Tag Archive | infertility

On Behalf of All the Un-Mothers…

no-children

Today is the day we celebrate motherhood. And rightfully so, for none of us would be walking this planet without first being safely ensconced in a mother’s womb (and for many, loved and guided for many years post). But for us “un-mothers,” it is also a glaring day-long reminder of our own inadequacies to “do as nature intended,” of hopes dashed, and wishes left unfulfilled… of pure emptiness.

Social decorum keeps my hand hovering above the keypad, afraid to strike these thoughts into permanent notes, and then, the gall, to actually share them out loud. But I also know that I am not alone. And for far too long, I have kept this secret locked away in the closet of my broken-heart.

For many of us with chronic illness, the “simple” act of creating a child is not an option. And for me, it goes beyond even the possibility of infertility treatments to the extreme notion that I have been directed not to ever, ever, ever get pregnant… if I do, I will most likely die.

And yet, I still yearn. The pull to have a child is so strong that I have actually considered blatantly risking my own life to do so. And, yes, I know all the other options: adoption, surrogacy, fostering. I am not opposed to a single one, and actually openly embrace these alternative paths to motherhood. But although anyone can conceive a child (and I mean anyone), to raise a child of someone else’s conception requires large amounts of money and assurances of physical and mental stability for life.

I don’t know anyone who can truthfully assure that, when the future is always unknown. But when you start with the big stamp of “high risk” at the top of your application, you are already climbing up a steep, long and windy hill.

So here I am with a biological clock ticking so loudly it keeps me up at night. And an ache deep in my abdomen that will never be filled.

No one will ever wake me this day with breakfast in bed or flowers and a card.

I will not receive homemade gifts from child care and school… lopsided clay pen holders, tiny plaster handprints frozen in time to hang and admire, Fimo critters that only a child could confidently declare their species, scrambled eggs made with love and drops of crunchy shell, colored t-shirts declaring my child’s never-ending love for me, “MOM is” poems… all the treasure stored more carefully than the priciest of valuables.

I won’t receive spontaneous “Mom you’re the best” and “never leave me, okay?” knee-wrapped hugs.

I will get teary at the month long pull at your heart strings Hallmark commercials not because I am anticipating an equally endearing card from my own child, but because I will never have a chance to experience that intimate moment.

There will be no teenage eye-rolls at my nerdy antics that eventually becoming endearing inside jokes as my child becomes an adult and my best friend.

There will be no one there to take care of me when I am old and frail. To tell me deepest secrets to. Instead of being an elder blessing I will be a burden to some second in line relative.


 

Friends and family comfort me with the fact that I have a nephew that loves me, that children gravitate towards me, that I spent years working with and providing stable beginnings for hundreds of young children. All true.

I used to joke when asked in my twenties as a director of an Early Childhood Center, “do you have any children? You’re so good with kids!”… “Why, yes, I have 135 of them!” It was comical then, because I was so sure that I would have my own soon and until then, the 135 smiling faces each day fulfilled my motherly instincts.

I always knew I would be a mother. My friends would question this calling and often put finding the perfect man, having a McMansion or a high paying job above having a child. Not me. And then, lucky me (truly), I found my soul mate at 19 and he shared in my passionate dream of having children.

We’ve had the names picked out since we were 25. There was never a question in my mind that this was a part of our American Dream. We could not imagine any different outcome. We even knew that if we couldn’t have a child biologically, we’d adopt. It was just that simple.

But that’s the funny thing about life. It doesn’t always work out the way you’ve planned. And in the last 10 years, this has been more often the case than the “everything works out in the end” scenario.
Not having children is one area I haven’t been able to positively flip on its head, discovering the true purpose behind the tragedy. If anything, I can find gratitude in the fact that I did not have a child just before I became seriously ill. For that child would have grown up with a sick, unavailable mother for the first 10 years. But, I also know, I would have always had an endless supply of love.

A friend told me that if I had a child, I wouldn’t be able to be there as the loving support for all the other people in my life, as I am now. That perhaps my future is in helping and nurturing my peers (all the grown “lost-children”) instead of having a child of my own. Perhaps.

All I know is this ache isn’t going away. Sometimes I think it’s even growing stronger. I still dream of the magical stork from above bringing a child in need into my life, into my loving arms.

My arms will always be open for that far-out possibility.

Until then, I honor and celebrate all the un-mothers out there. You are not alone! Perhaps it’s time for us to petition for a Hallmark holiday of our own?! Until then, wrap yourself in loving comfort today… and don’t feel a bit of guilt for carving out some time just for yourself.

 

 

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It’s Been One of Those Weeks!

Thistooshallpass

It’s been one of those weeks months years!!

I’m in a melancholy frame of mind.  Each day I awake expecting a different return on my daily investment.  And each day it has played out the same story: beginning with hopefulness, ending in defeat.  Yet, I keep getting up and trying again… One Day at a Time.

I can trace this defeatist attitude back to the beginning of last week; the unofficial end of summer, Labor Day.  It’s that time of year when fall ushers in a season of transition, rest and reflection.  My husband and I were struck by the lack of memories created this past summer.  We were overwhelmed by a year that had contained one “loss” after another.  No, it wasn’t a traumatic year (health wise); we’ve certainly have had our share of those.  But in its mundaneness, it almost felt worse.  We felt we truly had nothing to show for the past nine months of “just getting by.”

It’s been a year of “take-aways.”  It has felt like we have been punished, our privileges revoked, for actions we didn’t commit.   We’ve had to accept one “reality of life” after another, with no reprieve.  After five years (!) of a pending lawsuit against the medical providers that ignored my acute symptoms resulting in a ruptured colon, sepsis lasting two weeks, and culminating in the infamous words, “You have a 10% chance of making it through the surgery. You need to say goodbye to your husband,” we were told we had to drop the case.  That there was no doubt the evidence showed clear negligence on the doctor’s part (they even admitted to such in deposition!), but my multiple underlying conditions muddied the waters so much that a jury would be hard pressed to agree on a guilty verdict (and we would be out upwards of $200,000 for even trying).  Hence, Loss #1: no chance of financial security for you two!  Then, just mere months later, we were informed by my GYN that we should never, ever, ever attempt to get pregnant, because doing so would result in a 95% chance of death (for both myself and the fetus).  Major Loss #2: life-long hope, wish, most-certain dream, dashed.   And this cycle of loss has continued; punishments administered just by the sheer fact that I am sick.  They haven’t all been so big and life-altering, but the small punches knock you down over time just the same.

It’s also been a year of “give-aways.”  Unfortunately, not like the Prize Patrol kind, but the bill man’s at the door requesting you give-away all your money kind!  Every time we’ve accumulated a small nest egg to take a trip or do something “normal” (like go out to dinner), we’ve been hit by another unexpected financial necessity: the cat’s been sick, the van’s been sick, my feet are sick and need new soles, on and on!  Thankfully we’ve been able to cover these excessive, unexpected expenses, but it’s also left the cookie jar empty… not even a crumb for a desperate late night snack.   I’m feeling this so markedly in this time and space, because it is now, today, that we were supposed to be on our vacation to Cape Cod; our “healing respite” we called it.  Yet, one more thing we looked forward to for months that we had to forsake, just to get by in the living present.

And, that’s it… the only thing certain in my life is The Present: this very moment in front of me.  My husband bemoans that we should never plan anything, we just have to cancel it anyways.  And, to some extent, I agree.  It’s extremely discouraging to get your hopes up only to have them dashed down over and over again.  It’s one hell-ride of a roller coaster.  But, I can’t go through life without having dreams.  At the same time, it’s a stark reminder to live and enjoy each present moment, regardless of what you are looking forward to on the horizon.  Sometimes, we have our heads stuck so far up in the clouds, we forget to enjoy the amazing scenery beneath our feet.

I admit; I’ve been in a funk.  I know that we all have to make sacrifices, with the hope that the future will be brighter. But, and I guess this is where my P.T.S.D. comes in to play; I’ll get scared that there won’t be a “next time.”  I’ve lost so much time, so many years, to being on my death bed sick that I get fearful when time passes me by that could have been filled with larger than life living.   People will often say, “well, none of us know when our time will come; I could get hit by a car tomorrow!”  Yes, that’s true.  But, let’s face; most people don’t have a clock ticking down at rapid speed, like those of us with severe chronic illness.  We live with our mortality every day.

This “Debbie Downer attitude” has kept me from blogging recently.  Yet, it feels cathartically healing to write this all out on page and share it with you.  And it has helped to refocus my intentions.  I may not be communing with the seals of Cape Cod right now, but I am communing with all of you.  And I am grateful to be fully alive, and fully present in this very moment.