What My Failed Fertility Treatment Taught Me

First published on chabad.org

Hardly able to keep our eyes open, we kiss the mezuzah and enter home-sweet-home.

We’ve been awake since 4 a.m., to get to Sheba Medical Center at Tel Hashomer for our 7 a.m. appointment.

Today, we had another fertility treatment.

Wait, is it fertilizing?

G‑d, how many weeks have I been praying for this? Before each treatment, I plead: “G‑d, let it work this time.” The last two weeks, I lay awake worrying whether I would be told once again that you slipped through my fingers, or in nine long months will we hold hands for the first time? The mystery that you are, the lack of control I have over you has driven me to insanity. I can’t sleep or eat. I want to have a tight grip over you but that is not our relationship. The only control I have with you is my ability to let go.

Dear microscopic egg, when will it end—me thinking that I know your path in life? If you turn into a baby, G‑d willing, when will I stop pressuring you and pretending I know your soul’s journey? When you come home because you got into a fight at school, will I yell at you because you are not the perfect child I ordered on Amazon Prime? When you come home with piercings, will I disown you because you are not the child you are supposed to be? When you marry the wrong person? Or when you send your child to a school that I don’t approve of, then will I finally let my ego die and let you live the life that you were born to live?

I don’t want to control you, to pretend that I am here as the superior. I know that you are here to teach me; I will let go and listen. I whisper a prayer, “Thank you, I let go, I trust.”

If you aren’t meant to become my baby, I love you and accept you nevertheless. I accept your journey, and I thank you for entering my life just for this moment to teach me to let go.

If you are meant to be my son or daughter, I cannot wait to hold you. You as the real you—not my mirage of you or the “you” I think you must be to flatter my ego. I let go of my expectations on your soul. Your soul does not need my stamp of approval for your journey to be perfect.

I pray to be privileged to hold you through life, I love you and I accept you unconditionally. Thank you for coming to be my teacher.

Follicle, egg, embryo, baby, teenager—in whatever form I am blessed to know you, thank you for letting me know a mother’s love for the very first time. You have made me a mother, either way, by teaching me the radical acceptance of another, so thank you!

We board a plane for a getaway to escape this stress. I lie on the hammock and wonder about you. Once again, have you slipped through my fingers? Either way, I love you. Either way, I accept your path.

Months pass. There is no baby.

I look at my husband, a ball of shame; his anxiety has been climbing. For Ariel, to make a mistake is painful beyond words. Where is the calm, chilled husband I ordered?

He lost his bag. It was forgotten or stolen; who knows? His childhood belief of “I am a failure” shakes his whole body into tears.

I sit with my arms hugging my knees in terror. Where is my easygoing husband?

“Just relax, we all make mistakes,” I offer. My words only sink his self-hatred deeper.

My insides scream, “I hate you; stop acting so childish!” Instead, I mutter, “Honey, relax! It’s just a bag.”

My coach’s kind words ring through my ears. My business is how something is affecting me. Why are his tears so triggering for me? Because I have an image in my mind of a perfect husband who never feels shame or breaks down.

I ask myself, without the golden image of who your husband should be, are you OK? Yes.

Other than this story, what am I actually seeing? A man crying.

Am I in danger? No, but I feel scared.

Why? Because what if he never stops crying? This stressful thought triggers me. I am afraid that Ariel will never stop crying.

Is it true? Yes.

Can I absolutely know it is true? No. I can’t absolutely know.

What images come up from my past? I see myself wiping my tears after the call with our doctor, and one minute later putting on a big smile and saying, Gam zu letova—“this is for the best.” When did I ever get to cry like Ariel? When I hurt, I tend to transform it and make it into something beautiful. When did I ever get to really just feel my pain? My inner child stomps her feet. It isn’t fair that he gets to cry and I don’t.

Any older images? I remember that when I was little, I would hide in the orchard whenever I cried. Looking back, my mother would have loved to have held me. But I always felt too embarrassed. I never let anyone hold me when I cried, I put on a brave face.

How do you treat him when you believe the thought “he will never stop crying?” I resent him and try to belittle his emotions. I try to cheer him up and shame him for not being able to see the positive gift, immediately.

Who would I be without this thought? I would be free to just sit there and witness him while he is allowing himself to be in it.

Without this thought, who is Ariel? He is a man in a state of honesty and authenticity.

Without the thought what would I be? I would cry with him and let myself feel my pain and frustration over having our bag stolen. Or, I would just witness him. Either way, I am free to just be there.

OK, Chana, now turn it around. I acknowledge that I am afraid of myself because I will never stop crying. Yes, I am afraid of my difficult emotions—that if I really feel them, they will swallow me, and that before I can neatly reframe them, I will drown in them.

I am jealous that he gives himself permission to feel. That’s why it’s so hard for me to be there for him. He is my perfect mirror, showing me how afraid I am of my own darkness. No wonder I am so triggered when he gives himself space and time to feel.

OK, Chana, turn it around again, I tell myself.

I am not afraid for Ariel because he will not cry forever. He will cry through the triggers and feel the rawness and question his beliefs and heal. But I will stay in my tears because I refuse to cry. My husband is teaching me how to heal by crying.

Dear microscopic egg, thank you for teaching me to love unconditionally. Losing you shattered me.

You are teaching me how to let go. Letting go of how your life should look is opening me up to letting go of what my life should look like.

Can I love myself even when I am a hot mess? Even when I need to cry out the pain?

I have the perfect image of myself, forever smiling and seeing the positive. I don’t want to face my pain. I let go of the image I have created of myself, the image that says the only way I can love myself is as some role model of emotional stability. But who am I kidding?

Dear self, I accept you in this moment of raw pain. I love you and all your parts.

Dear microscopic egg, thank you for teaching me to let go of the image I was worshipping of my husband, of a husband who is emotionally regulated 24/7 and is always ready to transform any trigger in the wink of an eye. What would I learn from such a husband? Not much.

Thank you, G‑d, for giving me my greatest teacher—a husband who isn’t afraid to feel, so I can be so triggered, and wake up and begin to feel and heal.

G‑d, what a beautiful family you have blessed me with. Thank you! I let go, I trust.