In my offline life, I’m in the process of some new stuff at my job that changes my workflow and sort of upends my established routines there. It’s fine, positive even, and it’s something expected/planned but it’s amazing how much energy goes into change and re-configuring my habits.
The other day, these words fell out of my mouth: “It will be fine! All this upheaval and hard stuff is going to make us stronger, right?”
Ironic, because I really hate that particular cliché.
I heard it quite a bit throughout the infertility journey: what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. I heard it when Arthur went through job losses. I heard it in NICU. I’m grateful no one said it too me after my brother died because suicide pretty much flies in the face of that kind of gritty positivity. But that statement has hovered in the background of most of the big, tough moments of my life.
I think – as with most “sound bite” or “meme-ready” sorts of statements – the reality is much more complex. I also think sometimes it’s employed as a quick conversation ender or a way to escape big feelings.
There are hard experiences that I feel have made me stronger, mostly those that are designed to break down before building up. Nursing school sucked. It was terribly long hours often (getting up at 4:15 am to drive two hours to a clinical site, being there for 8-10 hours, then going home), the studying was a full-time job, and I have never forgotten my first semester lab where everyone cried at least once except for the two students who had been in the military. It was also truly worth it and the toughness was incredibly important when I got into real world and took my first assignment on a general medical-surgical/telemetry floor.
Some of the job losses for Arthur fall into this category as well. It was sort of a surprise to me that after Arthur’s first job loss, the sky didn’t fall and we figured things out. We were really privileged in many ways, but the experience helped me better hone savings plans and recognize that while it was 100% not optimal, it was survivable.
But as far as some of the infertility experiences go? Being told there was no heartbeat? Sitting in a hospital bed being told that I was ruptured and going to lose our very wanted baby? Waiting in NICU for test results to come back to see if E had NEC? Losing my brother? No.
That sh*t broke me to the very core.
I mean, there’s a way in which all these experiences have given me a lot of perspective. Going through all that reminds me on the days where all the little ridiculous stuff is piling up and it’s frustrating that I’ve survived so much worse. That I will make it through that day. I’m much better now at differentiating my small life stuff from what constitutes my bigger life stuff and reacting accordingly. It’s also made me more able to take some forms of tension or frustration in stride, because, well, I can manage. In that sense, the adage is correct. Perspective is valuable in life, absolutely.
What the saying doesn’t reflect, however, is that there are some really ugly broken, jagged edges that are still in the process of being smoothed. It doesn’t reflect the big ways in which these events changed the course, not always for the better.
I started out in elder care as a nursing assistant when I was 19 years old. I loved it. I always envisioned myself as a hospice nurse eventually. I did some clinical time with hospice and felt confirmed in that calling. Even when I started in the “real world”, I took assignments that would give me experience.
Then infertility hit and I was just so sad. Conflicted. Too many emotions running rampant to step back and be in a high-emotion field like hospice. I put the dream on hold, mentally, and moved forward with a different path hoping to eventually move back that direction. Then all the losses happened, NICU happened, and my brother died.
Now, I work in an area where I come in contact with the “hard stuff”, but in far more limited doses than a field like hospice. It’s a good balance, I’m good at it, and I’m happy.
But I still mourn, a bit, that I had to admit that infertility, miscarriage, prematurity, and suicide loss limited me. Maybe someday, but it will be years and a lot of therapy if hospice is ever back in my path. I won’t do it unless I know my stuff is fully handled and integrated.
Empathy is another sort of mixed bag in life after everything. On the one hand, I know these experiences have made me more empathetic in many ways. I definitely can identify with people’s struggles and have a better ability to be present in those moments.
But it’s also made it far easier – especially when I’m tired, stressed, overwhelmed, or overstimulated – to fall into a pain Olympics sort of mentality or get really jealous. I don’t think this is true for everyone by any means, but it’s definitely an issue for me. I’m ashamed to admit that even while I was very happy for my BIL and SIL when they got pregnant, I was positively green with envy that they had gotten pregnant with twins on their first fertility treatment. It threw me back mentally into every f*cking failed cycle and miscarrying twins on that first hopeful IVF. I was happy for them but absolutely overwhelmed also at how sad and angry I was for my own losses. This resolved with time and things are fine in that set of relationships at this point, but it’s not a great quality and one I’m on close guard against.
All the grief has also exposed the fault lines in some relationships and the Awful Things People Say. After my brother died, it’s been a revelation how much stigma suicide really carries and also how uncomfortable some people are with grief and strong emotions. Those secondary losses were really unexpected and the reshuffling of boundaries has been painful.
The fall-out also shows up with everything related to pregnancy or conception. I’m afraid to embrace the idea of this final embryo transfer – even when I know, no matter how things fall out, I will be okay – because the whole thing activates all the panic responses and pushes me back to thinking on all the other memories. When I was pregnant with M, my OB wound up allowing me to have appointments weekly through the first trimester, until both the risk of pregnancy loss had gone down and I could pick up the heartbeat on my home fetal doppler. I was having panic attacks I couldn’t get under control, despite knowing I would manage no matter what the outcome. It was awful and I’m really grateful that my OB was so kind.
And perhaps that’s one other little silver lining to the tough stuff: I’ve had the opportunity to see people step up to the plate as well. People who have gone above and beyond and helped so much. It gives me faith in humanity, in the idea that there is goodness out there. It helps me better identify where I can be that goodness for others.
All this to say: it’s a mixed bag. What doesn’t kill me has made me stronger and weaker…and panic attacks…and exposed my limitations along with my less than awesome qualities…and brought out some of my good ones. But I guess that doesn’t fit as nicely on a coffee mug.