Hard Time of Year

It is the week of Christmas and reminders that I have no children in my life are everywhere I turn.

I have no one to buy toys for, no one to bundle up and take sledding, no one to make hot chocolate for. Everywhere I look, there are commercials with beautiful little girls in pink and white dresses marveling at some wonderful new doll their mother has bought them.

Seeing it dangled before me constantly, I feel far removed from this normal and beautiful part of life.

I go in the Disney store at the mall and I run out almost immediately. When do I get a child to buy toys for? A child to tell whimsical fairy tales to? When does the magic I am seeing and hearing about all the time get to be mine to enjoy?

This feeling culminated when we visited my parents a few days ago for dinner.

I went there feeling depressed. It is December, and I am not pregnant yet. I am surrounded and constantly assaulted by visions of big families with lots of children gathering together. I see these images and ask: will I ever have this or will I always be so alone in this world?

When we got to my parent’s house, I was feeling sorry for myself. I couldn’t help feeling that this dinner shouldn’t be so small.

The feeling was so overwhelming that I made a decision that day: this will be the last December I ever experience without a child in my life. If I don’t get pregnant soon, I am going to adopt.

I was feeling pretty down, so I escaped to the upstairs bedroom. My
husband followed me and asked what was wrong. I started to cry. He held me, and I told him it hurts so much to not have a baby yet… to month after month not be pregnant.

Just then, my father knocks on the door and wants to know what is wrong. I tell him about how hard it is for me to have yet another December come and go without a child in my life. He looks at me, obviously a bit confused, and says, “Can’t we just have a nice day? We don’t want the day ruined.”

That was it for me. I was feeling very depressed to begin with, but this was too much. I storm downstairs, shouting a few choice words about his insensitivity, and lock myself in the downstairs bathroom.

I was not coming out until dinner was over and it was time to go home!

At that moment, I was already struggling to fight off my extreme disappointment and I had no stomach for my father’s inability to understand the validity of my pain. I felt safer in the bathroom than being with someone who didn’t fully get how beaten down a woman can feel when she is ready to welcome new members into her family, and those new members are not arriving as expected.

My mother and husband tried to get me to come out and enjoy dinner, but I just couldn’t. I felt ashamed…a total loser…angry..So, so angry. I just wanted to stay hidden.

Maybe this wasn’t the most mature response or the most considerate action to take, since my mother worked hard to prepare a lovely meal, but lately my emotions have been building towards a boiling point and once heated, I am unable turn them back.

I have little tolerance for all the people who take my feelings about being childless so lightly.

It seems everywhere I go, no one understands how painful infertility is–a raw, blistering, heated pain that never lets up.

I need at least my family to understand how bad this feels.

Today I desperately needed them to understand just how hard it is for another family dinner to arrive and still it is just my tiny little family with no children.

Why couldn’t my Dad see how hurt I am? How alone I feel? How horrible it is to experience life without a baby to love, when it seems every other family is overflowing with new babies, new children, a never ending supply of new life?

Where are the children who are suppose to be running around our family dinner table? When does new life get to come into our family?

On TV, I am barraged with images of big loving families with lots of adorable little children sitting at long beautifully set tables. I need that in my life.

I live in a dead zone with everything so stagnant and unchanging.

I need new babies at our family dinner table. I don’t want another family dinner with the same cast of characters.

Give me new life, give me babies.

I want my Dad and everyone else to know that I feel like the loneliest freak in the world because I am without children. I feel like life is passing by me. Somehow, along the way, I got on the wrong track and something I was suppose to have has been stolen away.

I hurt so much. It was impossible for me to come out of the bathroom and pretend everything is fine. Nothing is fine.

It felt a lot less painful to lock myself in the bathroom than experience another family dinner with no children.

Chris eats quickly, thanks my mother, and we leave.


Dancing To Fertility Book

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