Quite often, in either casual conversation or in deep discussion, the questions always come up. It’s natural to ask, and I probably asked many people the same ones before I became aware that they’re sometimes uncomfortable to answer.
- “Is Elise your first child?” or “How many kids do you have?”
- No, and two.
- Yes.
- Two kids, so no, she isn’t my first. I had a son, Hank, stillborn in October 2012. He’d be two and a half right now.
While simple answers, the first two either invite more questions or purposely don’t acknowledge my son. I used to feel like I wasn’t honoring him, or forgetting him, when I gave this answer. I realize now that it’s just the opposite. My son doesn’t deserve to make others feel bad for asking, and I’d rather keep his memory private sometimes.
- “Did it take you long to get pregnant?”
- No.
- Yes.
- Yes, it did. It took us almost a year, and then I miscarried. Then it took us another year, and I got pregnant and had a stillborn. It took us another eight months to get pregnant again.
Simple answers shut this question down (especially the no). If you answer yes and someone asks again, I usually am comfortable telling about visiting fertility specialists, and all of the crazy tests they do to make sure things are working, and the stories of being too scared to give myself shots so I’d make my husband do it. If you’re not comfortable telling people about your journey, or you’re still on it yourself, it’s ok to say no, and not offer any more information. It’s your body, after all.
- “Are you having more kids?”
- No.
- Yes.
- Not sure. Depends on a lot of things. Can I even get pregnant again without help? Is my body able to support a pregnancy to term? Even though I’ve proven to myself that I can have a healthy baby, the odds still are not in my favor. What does this mean to my stress level and overall well-being when we try?
I told someone the other day, when they asked this question, that the answer was no. It’s not really. I just wanted to try it out. Her response was “Well, why not?” I didn’t feel as though either one of us would benefit from my trying-to-conceive saga, so I just smiled and said that Elise kept me busy.
Some days all of questions are hard to answer. Some days, they’re easy. It’s not the answer that dictates ease. It’s the day, or the person, or the conversation, or my mood. I try as often as I can to be open and honest about my journey of trying to conceive, pregnancy loss, pregnancy after loss, and parenting because I want others to share their stories, too.
There are times when I’m not interested in sharing, and the reason doesn’t have to be significant. I’m allowed to have a day where my mission is not awareness but rather self-preservation. I’m allowed to not mention Hank’s name to a stranger and still love him.
The next time you feel like asking someone one of these questions, stop. Realize that they may have been trying to conceive unsuccessfully for years. They may have just miscarried for the second time. They may have just buried their only living child. They may have gotten pregnant accidentally, and struggled with the notion of being a parent. And if you ask anyway, don’t be surprised or hurt by our answers. We’re just telling the truth in that moment. We are allowed to answer any of these questions any way we’d like, and that is always the right answer.