the soothing effects of train travel and its ability to stimulate the imagination and help us work through problems.”

Is it that simple; just hop on a train and you’ll be able to see your entire world an an entirely new light? You’ll find the solution to whether it’s more sensible to adopt or try one more IVF cycle. Or whether you should try the testicular biopsy or move to donor sperm. I think too many times, we take our troubles with us to a new location. All we’ve done is move places with our baggage–we haven’t actually unpacked it. And if we were to open the bag and unpack it, we would see the same damn sweaters and jeans that we had worn back home–just now in a new space. Folded into a new, temporary drawer.

Do I think that I have come up with new ideas while on a journey? Of course. I can think of plenty of times when I’ve had the luxury just to stare out the car window for a solid hour, not distracted by doing anything other than thinking. And I’ve come up with story ideas or ways to word a letter or job prospects. But I’ve never made the big decisions that way. A good long cry is the midwife of those thoughts. And when a solution to a problem has been discovered on a trip, I’ve never felt like it was the act of traveling that created it. When a new understanding has occurred while I’m away from home, it’s simply because it was the right time. My mind was finally able to accept the answer that had been buried in those twisty coils of tissue for probably months without recognition.

I’m hearing de Botton’s smarmy voice in my head saying, “uh uh Melissa. You are too simple. Think back to your travels. The first Clomid was taken on the road. The first Follistim injection was given in a hotel room. All the turning points have been away from home. I am…how do you Americans say….correct.”

Maybe dear Alain has a point.

This is also the point where you add in your favourite church signs…

Though we were supposed to light the candle at 7 p.m., we went an hour early so the kids could be involved in the process. I spent an hour of the afternoon trying to find a small candle holder. In the end, we wrapped one of our Shabbat candlesticks in foil and placed a single candle on the counter.

“Shabbat!” my daughter exclaimed, even though it was Sunday night. “Challah! Eat challah. Light candles. Two candles. Shabbat!”

“Actually,” I told her, “it’s not Shabbat. We’re going to light one candle. It’s a different day where we remember something…different.”

Thus began an APM–an awkward parenting moment. One of those conversations that you wished would go in a certain way, but you have no idea how to take it there. You wish the words would magically come into your mouth. Or that your children would just understand without speaking the difficult ideas you need to impart. The birds and the bees. Why bad things happen to good people. Death.

“Sometimes,” I said, putting on my lightest voice so that I didn’t do grave psychological damage to her two-year-old mind, “babies aren’t born. You know how you came out of Mommy’s tummy? Well, sometimes there are kids who don’t come out of the tummy.”

“Shabbat!” she called out again.

“And…” I said, turning towards my husband and realizing as he sat there staring at me that I was probably going to be the one doing the sex talk down the line, “we’re lighting this candle for those babies. And giving them a voice. What do you think the babies would say if they were born?”

“Waaaah,” my daughter informed me.

I looked at my son who nodded seriously. “Waaaah.”

“Well, there are Mommies and Daddies who miss hearing their baby cry. And they wish their baby was here like you are so that their baby could cry.”

“I say, ‘don’t cry babies!’,” my daughter told me. “Don’t cry Mommies. Don’t cry Daddies.”

“Sometimes Mommies and Daddies need to cry,” my husband reminded her. “It’s okay if they cry.”

“Before we had you,” I told them, feeling both like this moment was not going in any direction I wanted it to go AND feeling like this was exactly what needed to happen as my daughter serenaded us with Baa Baa Black Sheep apropo of nothing, “we had other babies who weren’t born, so we’re going to light this candle for them. And for all the other babies in this world who weren’t born. So we’re lighting this candle for Zoe. And for the babies who we never named but were lost in the months of November, February, and March. And for the blighted ovum who was supposed to be your triplet.”

And that’s when I felt my voice started to break. I’m so grateful that we have these children. And I’m grateful that they act like two-year-olds. And I’m grateful that they have each other. But how can you not miss the kids who could have been when you see what was in front of you? Our losses were so early; too early to be named. And, for me, too early to be missed. I was always focused on next, next, next and trying again and figuring out what was wrong. And I was so sad in the moment. I once threw my glasses on the floor because I was so surprised to see the blood on my panties. But after a day or two of mourning, I was thinking about what we were going to do different that cycle. And lighting that candle made me think about those babies that never happened. That never implanted or never stayed implanted or never grew.

After they were in bed, my husband and I were lying on our bed, his head on my chest. “Were you sad tonight?” I asked him.

“Yeah,” he answered quietly.

I’m glad there is this day on the calendar that forces you to remember. Because sometimes, we get so goal focused that we forget the people we passed on the path. And I loved remembering them tonight–not the sad moments when everything was over, but the heart-racing excitement I felt when I thought something was finally starting.

Last night, I was scrolling back through old notes in my palm pilot (didn’t that just make me sound like a businesswoman? A smart, sassy businesswoman? Instead of a woman with a stain on her shirt?) and I found the usual–old shopping lists, reminders to look up something on the Web, and lessons learned from reading church signs. Don’t we all write them down when we get to the next traffic light? Please don’t tell me that I’m the only person with a palm pilot full of pithy sayings from billboards.

But this one felt very fitting and I wanted to throw it out there: Journeys are the midwives of thought (by Alain de Botton).

What does that mean to you and your personal journey?

P.S. There is money involved for the first person who finds two midwives named Journey and names their child “Thought.” I’m just throwing it out there.

Children Mentioned: Still not feeling very funny this morning. Perhaps it’s the fact that my trip to the mall to buy my daughter stockings was a total bust. Seriously, children’s store after children’s store were selling black baby stockings. Baby stockings! When I inquired where were the plain white stockings, the employees stared at me blankly and said that they didn’t sell light-coloured stockings. Because perhaps all babies are headed for a goth look this season. Perhaps they’ve put away all the light-coloured stockings because it’s Friday the 13th.

But more important…the blogs.

Carolyn at This Sorta Fairytale had a great post this week about anger. Sadness came prediagnosis, but anger followed once she knew what was wrong…and what caused her infertility. I have a bunch of thoughts on this that I’ll try to put into words over the weekend, but head over to her blog and read the entry because it’s very interesting: is a diagnosis in the hand worth the emotional pain in causes?

Cecily at and I wasted all that birth control has an equally interesting entry on forgiveness. I think my favourite part of the post is her husband’s ability to forgive and not carry anger into his relationship with his mother. Being able to forgive is a powerful thing–especially being able to forgive when an apology is not forthcoming. It made me think about the places in my life where I’m still storing anger. And how it affects me emotionally. And how all of that could be solved if I just forgave–even without the apology in my pocket.

Thalia over at Thalia’s Fertility Journey had her anonymous blog suddenly become known by her RE and clinic, and all hell ensued. Her safe space where she could vent about treatments (both ART and…well…how she was treated by other people) is suddenly gone and she’s contemplating what to do. It sounds like she may stop writing for a bit so she can think things through. I, for one, will miss her greatly. She is funny and smart and always provides thought-provoking writing. I’m sorry this happened, Thalia.

Lastly, over at Her Very Own, Akeeyu, has some very beautiful and heartbreaking posts about taking care of her father who is dying of cancer. I think the line that punched me hardest in the stomach came a few weeks ago when she first began writing about this process: “My father is dying without any grandchildren.” It broke my heart and reminded me of a woman I once knew from the RESOLVE boards who found out that she was finally pregnant and that her father was dying all at the same time. And I just wanted to send a lot of strength her way. Hang in there, sweetie. This is the worst of life–at some point, you will have to be out of this space. Being out of this hole will be bittersweet because you will have been in the hole to begin with. But. There is sunshine when you come out of the hole. I hope you climb out soon.

My brother called me this week to let me know that my blog isn’t funny.

“Infertility isn’t really an amusing topic,” I told him.

“But it used to be funny. Before you started reading eight pregnancy loss books a day.”

(Add obligatory, Paul Shaffer-like drum roll to cue laughter)

It has been making me pause. And consider things that I hadn’t really stopped to consider. Serenity had a great comment this week that when she had an early miscarriage, she didn’t know whether she was mourning the loss of the baby or the failure of the cycle. And take that a step further because sometimes I didn’t even know whether I was mourning the failure of the cycle or the failure of myself as a woman.

(Um…Mel…this really isn’t funny. Where are the stories about putting on knee-high boots and accompanying your husband into the sperm palace rooms?)

When we conceived the twins, there was a third sac–a blighted ovum. The RE directed our attention away from the sac, continuously talking about the twins every time I asked about it. And I barely acknowledged it except for when I lost the sac 8 weeks into the pregnancy and ended up crying in the therapist’s office. And again, was I crying about the fact that the baby didn’t form or was I crying from fear over seeing that much blood and cramping during the pregnancy.

Or was I just mourning the entirety of the experience of infertility itself?

(Damn, Mel, seriously, put down the pregnancy loss books. Pick up something light. Something fun. There’s a Plum Sykes piece of fluff in your book bag. Read that.)

Sometimes I wonder if it’s healthier to keep barreling through–keep trying after the loss, move on to adoption, have a few more tests–or whether it’s healthier to pause for a bit. Give yourself time and space to mourn that is imposed by your own needs rather than matching your mourning time to the IVF slots at the center. How many people have jumped into the next cycle before they were emotionally ready just because they couldn’t really handle the idea of sitting out a cycle and not trying? I know I can’t stand the idea of waiting. I’m impatient by nature. And any time I was told that we had to sit something out, I became a bleeding mess. When I talk about a self-imposed break, I mean at any point in the process–not just after a pregnancy loss. Because there’s a lot to mourn even if you haven’t suffered a miscarriage or a late term loss. There’s a lot to mourn in infertility itself.

(Plum Sykes? The Debutante Divorcee is just breathing in anticipation for you)

And I think sometimes I only considered those losses in terms of what they meant: what did we learn? How can I stop this from happening in the future? What is the greater meaning of this loss? Rather than taking pause and considering the emotional side of the loss. At some point, I started thinking like an RE instead of thinking like a woman trying to conceive. I was emotional, but I took the emotions out of the process and instead the emotions were directed at myself–at my own failures, at my own short-comings–rather than at the not-yet baby.

(For the love of Jesus Christ Almighty, put. down. the. pregnancy. loss. books.)

A man and a woman walk into a fertility clinic. The woman tells the RE, “we want a baby. With my eyes and his nose.” The RE rolls his eyes and says, “his nose? I wouldn’t do that to a kid even for the $12,000 IVF price tag!”

Ba-dum-dum.

See, it really isn’t funny.