Grief and Infertility

I've been wanting to write a little more about infertility and helping out those that are having a hard time for awhile now. It is one of those topics that are dear to me and I'm always willing to listen to my friends and support them in their struggles. We have a small group that gets together in our town and so far it has helped heal a lot of our emotional baggage. One of the hardest parts of infertility was the grieving process and what it looked like. Everyone grieves differently and for some it takes years to come to terms with it. About 3 months ago I read this article that helped me immensely. It really put into perspective what Alex and I, with all my other infertile friends, feel about our grief. Even though the article is about losing a child, it still pertains to infertility. Here is my favorite excerpt from it:

"Profound grief is like being in a stage play wherein suddenly the stagehands push a huge grand piano into the middle of the set. The piano paralyzes the play. It dominates the stage. No matter where you move, it impedes your sight lines, your blocking, your ability to interact with the other players. You keep banging into it, surprised each time that it's still there. It takes all your concentration to work around it, this at a time when you have little ability or desire to concentrate on anything.

The piano changes everything. The entire play must be rewritten around it.

But over time the piano is pushed to stage left. Then to upper stage left. You are the playwright, and slowly, surely, you begin to find the impetus and wherewithal to stop reacting to the intrusive piano. Instead, you engage it. Instead of writing every scene around the piano, you begin to write the piano into each scene, into the story of your life.

You learn to play that piano. You're surprised to find that you want to play, that it's meaningful, even peaceful to play it. At first your songs are filled with pain, bitterness, even despair. But later you find your songs contain beauty, peace, a greater capacity for love and compassion. You and grief -- together -- begin to compose hope. Who'da thought?

Your grief becomes an intimate treasure, though the spaces between the grief lengthen. You no longer need to play the piano every day, or even every month. But later, when you're 84, staring out your kitchen window on a random Tuesday morning, you welcome the sigh, the tears, the wistful pain that moves through your heart and reminds you that your child's life mattered.

You wipe the dust off the piano and sit down to play."

 I have found that I already have done this. Infertility is written in every aspect of my life. It infiltrates my whole being. Sometimes my "piano" is in the way and all I want to do is destroy it. At other times I hardly notice it at all. Alex and I will never have a child in the "normal" way. This has taken me a long time to embrace. Our family is beautiful just the way it is, whether we have children or not. Evan healed our childlessness but infertility will never go away.

To my infertile friends, please take care of yourselves, please take care of your husbands, please don't let that piano stay in the middle of the stage all the time, and rejoice that your journey will lead to an end. Maybe not the end you want, but there will be an end. I love you so much and support you. I continually pray for everyone's miracle!