Abstract
Through an autoethnographic account, the author reengages reflexively with infertility, a companion of old.
“A hope deferred makes the heart sick.” Proverbs 13:12
I have no words. I can find nothing to say to anybody . . . to explain. I cannot even speak to God. Then it comes to me slowly through a fog . . . memories of Hannah’s prayer. What did she say? I am looking for a bible, groping through my bookshelves to Hannah and my memory of the prophet Samuel’s gripping beginning. I find her.
I will say her prayer. Her words will be my words until I can find my own. I repeat the prayer over and over stumbling until the power of the verses and old habit take over—easing my speech. I always leave out verse two and the end of five. 1 I cannot say these words. I am thankful that I live at a time and place where “barrenness” cannot totally define me. But the power of infertility is strong.
“My heart rejoices in the Lord; in the Lord, my horn is lifted high. . . . The bows of the warriors are broken, but those that stumbled are armed with strength. Those who were full hire themselves out for food, but those who were hungry hunger no more. She who was barren has born seven children . . . . The Lord brings death and makes alive; he brings down to the grave and raises up. The Lord sends poverty and wealth; he humbles and he exalts. He raises the poor from the dust and lifts the needy from the ash heap; he seats them with princes and has them inherit a throne of honor . . . .
Barren, childlessness, childless, unproductive, depleted, drained, unproductive, unbearing, impoverished, impoverished, infecund, arid, . . . . When today’s woman waits until her mid 30s to begin to attempt to conceive, she has not considered infertility as part of the envisioned experience. 2 Thus, began my infertility story. After a stunning, world-altering ectopic pregnancy that resulted in the loss of not only a much-loved fetus but also in a fallopian tube (Lahman, 2009), I entered a category at risk for infertility.
Remembering
Researchers expressed surprise when women shared that they still thought of their ectopic pregnancy OFTEN 18 years later.
3
There is not room enough in a poem to demonstrate how often, I have thought of you or a way to explain how I carry you everywhere like one carries their own breath soul marrow.
“Statistically, the chances of having a future successful pregnancy are very good and 65% of women are healthily pregnant within 18 months of an ectopic pregnancy . . . . Your chance of conceiving depends very much on the health of your tubes” (The Ectopic Pregnancy Trust, n.d.). However, after the ectopic pregnancy, I did not conceive and began the stumbling downward slide into a daymare of infertility counseling.
It is still dark—a snowy morning, and I am driving 40 miles to the neighboring town to deliver the sperm specimen my spouse provided that morning. We are sure the infertility lies with me, but it is cheap and easy to get the possibility of the father out of the way first. Consider for a moment the experiences veiled behind the words specimen and provided—embarrassment, shared laughter, privacy, ecstasy, cringing hope. The specimen is in a sterile plastic receptacle tucked inside my cleavage as I tensely navigate snow-covered roads across the backside of a town, I am unfamiliar with. I was instructed, by Doctor, to put the receptacle in my cleavage to keep it warm. This was done with some laughter on Doctor’s part that I did not share. I laugh now harshly, without pleasure, as I picture telling some police officer why I need to hurry. I only have a set amount of time to deliver the sperm before the results are skewed. Perhaps I will be provided a police escort. Later that day, a call comes telling us the sample is excellent. We know now the fertility problem will be mine, all mine. We make light of this burden as we joke about the sperm’s modality and viscosity. Now I will be infertile Hannah. It is a lot to bear. I tell myself I will be fine. I lie.
Back to School
I open files to start updating a class, and I begin to tremble all over. My notes from the first day of class read. —You were losing your pregnancy, Let class out after going over the syllabus State you are not feeling well
I Am Infertile
We are in a public hall of a lab with Doctor. I have just finished a procedure that allows the doctor to assess the state of my existing fallopian tube. Doctor tells us the tube is blocked and that in this condition I am infertile. We stare at the carpet illuminated by fluorescent lights. This is a public setting, so we try to be numb.
Depression
Hello Darkness, my old friend— you come to hold my hand again . . . . My hand slips in your cold, clammy grip— seeking to be released as I have always been in the past. This time your grip tightens painfully. What about me allows you to dare come here, groping and grabbing me? You are a bold bitch worming your way from a handhold until we grapple, in full-bodied fury. What about me seems weak to you? My awards, degrees, reputations, money, family, and friends all declare I am strong! Who can protect me from this woman who beckons—tempting, not with an apple and knowledge, but with shade and release? No one sees behind my stiff-lipped, southern smile. I weep quietly in a lobby— busy professionals striding by. I know now why they can narrate over and over in the media, “She seemed fine”— they have never held the hand of my old friend.
My Friend
Depression comes now to grip my hands between her cold and clammy ones. At first, I believe I can shake her off as I have any situational depression in the past. However, I cannot joke, ignore, eat, or work my way out this. Continuing to hope for pregnancy, I want no part of any type of drugs. In desperation, I do not buy my university parking pass for the year. I walk everywhere, precisely
1 mile to work
2.5 to grade papers at a coffee house
5.5 to the edge of town.
I hold on to the belief that exercise is a way to deal with depression.
I begin to fantasize about being dead. Depression coaxes me in her sly way to peep down this shadowed path. These thoughts bring with them a huge sense of relief—relief from daily faking I am fine. Then Depression pulls my hand hard, farther than I have ever been, chilling me to the bone. I put a foot toward the path and begin to picture not just being dead, but the act required. For the first time in my life, I decide to seek counseling.
Earlier
I am laying on a table writhing, biting the inside of my cheeks trying not to scream out loud. Pain such as I have never known is stabbing and cramping through my abdomen. My spouse, the doctor, and lab tech are staring at a screen trying to figure out what the status of my existing fallopian tube is. 4 It certainly seems blocked to me.
I was told to take some Tylenol before the procedure because it could cause some discomfort. I am sick of medical euphemisms—discomfort/pain, procedure/operation, ambulatory/cheap surgery without recovery time, loss/death.
Belatedly I read—some women feel severe pain. I wonder how many more women suffer pain than the doctors know? Doctor did not ask, and I certainly did not bother to tell. Doctor did not care.
Later
We exit the building with Doctor who talks nonstop—words, words, words washing over me, incomprehensible. I believe Doctor may have said, “I am known for giving a good breast exam.” We stumble to our car. When we see Doctor leave the parking lot, we collapse against each other clutching and crying. I am infertile. I found out in a public hallway, under a fluorescent light, by a dusty plastic plant. The plant is infertile as am I. Now I will gather dust.
Conference
It is suggested that I have a procedure on my remaining fallopian tube called recanalization. 5 I am to present a paper at the American Educational Research Association on mothers, research, intimacy, and ethics. This has been planned for months. My procedure is scheduled for the week I am to be in Canada. I look for a colleague who can present. In a year of strained university financial support, there are few attending. A statistician tells me he will distribute the paper if need be. Strange circumstance brings out strange signs of support! I find a doctoral student who bravely agrees to present my work. I cry as I tell her about my experience to come.
The day before the procedure, it strikes me that I feel pregnant. Trembling, I call my spouse and with his encouragement fumble through the cabinet looking for a pregnancy test. There is still one there. Is it out of date? No.
I am now shaking so badly I can barely perform. It is the longest five minutes of my life. Tick, tick, tick . . . . I am pregnant. Shock and an instant restraint of joy are experienced. I dare not trust. Is the fetus, this baby, in my uterus? I call Doctor immediately, and every day after until I am seen for a vaginal ultrasound. In the waiting room, I immediately begin to cry (me who never cried in public).
I cannot approach Doctor’s office without crying. I cannot have a vaginal exam without sobbing. I feebly joke with Doctor, as tears course down my face, that the other women in the office must see me as a curse, the albatross of the waiting room. I say, “Have you ever considered having a waiting room for women like me”? Doctor just laughs.
At Last
I know this drill—dark room, examination gown, lubricant, stirrups, feet aloft, scapula, heart held at bay. This time though my spouse is with me. This makes all the difference. Holding my breath, I strain to see the computer screen. The fetus is there a tiny little blip, but clearly in my uterus.
We stumble out of the dark office reminiscent of the day we found out I was infertile only this time we stumble into the light. The sunshine bursts into my eyes and all over me. I am pregnant again. The fetus is firmly implanted in my womb. It seems inconceivable. I am surprised by joy—a joy distilled by pain. I will never see Doctor again. I do not know yet, but this will be my choice. I am pregnant. I will break away from Depression . . . shake off her clammy grip. I am pregnant.
Postscript
Every month, every day, every moment of the pregnancy, I am tense, worrying, unsure when I can truly cling to the joy that dogs my every step—shadowing me—asking me to trust again. I have had a brief, blinding glimpse into another world. Like Hannah, I stepped out of that world and firmly into life as a mother, which means I will not grapple with infertility over my life span, but this experience never leaves me. I understand that I will never fully know the full extent of the infertility experience, but I thank all of the people who do for this moment of shared humanity. It has been a shadowed blessing. Blessed are the barren.
Footnotes
Declaration of Conflicting Interests
The author(s) declared no potential conflicts of interest with respect to the research, authorship, and/or publication of this article.
Funding
The author(s) received no financial support for the research, authorship, and/or publication of this article.
