Tag: infertility

The Lost Sheep

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sunflower-02The following reflection was written by Sunflower. 

The following thoughts have been stirring over and over lately in my head, my heart, and in my talks with my husband. Many of my conversations with him are about the community of believers, how they have or have not handled our particular journey well, and what we will or will not do if we are faced with a couple going through something that reflects our path.

Honestly, as I stare at the computer screen, I am still not sure how to say what is deep in my heart, causing me so much pain and frustration. I do know that I have been extremely hurt by the “audience” of believers that God has placed in my life. I use the term audience because that is what they are: they look, watch, judge, and predict. They cheer and clap when they think I have done something good, and boo and yell when they think I have made a wrong move. They are an audience because their involvement in my healing has been minimal.

They feel safer from a distance. They wait for me to enter their territory so that they can really “meet me where I am” and offer “healing words, and spiritual food.” They stand at the door, yelling for their lost sheep (me), and if yelling doesn’t work they try a whistle, or maybe a bell, or maybe silence, or maybe a treat…when nothing proves to work, they drop their head in disappointment that their lost sheep has wondered off the wrong path, close the door, and continue on. They may stop and think about me for a moment, but the thought is brief because they have too many sheep they are trying to keep track of and they are responsive while I am the sheep that is not, so it is best just to “move on” to those who will respond.

I do hear their calls, the whistle, the bell, and actually think the treat sounds quite good, but I am caught in a bush, its thistles and vines wrapped so tightly around my legs and I cannot move. I try yelling, but they are too distracted or impatient to hear my weak and quiet voice; I try responding, but it is not the response they expected so they miss it. I am tired. I am tired of trying, of fighting, and so I lie down and wait.

Christ comes. He slowly and precisely cuts each branch, vine, and thistle that has wrapped around my aching body and broken heart. He knows I am disappointed, that I have been left alone, and he keeps telling me how sorry he is. He gently lifts my broken body from the bush and starts to tend to my wounds, only the way a healer and a maker can. He sings gentle songs in my ears and whispers his love and promises to my heart. As I continue to heal, as he continues the healing, our hearts start beating as one. He stands me up and places his hands on my shoulder and looks into my eyes.

“Daughter, you have been disappointed; I know, I am disappointed too. I will never leave you and I will always come and find you, but now you have to make a choice. Are you going to be one of the many people in the audience of others’ lives, or are you going to be a participant? I don’t need another person to fill a seat and watch; I need someone who will be in the play. I know you are hurt, and it is your choice…but I will always come and find you.”

 

The Waters Between Us

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Lavender-Picture-15The following reflection was written by Lavender. 

The isolating effects of infertility can be far-reaching. While I have not experienced infertility myself, a few of my closest friends have been walking down its lonely road for many years. Over these years situations, conversations, and interactions have occurred that have threatened to dig deep gulfs between us that would erode the foundations of our friendships. The fathomless waters of grief, hurt feelings, and loss would try to rise, putting us on separate islands. I am so grateful that my friends and I saw the value in continually and intentionally building bridges to keep us connected.

The first time I realized that infertility had the potential of separating us happened when my friends started going for tests and procedures, and I was not yet trying to get pregnant. Their worlds seemed full of appointments, anticipation, and disappointment. It was so hard to watch them go through all these things, not having any medical knowledge or life experience to draw from. In addition, I wasn’t in their same mindset about eagerly seeking pregnancy. Looking back, I see their patience with me when I must have seemed immature and unhelpful in their emotional struggles. Cookouts, coffee shop dates, game nights, and other mundane social gatherings served as bridges for us to stay connected, to keep “normal life” afloat as we entered this new era in our relationships.

A few years into this journey, my husband and I felt we were prepared to start a family, and I became pregnant before my friends with infertility. This appeared to everyone to be in the wrong order, and it was deeply felt on all sides. I felt guilty about this, and my “good news” seemed like bad news to the friends with whom I had most wanted to celebrate. I had no idea how to share it and when I did, I dealt a huge blow. In response, I perceived feelings of anger, frustration, apathy, and resentment. There were attempts at joy swallowed by sadness. I think this for many people would have been a tipping point. It would have been easy for us to go our separate ways, to avoid further injury. In actuality, I was in more of a place to feel sympathy for them than ever before. I had a new understanding of the pregnancy-seeking world, having entered it myself. I listened more intently and tried to give more of my support. More bittersweet times lay ahead, when I felt that I could not share some aspects of my pregnancy (discomfort, tiredness, sweet baby movements inside of me, etc.) for fear of appearing ungrateful or boastful. I must say my friends gave heroic efforts in supporting me with kind words, tips on sales on baby gear, and questions about my pregnancy. While we kept our friendships together, I just can’t help feeling even today that we missed out on the bond that comes from everyone eagerly anticipating something together.

The third opportunity for isolation came when my baby was born. I felt so loved by family and friends who supported us generously when we came home. I remember desperately wanting to share the joy of my baby’s birth with my sisters-by-heart and thinking that they were very likely in a place not to feel it. Crushing. They bravely came soon after we arrived home, and I have rarely felt so emotionally vulnerable. This was heightened by my physical and emotional exhaustion. My friends with infertility reached out their hands and built another bridge just by having the gumption to show up and support me in my early days of motherhood. It may not always have been with the happiness I craved, but they found it within themselves to put aside their pain to be with me anyway.

As time passed, I tried to support my friends as they struggled with their infertility. There were times when I felt like the outsider, being the only mom as others discussed their most recent infertility test or procedure, or decision to adopt. On the flip side, I knew they felt like outsiders when I talked about what I was going through as a new mom. There were social gatherings at which children were encouraged to stay with a babysitter, which was bittersweet. On one hand, I was happy to have an evening or a day with only adults. I was lucky to have a support system that I could count on to take care of my baby if my husband and I wanted to attend these events. However, I didn’t like the feeling that if I didn’t get a babysitter, I would have to stay isolated at home because I was a mom. I understood that my friends wanted to have gatherings without having to be reminded of their infertility by having children around, but it still hurt. The important thing is, we just kept talking. When we hurt each other, we eventually apologized. We kept praying, reaching out, and connecting. We just kept trying, hoping it would be enough.

I have seen the waters that threatened to separate us recede time and again. It was with the deepest elation and relief that I have seen my friends become mothers. Years of my prayers, anxiety, and anticipation seemed to wash away as I welcomed their babies into this world. What if they had never become mothers? I actually believe we would have found a way to remain friends. I felt that it was imperative not to let infertility define who we were as people. Infertility was one part of their identity, but these lovely ladies were so much more than that. I decided a long time ago that if they would have me as their friend, I wouldn’t let them go for anything.

August Focus: Isolation

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Though the statistic of couples struggling to get or stay pregnant is a staggering 1 in 8, infertility is still accompanied by acute isolation and a deep sense of loneliness.

The infertile voice longs to be heard, but is often silenced by embarrassment, shame, or fear.

The infertile experience is bursting with uncomfortable emotions that have no easy solution: longing, sadness, anger, bitterness, grief.

The infertile journey can be long and uncertain, requiring prolonged patience and enduring empathy.

For these reasons and more, isolation is a common part of the infertile story. As is true for all kinds of suffering, community is integral for surviving infertility. With it comes empathy, insight, understanding, perspective. Yet, many people are unable or unwilling to reach out from within and without the infertile experience to make that healing connection.

Communication can be a hindrance to this connection, and isolation can cut both ways.

There are many realities in infertility that are difficult to express—it involves very personal, physical aspects, as well as heightened emotions that make the typical blundering of human relationships difficult to manage. It is an ever-present grief, its pain easily triggered by a endless number of things.

On the other hand, it can be frustrating and futile to walk alongside a person going through infertility. They need truth and encouragement; challenge and sympathy; closeness and distance; words and silence–it is a constant challenge to know when to employ which aspect of friendship.

The goal of this month’s focus is to offer narratives from both sides of the spectrum in order to foster understanding and connection between those experiencing infertility and those trying to walk alongside them. Wherever you’re coming from, we hope that these personal stories offer insight that leads to a strengthening of the community in your own life.

Safe to Dream

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forsythiaThe following reflection was written by Forsythia. 

April 2013: My husband and I had been through a plethora of tests and doctor-visits that hadn’t brought us any closer to answering the question that burned in our hearts: can we have children? 

At last, we were on the brink of something that was going to give us definitive information–it would, it must, how could it not? We were going in for a biopsy. On the one hand, we were eager for the procedure and the answers it would give. On the other, we knew that it could be bad news as much as good news.

As the date approached, I felt I must prepare for the worst. We had so many dreams about our children–what they would look like, who they would take after, what we would name them. These dreams felt dangerous to hold onto. I decided that I would do something symbolic and purposeful to help myself let them go–something I’d been thinking about for a while. The idea was “better to let go of my own volition than have these desires ripped from me in our doctor’s office.”

I planned it all out. I would walk a local prayer labyrinth, giving myself time to meditate and grieve as I walked slowly to the center. Once there, I would light candles to represent those dreams that were hanging by a thread: the names of our wished-for children; the vision of us as parents…And when I was ready, I would snuff them out, walking the labyrinth out with my heart prepared for “come what may.”

The story of what took place that night can be found on my blog Leavingteaching.wordpress.com. In vague language–I was not open about our infertility at the time it was written–the voice of my 2013 self shares about wild hope. It does my heart good to revisit that narrative, to be reminded of the unexpected gift I was given in a moment of great need.

My purpose for the labyrinth that night was reversed on me. I felt clearly in my spirit that I was not meant to snuff out my dreams–that it was not my job to determine which desires for my life would come to fruition or when or how they would happen. Instead of blowing out candles as I let dreams go, I found myself lighting candles as I dreamed. Each time I blew the flames out, it was to light more. I dreamed and dreamed on into the night, with exuberance and gratitude. I lit a candle for each of the children we wanted, and those we never imagined; for the places we would live and things we would do; for our marriage.

It became clear to me that cool April night that it was safe for me to dream. I had meant to let go of these things because they felt dangerous to my heart–what if they didn’t come true? But an understanding was given to me through this experience: that dreams are only dangerous if I rest the weight of my soul on them. The same is true of anything finite in this world–fame, money, power, even relationships, love. If I chose instead to entrust my heart and my life to the unchangeable, powerful God of the Universe who loves me like a daughter, then nothing was lethal to me–not the death of a dream, not even death itself.

Looking back–my 2016 self reflecting on my 2013 self–I see that God has been faithful to the revelation that he gifted me that night. That even in my darkest moments, even when I couldn’t believe in hope, my dreams, my very heart, was safe in his care.

A New Perspective

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Photo credit: Alan Johnston, Flickr

The following reflection was written by Linden. 

I entered the teaching profession at age 27 with no formal training or certification. But I loved it, and still do after recently finishing my second year! I get to teach high schoolers Spanish, and that involves a lot of Enrique Iglesias and Shakira. My husband works as a campus minister. He has a calling to mentor and encourage college students. (He also has a calling to rub my feet every once in awhile).

Four years into marriage, we felt ready to start trying to have kids. After the first few months, I began to wonder why it wasn’t working. It seemed so easy for everyone else. I had always been healthy. And on some level, I thought: “I’m a good person. I’m an upstanding citizen. Doesn’t God think I deserve to be a mom?”

Before we knew it, we had reached the year mark without success and made an appointment to talk with a doctor. I remember walking into the office on a bright but chilly January day. Gripping my husband’s hand, I said to him through tears, “I can’t believe we are this couple. I can’t believe we are having to do this.”

A year into working with this doctor, we made some discoveries about our situation. I was attending the weekly worship service at the college ministry where my husband works, and during that time, I felt God reveal something new to me. It wasn’t audible, but it was a fresh thought about infertility that I knew hadn’t come from myself. I had prayed, journaled, discussed with my counselor, and talked openly with friends and strangers alike about our journey through infertility, but that night, I was given a new perspective. One that gave me hope.

It wasn’t an idea that was easy to swallow. It didn’t make everything magically better. But it was hope in the most difficult season of my life. My husband and I had both taken the long route to finally getting jobs we loved. These jobs were personally fulfilling and making a difference in the world. We’d been placed in positions to influence and care for young people. For the first time ever, I was able to see that if we never had a child, we would always have these “children” in our lives. For me, my high school students. For my husband, his college students.

I had never thought about it in this way before. In the moment of realization, I felt simultaneously the pain of infertility and the comfort of knowing that we would be O.K. if we only ever had these children in our lives. That thought provided me with a hope I hadn’t felt yet about our infertility and renewed energy to press forward as we sought to grow our family.

Into a Great Fire and Out Again

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Photo credit: Matt Green, Flickr

The following reflection was written by Tiger Lily. 

I always know what I want. It takes me 20 minutes tops to find an outfit I like and get out of a store. I usually know where I’m going. I have a good sense of direction, and can visually remember the way to almost anywhere after having been there once. I know what I want to do. I’ve wanted to make films and write since I was 8 years old.

I don’t wrestle with decisions much, because I usually know exactly what I want and what I hope for. So as you can imagine, when my husband and I got married and eagerly anticipated having children, I already had names picked out, bedrooms designed, and dreams imagined for those children.

My husband is quite a bit older than me, but it’s never been a stumbling block. If anything, it has been a source of strength. He has been through a lot of hardships in his life and though he always dreamed of having a family, he never thought it would actually happen for him. He met me, we married, and suddenly that dream once again sparked in the darkness and grew into a little flame. I desperately wanted to fan that flame, ready to become a mother at any moment. I wanted so much to give him everything he never had.
Our first year of marriage was wonderful. We couldn’t get enough of spending time together and looked forward to the future with a fluttering anticipation. I was taking pregnancy tests every month, waiting to see those plus signs. They never came.

After that first year life got hard… really hard. Our jobs were draining us dry in every way imaginable, our finances tumbled into a pit with seemingly no way out, my anxiety went through the roof, and his depression weighed him down like an anchor. The second and third years of marriage passed in this tumultuous storm. Still no children. Still no relief from our circumstances. I have always believed that my husband’s calling in life is fatherhood. He is a quiet and gentle soul towards whom both children and animals gravitate. He is a natural in nurturing, teaching, and caring for people and things. He never made me feel guilty, but I certainly made myself feel guilty about our failure to conceive. I felt that I was failing at providing him with children, and the faces of the children we dreamed of started to fade. We had called them each by name, but those names faded too.

At the crux of this pain and devastation, I started watching Game of Thrones. (You don’t need to have seen it to understand the point I’m making). Something happens in the story that really left an impression on me and changed my perspective on our situation. I really connected with Daenerys Targaryen (the character with the fabulous white hair). She was forced to marry a barbarian warrior, but over time they grew to truly love each other. By the middle of the first season/book, she was pregnant and there was much anticipation for the birth of their child.

In a tragic turn of events, her husband is killed and her baby stillborn. She loses everything. She was given three dragon eggs as a wedding gift, and while everyone else believes they are dormant, she dreams that if she carries them into a great fire, they will hatch. As an act of faith, she does this very thing, and when the smoke clears and the fires burn out, she rises completely unharmed with three dragons in her arms. This is how she becomes “The Mother of Dragons.”

This particular moment has stayed with me. In the wake of devastation, she takes a leap of faith and is rewarded for her belief. It didn’t bring back her husband, their son, or the life she had before. Nothing could undo the pain of her loss, but it was redeemed with a new future, a new hope.

God spoke to me through this story, as a metaphor for my own life. When I look back now, I can see that it was for our own good we did not have children. Our burdens were already so hard to bear–to add a child to that hardship might have been too much. I am grateful we weren’t parents during that time of struggle because we probably couldn’t have been available to them as much as they would have needed or deserved. It’s always hard to see clearly in the anguish of the moment, but the Lord held us firmly in His Hand through those years, and our pain was ultimately for our good.

The symbol of fire has been important in my life. It also reminds me of a story from one of my favorite books in the Bible (Daniel), in which Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego encounter the fiery furnace. They are being executed, thrown in the furnace for not bowing down to the false gods of their king, Nebuchadnezzar:

“Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego answered and said to the king, ‘O Nebuchadnezzar, we have no need to answer you in this matter. If this be so, our God whom we serve is able to deliver us from the burning fiery furnace, and he will deliver us out of your hand, O king. But if not, be it known to you, O king, that we will not serve your gods or worship the golden image that you have set up.'”

Even if God did not bring them to safety in the end, even if he did not fulfill their desire to live and escape such a death, they would not waver in their faithfulness to Him. “But if not” is the most powerful part of that passage to me. Even if God does not help us, we will not serve your gods. He doesn’t always give us what we want, but He always provides what we need to fulfill our calling as His children.

Like Shadrach, Meshach, Abednego, and Daenerys, I went into a great fire, a trial, and came back out again. Though covered in the ashes of loss, a new dream was born. I am not saying I’m giving up, or that we will never have children. I still hope we can some day, with all my heart! But even if we do not, I know our lives and our marriage are not devoid of purpose and passion. We have now been married over 4 years and I feel a new contentment in our relationship. Having one another truly is enough. Children could add to our lives, but having them is not the end-game of our union.

There is always hope. I still hope that I can see a child of our own in my husband’s arms, laughing in our home, playing in our yard, and resting their head upon my chest. Whether they are biological or adopted, I hope for them. Right now, I cannot see any open doors for this to happen, but it is always possible with God (lest we forget Abraham and Sarah). In the present, I have my own dragons to nurture–they are the stories I intend to tell the world through film, television, and other writing.

It wasn’t until years later that I could look back and see purpose in the pain we’ve endured so far. One day, I may be looking back upon this day in the very same light. Perhaps even with that dream child in my arms.

July Focus: Hope

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Although it is easy to focus on the hard stuff, the infertile experience is not without moments of clarity, growth, and hope. It goes without saying that these are as varied and specific as the losses, discouragements, and pains of the journey. Hope has a way of audaciously reaching into impossible moments to soften hardened hearts, open closed eyes, and empower the weary soul.

It is important and powerful, but hope is also a tricky thing to share with someone going through infertility. Although the storyteller’s goal is to uplift the listener, it can often have the opposite effect. Stories of pain, loss, and loneliness lead to connection and understanding, but hope is different–it challenges. It asks us to dare to believe there could be something beyond the mire in which we trudge; that there could be something good, and that it could be for us. One slogs rather than travels through infertility; the length and shape of the road is different for everyone. Sharing moments of hope can be a reminder that light exists out there, somewhere, but often, we must have our own experiences with hope if we are to be changed by it. 

This month, we are focusing on hope at Re-Storied. These stories are personal reflections about times when light broke into darkness, if only for a brief moment. Perhaps these stories will serve as a reminder to you of the unending cycle of death and new life (the daily rising of the sun, the turn of the seasons) that is present in us as it is in the rest of the natural world. Our hope for you is that you will be encouraged by these stories–that they will refresh your memory of past hopeful experiences, or bolster your spirit until your own moment in the light arrives.

“Hope begins in the dark, the stubborn hope that if you just show up and try to do the right thing, the dawn will come. You wait and watch and work: you don’t give up.”
Anne Lamott

A Loss of Autonomy

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forsythiaThe following reflection was written by Forsythia.

There are turning points in my infertility experience that will stick with me forever. Even for memories that I view differently now, their potency is as alive and near to me today as it was then. One of the most powerful of these moments is when I realized that the only choices available to us in order to grow our family required including strangers in a very intimate part of our lives. And not just temporarily—these strangers would be part of our journey for the long haul.

For six years, my husband and I had been letting go of the picture in our heads of how our children would come into being. One option after another presented itself and drifted away. Before we felt ready for it, we were spending countless hours picking apart adoption and its implications. In this process, we found ourselves drawn towards embryo adoption. Our first concept of what this would look like for us included anonymity. We were still grieving the loss of our dream for biological children, and the only way we could wrap our minds around bringing an adopted child into our lives was to think of them as ours–which is to say unattached from anyone else.

Our doctor told us that the most challenging part of embryo adoption would be finding embryos. We could go through an agency that would double the price of our procedure, or we could be wait-listed for an indeterminate length of time. Months before this appointment, we’d been told through a third party about a couple in our city looking to adopt out their embryos. What had once seemed like a random happenstance suddenly felt like a miracle. We immediately started pursuing more information about this opportunity.
Our mutual friend relayed that this couple was very interested in connecting, but asked that we meet with them as a next step. We were wrestling with so many fears associated with adoption—questions of attachment and interference and uncertainty—and we hoped, perhaps truly believed, that we could avoid many of these challenges if we entered into a closed adoption. I was so angry when I learned of their request. Having a child felt closer than ever before and this felt like an unnecessary, even selfish, roadblock between us and that possibility.
We took some time to carefully consider before responding to the donors’ request. During this period, I was standing in my kitchen with a good friend, processing the intense emotions I was feeling about whether or not to pursue this particular embryo adoption. As through a fog, I sensed an emotional block obstructing my path. I could not name it, but it was keeping me from moving forward. My friend asked one pointed question after another and I struggled to express what I was feeling. When I finally named the mysterious block, the words left my lips before my brain could even process them:
I want a child that is just ours! I don’t want anyone else to be involved, but those are our only options. 

As with most of my infertility losses, I was blindsided by this realization. It was a particularly hard one to admit because it was a complicated mix of justifiable and unjustifiable emotions. Saying it aloud helped me to see that my grief over this loss was the source of the anger I was directing towards our potential donors. The full weight of this loss settled over me, and I wept in the arms of a friend who let me feel it without judging or trying to fix me. The anger dissipated.

We saw a counselor and I attended an adoption support group for several months. We quickly came to see not just the validity, but the potential healthiness of the donors’ desire to be connected–for our child’s sake more than anyone’s.

It is difficult for me not to minimize the effect of this loss–one of freedom, of autonomy. My instinct is to downplay its trauma: Even this loss had its gain, though it took me a very long time to see it. But while I was waiting for things to make sense, this loss was a very real death. For me to have the desire of my heart–something so many around me were achieving naturally–I had to surrender independence. For whether we chose open or closed adoption, someone other than us would be part of the life of our child in a complicated, unique way.

We said yes, entering into an arrangement that required us to die to the things we had always known and imagined about this part of our lives, including a certain independence. It was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. We mourned our dying dreams and began to let them go as we stepped into the unknown, not certain where our feet would land.

The Pervasiveness of Loss

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pic_windswept_hawthorn1The following reflection was written by Hawthorne. 

For me, infertility loss cannot be neatly summarized or packaged. It’s a messy ball of loose nerve endings and raw edges that leaves you simultaneously emotionally overflowing and emotionally empty. There is no single thing for me that hurt the most, just many, many “small” things.

(Note that the following is a list from one perspective at one point in time and obviously oversimplifies some very complicated issues.)

 Losses and Griefs:

-Being on the outside, excluded from the “happy, normal people” whose lives go just as planned and have no complicated feelings about babies or pregnancy.

-Feeling out of control of my body.

-Feeling physically, emotionally, and mentally weak, especially during infertility treatments.

-Feeling empty and barren in a way I think is pretty impossible to understand without experiencing it.

-Feeling the loss of privacy in having to go through medical treatments that felt humiliating and degrading to me.

-Losing the hope that there would ever be a little one who was the result of my husband and me: of our marriage and our lives together.

-Feeling utterly alone.

-Losing the dream of being a mom the “simple” way, with a child that undeniably “belonged” to us and owed no ties to anyone else (ie: his or her birth family).

-Feeling so much anguish over being the reason my husband would never get to see his own birth child when that was such a deep desire for him, and knowing that my past choices and pain were taking this from him.

-Losing the dream that sex would ever just be fun, simple, or easy, instead of the complex and emotion-ridden thing it is during infertility.

-Fearing the loss of joy around kids and babies when they have always been some of my favorite humans. (I am grateful for friends who encouraged me to push and fight through my hurt in order to stay with them, rightly telling me I would lose a big part of myself if I stepped away from kids and babies.)

-Knowing that no matter what happened, there would be no “neat ending” to my story.

The Loss of Connection, part 2

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forsythiaThe following reflection was written by Forsythia.

 

“The friend who can be silent with us in a moment of despair or confusion, who can stay with us in an hour of grief and bereavement, who can tolerate not knowing… not healing, not curing… that is a friend who cares.”
–Henri Nouwen

As I evaluate the losses my husband and I have accrued through our infertility journey, the most obvious one to me is the death of our dream to have biological children. There are so many other losses attached to that, from seeing our features in a child’s face to what the process of conception looks like.

But as a new mother to an adopted son, there is another great loss that haunts me. It is powerfully devastating: a heart-aching loss I never anticipated. I am reminded of it especially in the daily text exchange between me and my best friend, Dogwood.

She is my go-to on any manner of baby-related subjects:

Did you ever have trouble with your newborns being gassy or straining to poop?

At what age/weight did you move up to the next level of car seat, and would you recommend the one you have?

Did you use essential oils on yourself like normal even while breastfeeding?

And also the person with whom I share every sweet revelation or difficult moment:

HE’S SO COZY I COULD SNUGGLE FOREVER 

How silly all my fears [about adoption] seem now

He was rotten all night

She’s always there with a word of wisdom, solidarity, encouragement. The way she loves my son is breathtaking. Her willing, joyful, tireless involvement in this new stage of my life is a priceless gift.

This is a gift that I did not, could not, give to her.

When she was becoming a mom for the first time, I was in the early stages of discovering our infertility–in that brutal period of adjustment where expectations are shattering, dreams dying, hope dissipating. My husband was years away from the emotional stage of processing that I was in and I felt utterly alone. I was in shock and struggling with grief, and every new pregnancy or birth I encountered threw a giant spotlight on my wretched emptiness.

So when Dogwood called to tell me she was pregnant with her first child, it was indescribably painful. A hot wave of dread crashed over me. Tears flooded my eyes. Through a constricting throat, I managed to congratulate her and tell her I was happy, lying because I was ashamed of how I felt and because I believed it’s what she wanted to hear. Somehow, I kept my composure until we hung up, and then I called the only friend I knew at the time who had experienced infant loss, the only friend I could think of who might understand the weight on my heart. On the phone with her, I sat in a dark bathroom, trying to keep my tears secret from my husband as I sobbed uncontrollably into the receiver.

Soon after, Dogwood made me confess what my true reaction to her news had been: even then she knew me so well that concealing my feelings from her was impossible. That was one of our first and biggest fights; it was what I had feared would happen, but strangely, not for the reason I had feared it. Instead of being upset because her pregnancy had brought me pain, she was upset because I was pulling away from her, trying to hide my true self from her. I believe that this conversation set the tone for our relationship over the years to come. It was when Dogwood told me “I’m all in.”

I wish I could say that her willingness to walk alongside me in my pain made me more open to her joy. Perhaps it did in some ways; nevertheless, it did not make me able to be emotionally present in her early days of motherhood—with her first nor, sadly, her second child.

These days, as I eagerly send her a question regarding the daily rituals of parenthood, or text her a picture of the son I can’t seem to stop photographing, it is ever in my mind that she never had the luxury of sending me such messages. There were no phone calls or texts venting new mom frustrations, and I knew she was careful about expressing excitement and love for her children to me.

Infertility comes with an astronomical price tag. In the thick of it, I was giving my friend everything that I felt able to give to her, and only now do I see how little that was comparatively. There are parts of Dogwood’s life that I completely missed; a season of her growth and experience as a person that I will never know. The grief of infertility took this from me, and I will never get it back.

I have no way of knowing to what degree this loss led to gain in our relationship: how much the honest working through of our pain, frustration, sadness, and joy has contributed to my longing to know her more and more. I cannot separate the two—I wish I could for her sake. But perhaps we’re not meant to.

I cannot now, nor ever will be able to express my gratitude towards Dogwood, and to all the others who allowed infertility to take from them so that they might have more of me.