Katie Hurley is a inspiration in the world of MomMe bloggers. She is an outstanding do-it-all Mom who manages to run two widely successful blogs in addition to raising two adorable kids! Join us as we welcome Katie as our newest guest blogger at Club MomMe and take a moment to check out her blogs: Clomid and Cabernet and Practical Katie.
In the very beginning, I didn’t feel so very alone. Don’t get me wrong, I wasn’t screaming, “I’m infertile!” from every rooftop, but I didn’t feel like an outcast either.
Truth be told, I didn’t use the word “infertile” for quite some time. Doctors, books, websites, and family members were fond of reminding me that one miscarriage didn’t mean I was headed toward infertility. It simply meant that I was unlucky. I was in the 25%...even if a miscarriage at 13 weeks isn’t actually all that common.
A dear friend of mine experienced two miscarriages before her first child was born, so I knew that I wasn’t alone. I confided in her, and a couple of other friends, when I needed some consoling.
For a while, it just felt like something I had to get through. I was sure that once I was able to get pregnant again, the miscarriage would just be a thing of the past.
But then the second miscarriage happened. Once again, it took me by surprise. There wasn’t a cramp in my uterus or a spot of blood to be found that might have indicated that things were not actually “progressing on schedule”. 11 ½ weeks. I was stunned.
Even then, I didn’t call it what it was. Because one is bad luck, and a second is super bad luck…but you really need a third to earn that title “repeated miscarriages”.
Unless you go months and months and months with no pregnancy.
Then you’re both unlucky and infertile. Particularly if your eggs are old (read: anything over 30).
One year passed. The months dragged on. The anxiety mounted. Hope quickly dissolved. It was exhausting.
And then the phone calls came: Back to back, two of my closest friends announced their second pregnancies. I was pregnant when they were pregnant with their first children…they just didn’t know it at the time. We were supposed to do this together.
I struggled to make sense of it. I didn’t know how to respond. I was happy for them. In fact, I was over the moon. But I was also anxious, jealous, and depressed. How could they possibly be going on number two when I couldn’t, for the life of me, have a number one?
That’s when the isolation set in. Even though my friends checked in regularly and hoped against hope that I would get there soon, something felt different.
Life changes when you have one and are expecting another. Your world shifts.
Suddenly, I felt very alone.
I tried message boards. I couldn’t bring myself to make sense of the acronyms or take on any more grief. I knew that if I could find another person, I might feel less alone. But it always seemed like everyone else had already found the right person…and so I watched in silence.
I read books, stalked medical websites, and cried. Alone, but for the company of my husband.
Although it would be years before Clomid and Cabernet actually came to be, it was in those darkest moments, alone with my thoughts, that the idea hit me.
I didn’t want to forget that feeling of isolation because I knew that someday someone would need me to remember it. If I ever did have my baby, I didn’t want to just walk on and pretend that my infertility was a thing of the past.
As it turns out, it doesn’t work that way anyway. There was another miscarriage nine months after the birth of our daughter. And yet another, two and half years after the birth of our son.
Infertility was not to become a part of my past. Not ever.
The last loss was treacherous. I was over 18 weeks into the pregnancy. Everything went wrong. He was a boy…he would have been our third.
As I tried my best to bounce back yet again, I revisited the idea that had been swirling around my brain for years. I had to do something…just some small something to help a few others. I had to use my voice and my losses to do some kind of good.
And so I did. I started small...just a few posts on my parenting website. I Tweeted, I emailed, and I Facebooked (can we use that as a verb?)
Where I once felt lost and alone, suddenly I felt very much found. This was what I needed to be doing…
And then I finally took a chance. I launched the site that I hoped would get people talking, sharing, and possibly even laughing. I created Clomid and Cabernet.
My only regret is that I didn’t do it sooner.
It takes a community to make a change. It takes more than one voice to truly put people at ease. Together, we are creating a space where it’s perfectly ok to vent, cry, and even laugh. Together, we are helping one another through the darkest hours.
Together, we are making a change.
Please join us…we’d love to have you. Bring your own glass!