Dear Friend: A Struggle with Infertility

Dear Friend,

I have never told you this but I want to let you know that I think about you every time. Every time I post a new picture of my son on Facebook I think about you and hope I haven’t just made your day worse. I hope that when you see his latest antic and the mischievous grin that accompanies it, that it brings a smile to your face. But how can it? I don’t think I could smile if our roles were reversed.

I know how badly you want a baby of your own. I know what you and your husband have been going through to try to make it happen; the specialists, the painful IVF shots, the devastating news: It didn’t work. Anyone who wants to go down this crazy and wonderful road of parenthood should get to do it, especially because you would be so darn good at it. I just know it! There are many things in our lives that we can control: if we don’t like our jobs, we can get new ones; if our families have outgrown our houses, we can move. But this. This is out of the realm of things anyone can control. This isn’t fair.

It’s in my nature to want to help; to try to fix things. If you were sick, I would come over to your house with homemade chicken noodle soup (homemade by Panera, of course. You know I can’t cook). If you were running late from work and needed someone to pick up your dog at doggy daycare, I would suck up my fear of dogs (why is your dog so big, anyway?) and pick him up.

Remember those days years ago, when you were sad and I could come over with cookie dough and binge watch cheesy romantic comedies with you for an entire weekend and things always seemed a little better afterwards? I wish it were that easy now. I wish I could do something for you.

But I can’t do anything for you except tell you that I’m here for you if you need to talk. Even then, I struggle with what to say to you. My instinct is to be encouraging and say something like, “This will happen for you someday. You’re going to make a great mom!” You and I both know I can’t guarantee that. I imagine a statement like that weighs on an already heavy heart. There has to be a list of things that people have said to you that are well-intended but pain-inducing.

I will never truly understand the pain you are going through; I would never pretend that I do, but I do feel a pain. A pain because then, now, and always, I just want you to be happy.

Even though I can’t do anything to make this situation better for you and even though we don’t talk about it much (and I never have the right words when we do), you must know that you are loved by so many, especially me. Even when you feel so alone, you’re not. And if you still want it, the cookie dough and rom-coms offer always stands.

Forever Your Friend,

Jen