The following poem was written by Willow.
Sorrow is the friend
you never wanted.
She patiently knocks
on your door,
silent as the sunset.
You let her in,
because, really,
what choice do you have?
Sorrow stays for dinner,
and you finally look into her eyes
and see her.
Somehow she seems safer
than you imagined.
You had braced yourself
and battened down the hatches
and now she sits across from you,
not demanding anything .
Just there.
The following reflection was written by Willow.
“For poems are not words after all, but fires for the cold, rope let down to the lost, something as necessary as bread in the pockets of the hungry.”
— Mary Oliver
Early in my journey with infertility, I discovered poetry. My grief was so consuming that I often had no words to describe how I was feeling. Poetry became the voice for my sorrow. I found Mary Oliver, Wendell Berry, Rumi. They, too, had experienced deep and painful loss. The words were raw and real, a healing balm for my heavy heart. In that season, I was drawn to the saddest of poems because I desperately wanted to know that I wasn’t alone. Through poems, I heard the simple and quiet encouragement of “me too.”
Poetry is still part of my life and continues to be a source of inspiration and comfort for me in all seasons of life. Here are a few of my favorite tidbits:
“The deeper that sorrow carves into your being, the more
joy you can contain.
Is not the cup that holds the wine the very cup that was
burned in the potter’s oven?
And is not the lute that soothes your spirit, the very wood
that was hollowed with knives?”
— Kahlil Gibran
The way of love is not
a subtle argument.
The door there
is devastation.
Birds make great sky-circles
of their freedom.
How do they learn it?
They fall, and falling,
they’re given wings.”
— Rumi
“In Heaven the starry saints will wipe away
The tears forever from our eyes, but they
Must not erase the memory of our grief.
In bliss, even there can be no relief.”
— Wendell Berry
Weeping Willow, Claude Monet
The following reflection was written by Willow.
One of the losses that has become part of my story is the loss of a common experience with other women: I have not been pregnant and will never be pregnant. I do not know what it feels like to carry a baby in my body, feel him move inside me, deliver him into the world.
I remember talking to an acquaintance about my infertility and she quickly tried to console me, saying “Well, at least you don’t have to deal with morning sickness!” I thought to myself, “I would give anything to deal with morning sickness right now.” When my mom friends start talking about what it was like to be pregnant, I immediately become a spectator instead of a participant. I listen with curiosity, not resentment. But the familiar feeling of loss is right there with me every time.
Connected to this is another loss: I will never have a child that looks like me. In the adoption world, this is called “the loss of mirrors.” My brother’s daughter has my granddaddy’s red hair. My sister’s kid has her daddy’s adorable scrunchy face. I will never know what traits a biological child might have gotten from me. I have a beautiful, almond-skin, black haired little boy who looks nothing like anyone in my family or my husband’s family. No one picks me out of a crowd as my son’s mommy.
Everyone loves to make those biological connections–“Oh, she looks just like her mommy when she was little.” Or, “He has his daddy’s thick hair.” Again, I become a spectator of these exchanges, listening patiently from a distance. I think it’s important to note that this particular loss is part of my son’s story as well, if not more so. He will never have the comfort of seeing himself reflected in my face. Looking like one’s family brings an unspoken sense of belonging that my son will never know.
It’s uncomfortable and often socially unacceptable to mention anything negative when it comes to adoption, but these are significant losses. It has nothing to do with my love for my son or his acceptance in my family. There is both great joy and great loss in adoption–to acknowledge one without the other is to paint an incomplete picture of a complicated, messy, beautiful thing.
Weeping Willow, Claude Monet
The following reflection was written by Willow.
I celebrated Mother’s Day for the first time as a mother this year. For 32 years, I had only known this holiday as a time to honor my own mother. When I think back on the Mother’s Days
of my childhood, I remember cheesy Sunday School crafts, carnation corsages, and fancy brunch at the Embassy Suites after church. As I got older, it became a more meaningful holiday because my mom and I are very close. I liked to pick out small but special gifts for her and spend the day doing her favorite things. It was an uncomplicated holiday. I have a mother who loves me and I love her.
I had no idea how privileged I was.
When I was in the early stages of infertility, it didn’t immediately occur to me to that Mother’s Day was an extra-special-sad-day for people like me. I’d only ever experienced this day as a daughter celebrating her mother. So when a friend handed me a card and a knowing hug at church that day, I remember thinking, “Oh yeah, this is another thing to be sad about. I’m not a mother on any day, but here I am, also not a mother on Mother’s Day.”
My social worker friend Francie says that one of the hardest things to grieve in life is the loss of something you never had. In many ways, infertility is such an ambiguous grief. You grieve for a child that doesn’t exist. You can’t see his face or hear her voice. On Mother’s Day, you grieve the loss of something you don’t have – the experience of being a mother. It’s not easy to explain this grief, and most people don’t even realize the everyday events and activities that can trigger the grief of those suffering from infertility. I certainly didn’t until it was me.
Mother’s Day is complicated and painful for so many people. It was a privilege and a gift to grow up celebrating this day without emotional baggage. I know that now. But if you haven’t experienced infertility or don’t have any close friends who have, it’s easy to take that privilege for granted. That’s why just simply having an awareness and a sensitivity of the potential suffering of those around us is so powerful. It’s such an important first step in caring for our loved ones who are grieving.
I have been a mother for 9 months. But my son’s story did not begin 9 months ago. He has had several mothers in his life, and we plan to honor their part in his story. On Mother’s Day, we will be thinking about Ms. An, our son’s birthmother. We don’t know much about her, but we will send her love and talk about what she might be like. We will also think about Insook, his foster mother. Insook provided our son with a loving and caring home for almost a year before he became part of our family. We are forever grateful to these two women. Our son will always know what an important role they played in his life.
I got to be celebrated as a mom on Mother’s Day this year. I got the flowers, the special meal, the extra kisses from my son. So many women did not. The silence and emptiness of their homes will have been especially noticed on that day. No words can ease the pain. If you know this pain, please give yourself permission to feel whatever emotion you are feeling on that day, or any day. You are not alone, and your story matters.