Joining the infertility community is complicated. Leaving it is, too

Seven weeks into my pregnancy I said an emotional goodbye to my fertility doctor and favorite nurse, and “graduated” from the clinic to the obstetrician’s office one flight up.

Every time I sat in the well-lit area awaiting my maternal care appointment, I noticed how vastly different this room was from the one downstairs. This new waiting room was filled with anxious anticipation, an excitement that vibrated through the room of women with various-sized bellies, all eager to see black-and-white images of babies who lived inside them. The fertility clinic, where I’d gone for appointments for years, had felt like a conveyor belt of people, overflowing with invisible grief and hope.

After almost six years of disappointment, loss and unsuccessful fertility treatments, I’d finally made it to the coveted fourth floor. It would be one of many notable graduations in my pregnancy.

I didn’t expect to be a member of the infertility club. Fortunately, I quickly found out about all the resources: support groups and meetups and message boards designed for people in my exact situation. After my second miscarriage, and a year before I turned to in vitro fertilization, I joined a group, in person. Months later it turned virtual due to the pandemic.

The free virtual support group, organized by Resolve, was a place of safety and comfort for me. I never missed a meeting and felt more understood by my fellow, female strangers than anyone in my real life. We didn’t know each other outside of the group but our stories, and empathy for one another, bonded us — at least for one night each month.

Over the next three years, I watched the tiny squares of women drop off my screen, gone from the group forever. They didn’t usually announce their departure; they just stopped attending the group. But once, a woman came to the meeting to say goodbye.

“I feel so, so bad for all of you,” she said with tears in her eyes while she announced her good news, and prayed that we would all find our happy endings, too.

Many congratulated her, but for me, the farewell garnered a different reaction — annoyance. I’m sure her words were intended to be hopeful and positive. But her tone of pity and sympathy seemed unfair and misplaced, and made me feel emptier than usual.

I myself almost graduated from the support group a few times. But each time, I lost the pregnancy or had an unsuccessful fertility treatment cycle. Having to rejoin elicited a new level of pain. More new members were welcomed, and also eventually left. All while I remained. I was happy, at times even hopeful seeing their success. But each time, it was a reminder that the group was a transient place, meant to be a stepping stone — whether it ended with parenthood or not — and I was instead static.

By the time I was a veteran of the infertility-treatment process, I’d become jaded. My bright-eyed naivete was gone, along with the excitement that starting a new cycle typically brought. I’d experienced too much. When a “newbie” spoke in the support group about things she was doing to try to improve her egg quality, I privately rolled my eyes.

“Your egg quality ain’t changing unfortunately,” I told the group once. “No matter what the influencers say, that’s just the truth.” I realized that, as valuable as the group was, and even though I wasn’t a mom yet, I’d somehow outgrown it.

But I was still a part of the infertility community, and had made some friends. I was particularly close to one woman, and we’d talk frequently. When one of our transfers failed, or an IVF cycle got interrupted by any number of things, we turned to each other.

Initially, our bond was borne out of shared misfortunes, and nurtured by our compassion for those similarities. Though our friendship eventually extended beyond our fertility stories to lunches, hair appointments and even a painting class, our shared struggles were its foundation.

Then, one of my many embryo transfers finally worked, and I was pregnant. What had intertwined our lives now distanced them.

“Don’t feel like you can’t tell me stuff,” my friend declared, when I told her the news at my seven-week mark, even then with some hesitation. Despite her insistence nothing would change, I knew it likely would.

At 10 weeks, I was still pregnant. When my fertility doctor said, “This is the last time I’ll officially see you,” I cried, feeling more optimistic than ever before.

At my 18-week appointment, which included an anatomy ultrasound, I breathed a sigh of relief so deep it shook my whole body. It was the milestone I’d been waiting for, the farthest I’d ever gotten in a pregnancy. I knew in my heart that this time it was really happening.

Pregnancy after infertility, or loss, can be filled with anxiety, ambivalent emotion and even guilt. But, as I learned, there are few resources to help navigate the nuanced transition.

Infertility had been part of my social and personal identity for so long, and closing that difficult chapter of my life was all I wanted. When my time came, I was overjoyed. But hidden deep beneath my elation, a residue of grief remained for the community I was finally leaving behind.

Graduating from the infertility community requires a certain level of emotional flexibility. I reached the other side but knew far too well what it took to get there. My battles had culminated with the miracle of a new baby on the way. But the scars of my experiences wouldn’t disappear so easily. They weren’t only a part of me, but a memory of what we all went through. I had perspective now. It was how I knew that unintentional shifts in friendship were often a consequence of new life milestones.

My friend and I didn’t see each other at all over the next nine months. Throughout my pregnancy I suggested meetups and coffee dates, and while I was never outright rejected, it didn’t lead to anything. As much as it hurt, I’d been on the other side and created my own distance too many times to push now. I knew space and understanding were required.

In many Facebook infertility groups, a frequently used phrase at the beginning of a post is “trigger warning.” It’s used not just for difficult or traumatic stories, but as a precursor to happy ones as well. This sensitivity has led to intense debates between those who want to see baby news and find it positive or hopeful, and others who find it too difficult to handle.

But I’ve seen less discussion about how to navigate this sensitive terrain as the pregnant person, when you’re the person delivering, not receiving, the news. I wasn’t sure how to handle this new situation I found myself in.

I dreamt of having a baby, and struggled to become a parent. Though I’m ecstatic to have made it to my destination, I’ll continue to hold space and sensitivity for those still on the journey, no matter where it takes them.

Recently I finally met up with my friend — our first time seeing each other in 10 months. We laughed, hugged, and she met my daughter. Our lives had veered off course from each other, but there was comfort in knowing we could still come together over a cup of coffee. I told her I was there for her, whenever she needed to talk about anything. She may not choose to do so, but I’ll always make sure she knows.

This article was originally published on TODAY.com