The All-Consumer

I sit here throwing out a cloud of stank in foul little spurts. It must be the death wheeze of all those lactobacilli meeting their demise at the hand of General Doxycycline, o prophylactic antibiotic. I'm like an octupus spewing ink, but with farts.

I just finished talking to Dawn, who probably doesn't realize how fortunate she was not to be interviewing me in person. And I got to thinking, what comes next? Presumably, at some point my infertility will be resolved. We'll have a kid or five, come to us who knows how, but someday I won't be consumed by the struggle to have children. Carrie's almost at that finish line. What happens then?

Infertility forced me to redefine myself in the negative -- I am defined, in part, by what I cannot do. It was not easy to get here, this place where I am not ashamed to be infertile, calling myself that openly, without bursting into tears. I always wanted to be a mother. Well, that and a doctor. But when I imagined my future, I was always tending to little kids. I loved babysitting, loved it when a toddler would fall asleep on me in the rocking chair. Late in college I decided I wanted to be a doula first, then a midwife. I read Mothering, hipMama, every book I could find on the subjects of pregnancy, childbirth, and parenting. Being a mother was important, dammit. It was feminist work! I would be a rock and roll feminist kickass mother!

Except. The lesson I got wasn't the soul-inside-out change and rebirth of that first year of mothering, the strength that comes from surviving labor. No, I got the maximum therapeutic dose of powerlessness, of understanding that I have no control over some things, that no one does. Most people never feel it so deeply. After staking my identity on my ability to mother, I was left with a hollowed-out idea of what I was. It took me years to get myself filled out again, to become a well-researched infertile woman with a justifiable cranky edge, willing to say things nobody else would, things that needed saying. And I have to admit, grudgingly, that I would not be my badass, compassionate, deep-feeling self were it not for the extraordinary struggle of the past few years.

So in that way, infertility isn't the inverse definition I said it was. It's not the infertility itself that defines me, it's the hard work that goes along with it: the building up from nothing of self, the reclaiming of a damaging word, the willingness to survive a crushing blow. What's at the center is not infertility, which, for something so all-consuming, is essentially transient; it's something bigger and more complex. It's my response to the challenge I was dealt. It's just me, I guess.

Someday when I am surrounded by the family my husband and I make, however we make it, I hope I can release the idea of myself as infertile. Who knows what other shatterings and rebuildings may be in store; I can't believe it gets easier with practice. May each one bring me a little closer to who I want to be.

Barring that, may I at least get what I want.

Comments

[Monica]

That was a really beautiful piece. I've been thinking so many of the same things lately, but haven't been able to put it into words. I hope so very much that you get what you want.

[Summer]

Jo, you are without a doubt a rock n' roll feminist kickass woman and someone I'm delighted I've had the chance to get to know. I hope you get what you want, because you've got all the strength and wisdom it will take to be a fantastic mother. So much of what you wrote about the experience of infertility could also be said about motherhood. Motherhood will never fit your expectations -- some things are so much better, some are so much worse, and some are just unimaginable -- and it's a painful process to learn to give up expectations. And powerlessness... yeah. The unstoppable force of labor is just the beginning; a three-week-old with gas pains who just won't stop crying no matter what you do takes powerlessness to a whole new level.
I truly believe that for myself, at least, having gone through a bit of hell in the process of having a child prepared me well for caring for one. You're so right that it's all about rising to the challenge. Soon, I hope very soon, the challenges you'll face will involve months of sleep deprivation and diapers that explode at inopportune moments and tantrums in public places. You're so ready.

Thank you, also, for writing that motherhood is important, feminist work. Sometimes I lose sight of that. It's washed away in tides of Dreft and regurgiated breastmilk. But it's true, if I can raise my son to be a good man, a feminist man, a man who respects women and all people and the planet we live on, I will have done a valuable job.

And did I mention that you kick ass?

[Kristine]

Well said Jo! As much as it sucks, we are going to be better people for what we're going through. I truly believe that.
And I second the notion that you kick ass.

[jilbur]

May I, at this time, remind you of something that a brilliant woman once said in my presence:
"Some day, I'll be someone else."
That is just so frickin true.
I'm not wise enough to wax dharmic at the right time and in just the right way, but here's the thing: you know, no matter how you define yourself, that it's just a convenient peg to hang your sanity on. It ain't just you, sister--in painful, joyful, uncomfortable or ecstatic ways, we're always hollowing out whatever shell we're dwelling in, and then we have to abandon the husks and start over, countless times.
Well--I know you know. from early on, you've astounded me with your depth of being. You're already too cool for school--after the next few changes, you're gonna be scary crazywisdomlady. smoochies.

[Milenka]

As Monica said, that was a beautiful piece of writing, Jo. I can totally relate to it, and I am yet again reminded to be thankful for having found your blog and other like it. Back when i began blogging 3 years ago, it was almost impossible to find Infertility blogs. I felt so damn alone, especially with all the uber cheery and hopeful ladies on fertility boards.

I'm very frank about the fact that I'm currently barron, and i tend to spend more time being angry about it than wallowing. Still, I feel as though my entire being hinges upon my empty womb. I hope that I'm able to look back on this someday, like you, and see it as The Time In Which My Character Was Built. We'll see.

Oh, I emailed you, by the way. It got sent back the first time, and I used the address used to post the comment on my blog. I took an 'n' out and tried again, so I hope you got it! :-)

[Mamarama]

While I was in my artsy farsty early college days, I went to an art opening for this very cool girl I knew. In the center of the room was this sculpture, of a woman, life sized, made in sort of a patchwork fashion. In her hand, she held the needle and thread. She was sewing herself together. No piece of art has ever hit me the way that one did. We are all sewing ourselves together...all the time. XO

[Karen]

Wow. Don't have much else to say. Nothing witty or thought provoking, just wow. Beautiful, beautiful piece. Thank you.

[Julia]

Amen.

[Virginia]

that was fabulously written!
But I want to tell you, before you get to that place where you can say infertility without crying, there is a limbo stage. The stage where the crying stops, but the full acceptance hasn't set in yet. I've been there since january. I've made peace with infertility, but the uncertainty of HOW exactely I am going to be a mother still keeps me up at night. And I don't tell anyone, because I'm tired of *sharing* so much... Hopefully your stay in limbo will be short and sweet.

[Carrie]

All I can say is "wow" (and I feel so much the same way -- except the doula & midwife part!) There is a point that you will get where talking about infertility is just like talking about the color of the sky -- it's just a part of the past and really the discussion doesn't make you cry, doesn't make you sad -- it just is like sharing your story. Of course, it took me years to believe it myself when someone told me and I thought they were full of bunk -- but they were right.

[Jo]

Man, am I in good company. Thanks for reading, thank you for the sweet, sweet validation. Tasty stuff, that.

I should note that I am still wearing a shroud of stink. You know, to take the edge off the serious.

[getupgrrl]

That was so eloquent and (insert 14-year-old voice) SO TRUE!