A little more than a year ago, I joined this community known as the infertility blogosphere. Since then, I’ve followed the stories of more than 100 couples trying to become families, families trying to find a sibling and more. Stories of ART. Of pregnancies. Multiple births. Adoptions from near and far.
And I decided to contribute my story to them. They became my friends inside the computer. I cheered for them; I cried with them. Some of them I met in real life. Others I hope to. Others remain good friends but far away. They have enriched my life in a way they cannot understand; I only hope I can do the same for others.
But it’s a tenuous thing to enter the infertility blogosphere. Not so much because you post so much of your life online. But because you share in the lives of others. Their gains. And their losses.
Just skimming the blogs of those around us opens one’s eyes to the fragility that is pregnancy and birth. And joining the community means learning the hard stories, too: when a baby is lost at 36 weeks gestation; when triplets are lost after every effort is made; when a would-be mother faces ending a pregnancy that cannot end in a healthy child; a baby girl arriving without her baby brother.
In much the same way that getting pregnant was harder for most of us, so too is reaching the end uninjured. And though we knew, through the magic of statistics, that these stories could also be ours, they were easier to face when they were just numbers. They are much harder when they have names, and stories, and often photos. When they are the stories of those we know and love. When there are faces, ultrasounds and belly pics.
This community comes with infinite wisdom, stories to make the most skeptical hopeful and support to rival any other. But it comes with the lingering knowledge that this, too, could be your story. As Julie once put it, “I’ve learned alot … but I’m not sure it’s worth it.”
May we have only simchas.