Twice an Auntie, Not Yet a Mom

Our second niece came into the world on Monday and she is gorgeous, lovely, delightful, perfect. And once again, she is not ours.

Her arrival hit hard, as it did the first time we became auntie and uncle, but if I'm being honest, it wasn't nearly as "bad," and for that I am so very thankful. The circumstances were very different those few years ago. Our first niece was born just before we had our miscarriage. We were all set to fly out to meet her, and had planned to surprise my husband's family with our pregnancy news by sneakily dressing our niece in a "I'm getting a cousin" onesie. But, as fate would have it, we had to cancel the trip last minute because I was miscarrying. It was a time I truly wish I could forget. So much pain, anger and despair. But this time, mercifully, I am in a much better mental place and while my heart still ached to see those first "welcome to the world, baby girl" photos we received of our newest baby niece, I felt a swelling of true joy.

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There is another reason why having two nieces born in half the time we've set out to become parents ourselves hits me so hard. Have I ever told you the story of when I revealed my PCOS diagnosis to my mother-in-law? I won't go into my feelings on the subject too much, in the event she were to ever randomly stumble upon this little space of mine, but what follows is the shortened version.

It was New Year's Eve day 2008. I had just received my PCOS diagnosis four months earlier and was taking the dreaded Metformin, which made me feel like I was putting poison in to my body each and every day. We were with the hubs' family and a few of his brother's friends + wives, all together in a rented cabin in Tahoe. We had debated telling his parents our "news" but after much thought and consideration, we felt like we were left with very little choice, because the hints to start a family were becoming more challenging to dodge. Because while we had only been married just over two years, we had been together nearly nine. I was so nervous that morning. I remember standing at the kitchen counter, helping rinse some fruit, and it was just me and her. So it came tumbling out. There was a giant {forgive the expression} pregnant pause, and I don't really remember what she said but it upset me so much that I found a reason to excuse myself and retreated to our room. Some time passed and later that morning, we found ourselves alone with his parents. What I had shared earlier resurfaced and what was said next is what I will never, ever forget because it has haunted me for years. "It's okay, we still have another son." As if our main concern was the fact that we may not be able to give them grandchildren. As if our sorrow was linked only to their disappointment which could be relieved by the knowledge that they could still have grandchildren because there was another son. Another son to give them heirs. I don't have to tell you how this hurt. Because I know so many of you can imagine it all on your own.

So now there are indeed two grandchildren by the other son. Just as she predicted, it's worked out fine in the end. For them.

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Please don't misunderstand. My in-law's are wonderful people. They, like so many people out there, just don't know what to say or how to say it to people like us. And of course, there is the cultural divide. They weren't raised in a culture that openly shared intimate details such as what we had chosen to share with them. They didn't know how to respond appropriately and mistakenly misconstrued our sadness as fear of disappointing them. Because that is how they would have felt. Over the years, it's gotten better. They still don't understand how our not having children has affected us, how it continues to affect us. They have made attempts at saying the right things, such as "it's okay if you decide to adopt," or "we saw a physic and she told us that you'd conceive at the end of 2015." My mother-in-law even bought me a book about infertility for Christmas one year. The important thing is that they're trying. But, it is unfortunate that those seven simple words spoken to me 5.5 years ago are still etched into memory. And oh how I wish I could forget.

Truth and Lies, Or Things We Tell Ourselves To Get Through the Day and Sleep at Night

I've really been trying hard to be more optimistic, focus more on the positives and what I do have, rather than what I don't. I've been trying to seek contentedness each and every day by not settling for humdrum but instead, pushing outside my comfort zone and doing things that a year ago would have scared me. For instance, I am renting a space at a local antique shop to display my photography. So far, it hasn't been a lucrative effort but the fact that I did it is huge.

But the truth is, I'm hurting. The truth is that I'm struggling again to find where I fit in and struggling against feelings of inadequacy and the ever-present notion of being left behind.

It's like quicksand. The more you wriggle and fight against it, 'it' being the pain of infertility that somehow slooowly creeps back into my life no matter how I try to change, the stronger the pull. It sucks me in and it manages to become a looming presence in my life. It only takes one bad day to get the ball rolling. But it's not consistent. I can push back against a bad emotional day and win and I do, most times. But then there's this one day that blindsides me with its strength and suddenly, sadness. Envy. Anger. Comparison. Like quicksand, I am pulled under the more I try to keep my head above ground.

So many little miracles are set to enter into the world in the coming days, weeks, months. So many announcements made, so many elated families. I just want our miracle to find us. I long to be a part of what I consider to be the greatest adventure: parenthood. But somehow, I'm still the one on the outside looking in, nose pressed to the window, my breath fogging up the glass.

One simple {albeit loaded} question

When will it be our turn?

A Different Kind of Mother's Day

Yesterday was Mother's Day (as if any of us had somehow managed to forget). It's admittedly not my favorite day of the year, for obvious reasons, but I was absolutely determined to not let it get to me as much as it has in year's past. This was my 7th Mother's Day since beginning the journey. Yep, 7th. 2008 - 2014 of Mother's Days. The first wasn't so bad because it rolled around just 3 months after we started trying to conceive so I didn't expect to be so lucky. But the 2nd stung because it had been longer than a full year of trying without any luck and I had been diagnosed with PCOS so I knew it was going to be a tough road. Just how tough I didn't yet know. The 3rd was rough in its own right because it was the one following my open heart surgery and, well, that's explanation enough. The Mother's day of 2011 was pretty status quo (the usual ache of not yet being a Mom after several years of medical upheaval) but Mother's Day 2012 was a fresh new phase of hell: the one after our loss. I was angry, bitter, pretty inconsolable that day. It also came just a few short weeks before our due date for the baby we had miscarried so it was painful on a truly visceral level. I don't remember what we did last year but I remember being in a funk all day and just feeling blah. So this year, I vowed to make it a different kind of day.

I treated myself with kindness -- what a concept.

I enjoyed a nice breakfast (pancakes, turkey bacon, coffee), went to the mall and did a little clothes shopping, ate nachos, made chicken pozole, took some photos for the community wind ensemble Jason conducts and plays trumpet in, and then we watched a cute little program about puppies. I kept busy, didn't check Facebook all that often (but I did post a tribute to my own mom, whom I am so incredibly blessed by each and every day), and just kind of let the day roll over me. I received a very sweet Mother's Day card earlier in the week from my cousin and her two little boys (who we think of as our nephews and one of whom is our godson), and I received very thoughtful messages from a few dear friends letting me know that I was in their thoughts and hearts, and that our angel baby was not forgotten, not by a long shot. I did have one well meaning friend tell me that perhaps when Jason and I move next year and get settled -- when my stress levels were reduced -- perhaps my body would cooperate...but, she had good intentions and I appreciated her concern for me.

Yesterday was Mother's Day, and even though I have not yet held our child in my arms, I decided that yesterday was also about me. About the women who have tried so desperately to be a mom but who have not yet succeeded in realizing that dream, that calling. No, I am not a mom but that is certainly not for lack of trying. So instead of punishing myself, I celebrated the valiant effort I've made.

Remember how I said I'm going to counseling? Well, it seems as though it's working. For the first time in 7 years, I didn't cry on Mother's Day. I teared up a bit when reading the kind messages from my friends and when my husband whispered, "Happy Mother's Day" to me when we woke up, but I didn't cry, not really, because these tears were born of gratitude for their compassion, empathy, and understanding. For their remembrance. And for me, that was a huge accomplishment, one that I'm more than a little proud of. Happy Mother's Day, friends. Your angel babies are with you, always.

Longing: The Queen of Senseless Emotions

Sometimes, I am overcome with an intense feeling of longing. I look at my friend's children, their shiny happy faces, at my female friends' burgeoning bumps, and I just can't help but think, "Why not me? Why not us?"

Are we not good people? Are we not deserving of what so many of our family and friends have attained? Why must our path to parenthood be so riddled with hardship? I know it is futile to compare, to be angry, to be envious. It's not healthy, and it doesn't change what is. I know that. Goodness knows I have learned it the hard way. But I long to be a mom. I long to expand our family. Sometimes, I feel the longing so deep within myself that it's all I can do to contain it.

And it is in those moments that I must force myself to say -- to believe--, "Some day. Some day."

The Odd Life

While dropping off some library books last night, I stumbled across a movie I had never heard of: The Odd Life of Timothy Green. I scanned the description and it sounded relatively intriguing so I thought I'd give it a watch. Jennifer Garner plays the female lead and while the acting is pretty sub-par, within a few minutes it is evident why I had been drawn to the movie in the first place. It's about a couple who, after many years of infertility treatments, is told they cannot have children. After receiving this devastating news, the husband asks if, for just one night, they can pretend they DO have a child. They spend the evening in their living room writing down every attribute they could ever hope or dream their child to have, even pretending they witness their kid's game-winning goal. They take each attribute -- written on an individual piece of notebook paper -- place them in a wooden box, and bury the box in the backyard, after which they agree to move on.

Rip my heart out, why don't you?

I don't think you can really appreciate the power of that scene unless you've been through infertility. Because it is the burying of one's hopes and dreams (if even temporarily) that is, at least for me, one of the hardest hurdles of this journey. It's like burying a piece of yourself. No, it's not LIKE you are, you ARE.

Throughout this journey, we bury many things. At least I did/have. For the benefit of the general public, we bury our true feelings. We plaster smiles on our faces when all we really want to do is cry, run, hide, scream, rant and rave. We quite unceremoniously bury bits and pieces of ourselves along this rocky path: our pride (being poked and prodded on a fairly regular basis can do that to a person), our self-esteem, self-confidence, body image, self-worth, our once good-natured selves. We bury {read: spend without result} thousands upon thousands of dollars. As aforementioned, we bury our hopes and dreams and we HOPE we can somehow find the strength within ourselves to regain what we've lost. With hard work, patience, love and the realization that I was worth more than just my ability or inability to create life, I have regained much of what I've buried over the last 5+ years but there are still frayed ends that need mending. I'll get to them, I know I will, but it won't be easy. Nothing about this journey is easy.

Back to the movie. The plot continues to unfold but it was THAT scene that made me pause the movie and open my laptop to write this post. It made me cry, it made me sad, it ignited feelings within myself that I've been wrestling with for years. And it made me think. I've often wondered what our child would be like, which attributes he or she would inherit, and which things would be uniquely their own, the combination of which would be imperfectly perfect. Even in the movie, they acknowledge that even if you could pick and choose what your child would be like, you wouldn't want a truly "perfect" child, because, well, I think we all know that it doesn't exist, and thank goodness for that. It's the imperfections that teach us, that mold us, that help us grow and make us who we truly are. 

Anyway, the scene made me think. And normally when I think, I write. But I can't write it all. I tried. I sat down with the full intention of writing out what I envision our child would be like but I couldn't. My words, which I have come to rely on to process what I'm feeling and help me properly explain my emotions and share them with others, failed me. It turns out that there are certain things that cannot be put in to words; special, cherished things that are perhaps better off living in our dreams, if only for safe keeping. The image of our child is one such thing. 

For now, I suppose I will keep that image of our child safe in my mind. And maybe one day, that image will materialize into reality, a dream come true in every sense of the word. 

Time Marches On

Sometimes, it's all I can do to keep my positive attitude about where we are in this journey, keep my focus on the present and not get caught up in the unknown of the future. The more time that passes, the more children are born, and my Facebook and Instagram feeds are filled to the brim with the shiny, happy, beautiful faces of the children of our family and friends. Sometimes, it's all I can do to just keep it all in and keep it together. Other times, I'm doing pretty well and I find myself truthfully, blissfully content with how our life is now, the predictability and reliability of daily routines, the closeness that we share. But these moments of weakness sneak up on me, they get me down, and they seem harder and harder to shake off as time marches on. We've been yearning for our family for over six years now, dreaming about it for even longer if you count the years before we started trying. In total, since we made the decision to start trying to build our family way back in February of 2008, we have been on this road to baby for 74 months. Wow, that number even blows ME away, and I've been living it. The baby we lost in November of 2011 would turn two next month. Two whole years old. How I ache for that child, our child.

This is our life and what we've been dealt is what is meant for us. We may not always see why or agree, but that's the way it is.

There is an incredible future waiting for us. I need to trust in that. On the days when I doubt it, that's when I need to believe it the most. Besides, I am more than just my uterus.

So, here's to unknown futures and the belief that something incredible -- something miraculous -- could be just a year, a month, a week, a day, a mere moment away.