Journal of Poetry Therapy, VoL 5, No. 4, 1992

Infertility and Crisis: Self-Discovery and Healing Through Poetry Writing

A n n e B a r n e y 1,2

The purpose of this paper is to explore the role of poetry writing as a means of coping with the crisis of infertility. Noting how the crisis of infertility reawakens earlier conflicts, the author provides a personal narrative on how her own poetry served as a tool for self-discovery and healing. Attention is' given to both individual and couple issues. Specific advantages of poetry writing, within the context of psychotherapy include: (a) problem-solving (b) expression of feelings, (c) insight, (d) couple communication, and (e) individual and couple growth.

One out of every six Arnerican couples of childbearing age suffers the pain of infertility, the inability to conceive a child or carry a pregnancy to successful conclusion (Menning, 1988). Developments in reproductive science continue to improve the infertile couple's chances of eventually hav- ing children. The emphasis placed on treating the physical aspects of in- fertility, however, often eclipses the critical need for psychological care. Menning postulates that infertility represents a life crisis. The subject of this paper is how I used poetry to resolve key problems in my life reawak- ened by the recognition of my infertility.

When I turned thirty, my husband Steve and I decided we were ready to have children. For most couples, this means going a few months without using birth control, experiencing forty weeks of pregnancy, and bringing a baby home to the admiration of family and friends. But after a year of

1Correspondence should be directed to Anne Barney, 117 North Beechwood Ave., Baltimore, MD 21228.

2For more information on Resolve, Inc., a national support group for infertile people, write: 1310 Broadway, Somerville, MA 02144-1731.

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�9 1992 Human Sciences Press, Inc.

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trying, Steve and I realized it wasn't to be that easy. The first round of treatments began and eighteen months after our first attempt to get preg- nant, finally I had a positive pregnancy test.

Unfortunately, the pregnancy ended in miscarriage. We tried to com- fort ourselves with the knowledge that "at least we know we can get preg- nant." But again, a year passed and by that time, the emotional stress was taking quite a toll on our personal and professional lives. More treatment followed, and six months later, we experienced the excitement and utter relief of conceiving once more.

The pregnancy proceeded well until the eighteenth week when my membranes ruptured prematurely. ! remained bedridden for another six weeks, and delivered our daughter at 24 weeks. She lived ten minutes. Pre- liminary diagnosis: my bicornuate uterus lacked sufficient space to carry a child to term.

What made it possible for me to handle the grief caused by this trag- edy was the psychotherapy I had undergone eight months earlier. It was during that period I wrote the poems that led to my self-discovery and eventual healing. I also credit the guidance I received from my infertility counselor who encouraged me to bring my poems to our sessions and helped me understand what my poetry was telling me.

We spent a long time talking about my family. My mother never worked outside the home once she had the first of her children and fre- quently criticized and pitied those women in the neighborhood who did not have any. I was miserable in my own job which I considered merely a way to bring home a good salary, not a lifetime occupation and certainly not a vocation. In my mother's eyes what I was doing was not as impor- tant as having children! I planned to stop work once our first child was born.

While growing up, I was admonished with "What will the neighbors think?" whenever I did something outside the strict code of behavior my mother expected of me. "You're a reflection of me," she told me, % re- flection of how well I've brought you up." Remembering those words, I wrote the following:

THE MOTHER INSIDE

I am your moon, your mirror, your Dorian Gray.

To look at me is to see you. I am invisible.

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My Indian name is "Surface-of-a-Still-Lake." My other name is "My Daughter."

I am a wishing well. Throw your money and dreams at me.

I have been "should" into doing whatever I shouldn't.

Whatever you wouldn't, I would. And did. But knew better.

Although I listened to you, it was only to learn how to hurt you.

I threw away strait-laced for black lace and slept with Daddy.

Your voice is the clapper inside this hollow bell. A hard, iron tongue.

At 3 AM, I am rung, again and again. Not a gentle peal,

A clanging I cannot stop. I shudder with each heavy toll.

My husband wakes, reaches to hold me, pulls back nothing,

an armful of moonlight.

After writing those words, I realized 1 had thought of myself as her reflection for so long that I had suppressed much of my own self. I lived two lives, one I thought I should live for her, and one that rebelled

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from her insistence on my being her ideal daughter. Much of the rebel~ lion was self-destructive--trying to destroy that perfect image: "I have been 'should'/into doing whatever/I shouldn't." Neither of these selves represented my true self. I was " . . . invisible . . . an armful of moon- light."

I gradually began to see that children could not be my raison d'etre, particularly if I was not capable of having any. Perhaps even more impor- tantly, if I did have children, I did not want to impose that guilt on them. "Whatever you wouldn't/I would./And did. But knew better." ! knew many things I had done were wrong, but I had needed to break away somehow, to become my own person and no longer a reflection. I discovered writing could be my way of establishing that separate identity, a healthy and nec- essary rebellion, and I could have a "life-work" apart from having or not having children.

By the time of my miscarriage in 1989, most of my friends had begun their families and had at least one child. I was on the outside, unable to take part in their conversations concerning pregnancy, childbirth, breast- feeding, diapers, etc. To me, they had a certain aura: they had "grown-up" and experienced something I was yet to discover. "The feelings you have for your kid are like nothing you've ever had before," they would tell me, with a mixture of awe and pride in their voices. I felt terribly envious and immature, excluded and pitied, perhaps even looked down upon. How many experiences from my high school and college careers did this remind me of! I wrote the following poem:

THE FEEL OF BRICK

She presses her back against the brick wall. It protects her from those who would creep up behind her, laugh at her clothes or the way she stays so still, doesn't play, her eyes following one group of girls who strut just far enough away she can make out only the words they purposely let rise.

"Still wears anklets." "Goody-goody." "Doesn't have a bra." "Doesn't have a boyfriend." "Didn't go to private school."

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"Can't speak French." "Doesn't ski." "Isn't athletic." "Sloppy drunk." "Low-paying job." "Boring occupation." "Can't handle the stress." "Chipped nail polish." "Still getting drunk." "No goals or ambition." "Infertile."

As long as her fingers still feel the rough brick, she knows she hasn't disappeared.

After completing the poem, I considered this list of things I had felt inferior about, starting in elementary school, through college and up to the present. My infertility reminded me of all the times I had felt different and excluded in the past. Then, as I thought about the poem, I realized it was not quite finished. I had one more line to add:

As long as her fingers still feel the rough brick, she knows she hasn't disappeared.

Although the girls have.

When I realized the implications in that final line, I cried. How long I had hated myself, back to the days of wearing anklets! The only person criticizing me was me; I was the one holding myself up for ridicule, trans- ferring my self-loathing onto other people. The revelation that I was re- sponsible for much of my feelings of isolation and self-hatred proved a major breakthrough for me. My therapist, upon reading this poem, asked me what the "brick" was, what did I "feel" that made me know I hadn't disappeared. I thought of my good qualities and realized finally I could begin to treat myself better, to give myself a break, to start liking myself! I have since considered that poem to be "the truest poem I ever wrote," and the one that helped me the most to integrate my fragmented selves.

During this time, my husband Steve was experiencing his own health problems, and yet, was immersing himself in his job to the point of exhaus- tion. Infertility had become a taboo subject; in fact, he was loath to discuss any emotional topics. One day I took the following poem to my therapist:

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NON-OVULATORY ANGER

Some months my ovaries refuse, won't give up the egg. The fimbriated fingers implore, outstretched, reaching like a mother toward her baby.

But some months the door slams shut. No amount of ransom, no prayers, no bargaining can release that pearl, and all the sperm in the world can't fertilize hopes and dreams in an empty woman.

She read it and said it sounded quite sad rather than angry, at which point I started to cry. As grief therapists will attest, anger frequently is used to mask the more unpleasant emotion of sadness. She asked me to talk about it. With tears streaming down my face, I said it did no good to talk about anything; talking wasn't making things "better." It wasn't until later that night I realized I was crying n o t because talking didn't help, but because Steve and I were no longer talking at all: " . . . the door slams shut." My sadness now lay in the fact that I felt I was losing the intimacy of my marriage along with the likelihood of becoming a parent. I finally told Steve I understood if he felt angry over my preoccupation with having children, or if he blamed me for not being able to conceive. Steve then admitted he felt he needed to talk with someone, although he believed at the time it was because of his exhaustion. My therapist spoke with Steve the next day, and at long last he released the emotions he had been re- pressing for nearly two years concerning our miscarriage and our struggle with infertility.

Steve and I were now able to talk more freely about our feelings. I showed him this poem:

LION CUB LOVE

Love was the spark in our heels picking us up, knocking our heads straight into each other's stomach.

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We rolled around, with low throated growls of pleasure, climbing on one another and curling up against curves and warm fur, paws intertwined.

We were protected then.

Now we are cautious, always alert for negative feelings, stalking us, unnatural predators whose weapons flash fire that burns through flesh. A hardened flame lodges deep in our hearts. We lie together helplessly as the joy drains out drop by drop.

This poem opened up a lot of honest discussion between us about subjects we had been afraid to raise: "always alert/for negative feelings." We admitted each of us had felt our problems were extinguishing the joy in our marriage. He was relieved and moved to learn that it bothered me, that I had not become so focused on trying to have a baby that I was unconcerned about our marriage. He was able to tell me how tired he was of the overemphasis placed on trying to conceive, how it affected our sex life, how it affected our relationships with other people. I was able to explain how upset I had been that he wouldn't talk to me, and how that led me to jump to wrong conclusions about his feelings towards me and towards pregnancy in general. We finally were sharing instead of suffering and grieving alone.

I surprised myself with what I found 1 had put down in words. With the help of my therapist, I started to understand my poems and my feelings. I was able to recognize the need for a life outside of motherhood. I learned to like myself and not be so concerned with other people's opinions. Per- haps most importantly, my husband and I improved our communication and our understanding of the different ways we dealt with the same prob- lem. That proved invaluable when we were forced to confront the reality of our premature daughter's death. Without the counseling of the year be- fore, I do not know how well we would have coped with that tragedy.

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Poetry hides many insights among its words, frequently unbeknownst to the poet. With the help of a good therapist, a person can uncover those insights and then share them with the people he or she loves. Poetry played a critical role in helping me to solve key problems from both the near and distant past and thereby resolve the issue of my infertility, and have a hap- pier, more fulfilling marriage and career.

REFERENCE

Menning, B. E. (1988). Infertility: A guide for the childless couple (2nd ed.). Englewood Cliffs, N J: Prentice-Hall.