a couple nights ago this was the chapter i read, and felt it was a good example of how the "support" individual feels, and how we would like them to react to the issue:
I gripped the steering wheel, clenched my teeth, and turned the ignition key in my Ford F150. Sput, sput, vroooom. I smiled as the engine began to purr like a contented tiger. Four hours under the hood had paid off. The truck was as good as new. I sat back and wiped an oily hand across my forehead. Who needed those guys at the repair shop? After all, I was Mr. Fix-It, an engineer, a problem-solver. And right now, after hours of being up to my elbows in grease and macinery, I felt like I could fix anything.
I sauntered into the garage and began to scrub my hands with a coarse cleanser. A dozen things neeed to be repaired today. There was the bathroom faucet, the loose leg on the dining room chair, and that squeaky brake on Shannon's mountain bike. Or maybe should I tackle the problem with the sliding door lock. I rubbed my hands together. Today would be a good day. Nothing made me feel better than getting in there and making things work.
After a moments thought, I decided to attack the faucet. I gathered my tools and headed toward the bathroom. A leaky faucet would be no match for me today. I opened the door, hiked up my pants, and dropped to one knee to begin clearing out the stuff under the sink. No sooner did I get my wrench onto the pipe than I heard the sound of sobbing coming from the other room. Oh no, I thought. Not again.
I knew what it was before I reached the master bathroom. As I pushed open the door, I could see my wife sitting on the edge of the tub in the bathroom. When I went in to see what the trouble was, I saw a pregnancy test stick lying on the counter. I knew from experience it was negative--again. I closed my eyes and prayed for strength. We had been so sure that this would be the month. Disappointment rose in my throat. Quickly I suppressed the feeling. I had to be the strong one. I had to fix this problem.
This month had been the third time we'd undergone intrauterine insemination. We had planned to try it only three times. The doctor had told us that if IUI didn't work in the first three tries, it probably wouldn't work at all. Now we'd have to consider IVF, a procedure we couldn't afford.
I stood there for what seemed a long time, staring at the pregnancy test, my mind racing. I had to make this better. I needed to figure out what to do.
"This isn't the end of the world," I commented lamely.
My wife didn't even look at me. She only answered by crying harder.
"Maybe the test is wrong."
"I t-tried it twice," she sobbed.
"Maybe the doctor blew it," I suggested. "I think we should try another clinic."
"Nooo," Shannon wailed.
I ran my fingers through my hair and paced back and forth. "Okay, then, maybe we should try one more time. Or maybe we could get a loan for an IVF."
"It's no use," Shannon cried. "Nothing's ever going to work. We're never going to have a baby."
"That's silly," I replied in my most matter-of-fact tone. "Of course we are. If we have to go to the ends of the earth, we'll make this work."
Shannon glared up at me. "This is not like one of your broken-down cars, Michael. You can't just turn a wrench and make it work. Don't you understand?"
She stormed out of the room without a backward glance. What was wrong with her? Didn't she see that I was trying to help? Whatever I said always seemed to backfire. For five years we had traveled this rocky path called infertility. And in all that time I felt we'd made no progress. We were no closer to understanding why we couldn't conceive. The doctors didn't give us straight answers--only possibilities and statistical probabilities. No matter how much I studied the subject, no matter how many Web sites I visited, I couldn't seem to find a logical series of steps toward our goal of starting a family.
And lately when I talked to Shannon about the subject, our conversations always ended in turmoil. Nothing I said helped. I tried to be positive. I tried to suggest solutions I thought might work, but it only seemed to make her angry. It just didn't make sense. She didn't make sense.
Of course, I realized that the whole treatment process was more difficult for her. After all, I wasn't the one constantly being poked and prodded. But it wasn't easy for me, either. Still, at every step in the process I tried to be the rock--the one who took the positive side. My objectivity seemed helpful at first, but these days even my most reasonable suggestions were met with tears.
Infertility ought to be like a Ford F150, I thought. Then i could fix it. If I could just find the right tools, turn the proper bolts, replace the correct parts, everything would work again, just as it should.
For at least an hour I sat in the bathroom and searched for answers. But nothing came to me. Maybe Shannon was right. IUI would probably never work, and where could we even hope to find the money for more expensive procedures, procedures that weren't guaranteed to work any better than the IUI? What if this problem could never be fixed? What would I do then?
My stomach tightened at the thought. I decided to return to the guest bathroom, where life made sense. With a wrench in my hand, I knew what to do to make things right.
The next week dragged by. We went about our business without saying two words about the problem. I came from work and fixed things. She buried herself in work and in her spare time read her favorite novels again and again.
That week I fixed just about everything that needed fixing and more. I organized my garage and designed a new shelving system. I made the sprinkler system more efficient and gave the dogs two baths. But nothing helped. Repairing the bathroom faucet didn't fix my wife's broken heart. Redesigning a sprinkler system couldn't erase the pain I saw in her eyes. But what else could I do? She wouldn't let me help her. She wouldn't listen to my advise.
Since working around the house didn't solve our problems, I decided to take a short trip. My friend Pete had been bugging me to go duck hunting with him. But Shannon and I had been so immersed in infertility treatments that I hadn't considered going. Until now.
Duck hunting can be truly exciting--when the birds are flying. I could often shoot off two or three boxes of shells in one day. But slow days afforded plenty of time for reflection. Too much time. This particular day was dark with fog, perfect duck hunting weather--wet and cold. We set out our decoys and settled down out of sight, just in time for the opening shoot at 6:56 am
As the fog bank around us became illuminated by the first morning light, we searched the sky. But no ducks appeared. So we began to blow on our duck calls, hoping to attract birds flying above the fog. Still no ducks. The precious first moments of the day slipped by without sighting one bird. At this rate, it was going to be a long, dull day. Or so I thought.
Pete and I stood hidden in the reeds for the next two hours with our feet immersed in near-freezing pond water. My neoprene waders kept the water out, but I wished that I'd worn woolen socks. Pete, a wise man and a member of our church board for as long as I could remember, was not much for conversation. But it was he who broke the silence: "Why did you decide to come with me this weekend?"
"Oh, I just wanted to get away for a little while," I sighed.
Pete looked at me for a moment.
I shifted uncomfortably.
Finally he spoke again: "So how are you and Shannon doing with that infertility stuff?"
"Humph," I grunted. "Don't ask."
Pete nodded. "Seems to me like conception is a lot like duck hunting. The conditions may seem right. You can set out your decoys and blow your duck calls. But there's nothing you can do to make the birds come in. Must be hard, especially for you."
Pete's analogy was pretty good. He was right, of course. I couldn't fix our infertility problems any more than I could make the ducks fly. And that left me feeling frustrated and confused. "So what do I do? If I can't fix the problem, why even try?"
Pete answered with one simple phrase. It rings in my ears even now, even though he said it under his breath: "Sounds kind of selfish."
At first I had no idea what he was talking about. But a cold duck pond has a way of enabling self-reflection. As the hours passed I continued to think about Pete's comment. I didn't ask him about it. Nor did he offer any explanation. But my thoughts turned to Shannon.
Maybe all my attempts to solve the problem were for my own benefit. My concerns were centered on the fact that I couldn't do much to help the process or to alter my feelings of helplessness. But what about Shannon? What did she need from me? Apparently she didn't need my poorly conceived solutions or my attempts to try to figure out how to make everything all right. Mr. Fix-It just wasn't helpful. But she did need something from me. She needed someone to stand with her in this.
My thoughts turned again to duck hunting. On days like today, when I couldn't bring the birds in, I didn't stomp off angry and give up. I waited. I hunched down in the reeds, watched, and listened. I was patient. I was hopeful. I was ready for action.
Maybe that's how I needed to be with our infertility situation. Maybe I just needed to be with her, wait with her, sit quietly beside her and listen to her pain. Maybe all she needed was to know that I cared.
I cleared my throat. "Hey, man," I said. "I think I need to go home now."
Pete nodded. "I understand."
The trip home was the longest eighty miles I'd ever driven. I didn't waste any time getting into the house. I don't even remember specifically what I said to her, but it went something like this: "Shannon, please forgive me for being so selfish. I truly don't know how to fix our infertility problem. I can't fix it. But one thing I do promise: I will be with you through it all. And I love you more than anything."
Tears sprang to Shannon's eyes. "I don't need you to try to fix it," she said. "All I want is for you to be there when I'm hurting. All I need is for you to understand."
I took her in my arms and kissed her forehead. "It's a deal," I whispered.
That day I learned that sometimes what I call doing nothing is doing something in Shannon's eyes. Sometimes all I can do is take her in my arms and say, "I understand and I love you." Sometimes all she needs is my shoulder to cry on.
As the months and years wear on, infertility hasn't become easier for us. Nor have we found any simple solutions. We're still putting out our decoys and blowing on our duck calls. But one thing is different. We're now able to love and support each other through this difficult process as we wait to see whether "a bird will fly overhead."
so many of the things in this book are applicable (even to me, who is not far into my infertility journey compard to most) to some degree...and knowing that someone else wrote these words, that are exactly how i am feeling is comforting.
i would greatly suggest this book for anyone who wants to understand more about what we experience and think, or simply to those that want to know that they aren't alone in their thoughts. no medical advice, no spiritual advice...simply testimonials from others who are struggling...
...and i am really enjoying it. each of the chapters are someone elses story of an event they experienced. it is really encouraging and reassuring, that none of us are alone in this journey.
