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.