So, you get married, and, as we Catholics like to say, are open to life. As newlyweds the bedroom is a happening place. Heck, so is the living room, basement, shower, back seat of the Buick, wherever. Babies should just be arriving one after the other.
No? Why not?
Six months go by. Then a year. You start getting the questions.
Are you guys planning on having a family?
How many children do you want?
When are you going to give me a grandbaby? or a cousin, or a niece/nephew, playmate, or you fill in the blank?
Each question is like a little dagger, reminding you that what you want so much isn’t happening.
So, at your next “annual”, you mention it to your doctor. If you are like I was, you figure the doctor knows everything. He’ll fix me. Time to try some drugs. Clomid sounds good. Three months of that should do the trick. It won’t be paid for by your medical insurance, of course. But wait, aren’t they supposed to pay to fix what’s broken??? Not in this case. And, add insult to injury, no BFP.
Little do you know at this point, this is just the beginning. There are specialists to see, new vocabulary to learn, and oh so many procedures to endure.
This wasn’t the plan. A honeymoon baby was.
Wait! Stop this ride! I want off.
I just want a baby. Is that so much to ask?
Apparently, it is.
Unfortunately, we have joined a club we want no part of. We have a label we never imagined would be assigned to us.
That word looks awfully ugly there. It's stark and blunt. It hurts.
Boy how it hurts.
Is there something wrong with me, God, that you don't want me to be a mother?? And Himself? He would be so awesome as a dad. I've seen him with babies and he is patient and kind and loving and caring. Why?
It is very isolating, almost by definition. I will never be with child. We will always be a couple, not a family in the traditional sense.
There are reminders everywhere. Friends are expecting their second, third, or even sixth child. You get invited to another baby shower. Advertisements for diapers on TV have been known to make you weep and the Mother's Day blessing at church makes you bawl like the baby you want.
I can't run. I can't hide. This is my life. I've got to deal with it.
How? Dear Lord, how?
I'll tell you next time.