Category: infertility

(Posting this now, but I consider it unfinished. I’m not satisfied …. it needs refining, blah, blah, but, oh well, here it is. I’m sorry. I sure take a long time to write so little!)

She went to my church, the woman with the baby. She was Australian and spoke with that crisp, curling accent they all have. Her eyes were a gleaming chestnut brown that matched her gleaming chestnut hair that I always thought was too long for her face.

We were just casual acquaintances. Honestly, I didn’t want any more from her because I didn’t like her. Whenever she listened, which didn’t seem to be all that often, there was a certain tilt of her head, a furrow of her brows, a greedy, laser gaze that froze me in my place. Conversation with her was never conversation; it was cross-examination and, frankly, I strenuously objected. She didn’t want to know me; she wanted information. And since I never trusted what she might do with “information,” we fell into an inevitable rhythm: push. pull. question. evasion. This was how it went. I was always polite, but simply skimmed the surface and skated the edges of conversation with her. I was so dedicated to non-responsiveness that I half-expected her to end our conversations with a sigh and a bark, “No further questions, your Honor.”

When she became pregnant, I really steered clear. But then, I steered clear of all pregnant women back then because I could barely tolerate the sight. So, naturally, they were everywhere, the pregnant women. Or the horny, prolific, pregnant women — as I judged them all — whose growing bellies mocked my empty, flat one. I would see theirs and I would be aware of mine, and I would hate mine. And if eyes are windows to the soul, windows were simply not enough protection against the perpetual shock of it all. These women waddled happily about me, glowing and fresh, never knowing that we’d just collided and the waves were rippling through me like little hot crumblings of everything I was. If it were possible, I would have gladly stumbled through life eyes gouged to avoid the impact of that one sight. As it was, I’d look down, away, anywhere else, as quickly as I could, but always, always too late. The chain reaction had started. My whole being buckled and I saw only lack.

One day, months later, she stepped across my path outside church, her beautiful baby Dinah in her arms. Now I had never, ever spoken with her about our infertility struggles. She was not safe and I knew it. Actually, I could count on three fingers the number of women I’d told and they were my closest, most trusted friends.

But …. when you are a couple of a certain robust age, attending a small church for a certain long-ish timespan and you continue to arrive without a bouncing baby in tow, people begin to …. wonder. Women, especially, wonder and when women wonder they do not do so alone, because where is the diversion in that? No, the wondering woman needs others to wonder with. So with help from the gossiping grapevine that thrives at every church, the woman with the baby had begun to wonder, too.

And I knew that, just sensed it.

I tried to dodge her, but she stopped me with that razor sharp accent:

“So, Trycey, hev you been troying to hev a byeby?”

No hello or how are you, just an oh-so-casual knife to the gut while children scampered around us and women sipped their after-church decaf. And it never failed; I was never ready for the questions. Ever. Even though I had practiced these scenarios in my head, had what I thought was a repertoire of clever comebacks to ward off the invasions; still, I was never ready. Because try as I might to prepare for what I might say, I could never prepare for how I might feel. How I would freeze. How I would feel my heart squeeze empty. How I couldn’t breathe right. How I would just stare, numb and dumb. I felt the woman’s gaze on me, but right then, I saw nothing but baby Dinah, framed by the pale green matte of her mother’s dress. I watched as she sucked vigorously on a pudgy fist. I could smell her newness.

“Ummm ….” I finally breathed.

“Heeve you beeen troyying for a lohng time?”

“Well …..”

My eyes wandered, desperate for anything else to look at. Their gaze slid down to her shoes, strappy white things with clunky wooden heels. Christian sexy.

She charged ahead, not waiting for a response:

“Well, adoption eesn’t sicond beest, you know.”

Suddenly my breath came in shallows and I couldn’t control it. My gaze jumped to her face and I couldn’t control that, either. She was smiling and waiting and bouncing that baby of hers and I instantly regretted the impulse. But something inside me had to see the face of the person who could make that declaration, not knowing me at all, and still be so so pleased with herself. At the sight of her arms, so full of chubby abundance, my gaze fell quickly past my empty ones and found the ground again. Then the shockwaves came and the crumblings started and I stood shaking, waiting to turn to dust. I tried, but could bring no order to the words jumbling in my head: how …. why …. leave …. none …. what?

I really cannot remember my response to this woman with the perfect prescription for my pain. Vague recollections of stammering, of a hot face, of stumbling away not soon enough come to mind. I do remember, though, that I sobbed in the car the whole way home. And I do remember that as much as I’d disliked her before, it was nothing compared to how much I hated her after that. God help me, but it’s true. On the steps of my church, I discovered a vast well of particular hatred that poured over this woman and all well-intentioned women like her.

A certain verse says, “Hope deferred makes the heart sick.” And surely I was sick. Sick of the woman who “didn’t mean to be rude,” who “just cared,” but who then said or asked such heart-crushingly insensitive things that I was gobsmacked and breathless. Sick of the Christian woman hiding a rabid wolf of curiosity under kindhearted sheep’s clothing. Sick, too, of other Christian women who justified gossip and rumor and innuendo because they were going to pray about it, of course. Sick of still other Christian women who felt entitled to know private business because “we’re all part of God’s family.” Just sick of so many women who would do so much more good if they spared the childless woman their good intentions and all that they disguise.

I still saw the woman with the baby at church after that day, but worked hard to ensure I’d never be accosted by her again. If she walked in one direction, I’d walk the other. If she sat on the left side of the church, I’d sit on the right. If she approached, I’d turn my back. If she was in the bathroom, I’d just hold it for later. I’m sure she never knew how deftly I maneuvered just to avoid her. I’m sure she never knew how I crumbled and cried after experiencing her good intentions. I’m sure she never considered her suggestion as anything less than the perfect solution to the mystery of God’s sovereignty.

Oh, and I’m sure she never, ever meant to make me feel sicond beest.

Mother’s Day is just around the corner. Childless as I am, I admit the day always sets me off — in a variety of ways. My persistent low-grade melancholy flares to the surface and burns a little too hot.

So …. in honor (?) of Mother’s Day, I’m going to try to start tapping into things I don’t really want to tap into. (Wheeeee!) I’ve mostly buried my feelings about our infertility so I can actually live a sort of day-to-day life, but I can sense some of them starting to claw their way out. So maybe they should. Maybe it will help. I really don’t know.

I’m not even sure I can do this. I worry what people will think. I worry how I will sound. The subject of infertility makes people uncomfortable, especially Christians. Which is actually a whole post in itself ….. I just know that I’m tired of feeling I have to bury the reality of my life so that no one has their faith shaken. So then I think of that Eleanor Roosevelt quote, “You must do the thing you think you cannot do” and I think that I must try.

Not all my posts will be about this. Just some of them.

Hope you won’t mind. You can always skip these posts. Maybe I’ll even warn you with a”one of those posts” label or something. But may I gently suggest that if the topic makes you uncomfortable, perhaps you need to “do the thing you think you cannot do” and read it.

So …. it’s comin’ ….. and please don’t feel you have to tell me how sorry you are. I know your hearts are kind, so I’d actually prefer you didn’t. It’s just a …. thing I have.

It’ll be Mother’s Day from a different perspective, I guess.

It is wedged against the inside of a box of books when I find it. I tug, not even sure what it is as I do so. A moment later it is in my hands. A small doorknob sign, cross-stitched with branches and birds and eggs. Baby Sleeping, it reads. I stare at it unblinking. It is small and light, but my hands feel suddenly heavy.

What is this? Where did it come from?

Then I remember a hopeful friend about 10 years ago and her hopeful shining face and that sting comes again, that sting in my stomach and in my eyes. A sting that used to be my constant mocking companion, but who now only drops by rude and unannounced, like this. I have not missed him. One last fleeting glance at those delicate nesting birds and I shove the sign back in the box.