I am approaching a significant birthday. A birthday that, to me, represents the last chance of ever having a baby. A birthday that places me into the “Menopause Decade”.
Up until this past year, I was handling my infertility with grace. I gladly attended baby showers, eagerly held all my friends’ new babies, and reveled in my baby nieces and nephews.
But now I cringe at each pregnancy announcement, bail on each shower invitation and am secretly thankful that all my siblings are no longer having babies.
Today, I lashed out at my dad when he was telling me about his friend’s new grandson. (In my defense, I have asked him to not keep bringing up this baby, but he apparently keeps forgetting.)
I think that I am officially in mourning. While I know that miracles can happen; realistically and statistically, I know that the odds are not even close to being in my favor.
Twenty-two years ago, my appendix ruptured, causing damage to my reproductive organs. I believed that I would be able to someday conceive.
Twenty-one years ago, I was diagnosed with endometriosis. I still believed that somehow I would conceive.
Nineteen years ago, I had my second surgery to remove the scar tissue and endometrial build up. I still had hope.
Sixteen years ago, I was diagnosed with PCOS. I still had hope.
Twelve years ago, I got married. We dreamed together about our future family.
Ten years ago, the doctor told me that she couldn’t be sure that I had ever ovulated, but knew for a fact that if I had, it was a long time ago. I diligently took my meds and kept dreaming.
Nine years ago, I had yet another surgery (4? or 5?) to treat the scar tissue and endometriosis. I was sure that this time it would lead to conception.
Eight years ago, we got our sweet SS. We were thrilled, but still believed that we would someday conceive a sibling for her.
Three years ago, I finally conceived, only to lose my baby. But I still hoped.
Last year, I was rushed to the hospital because of intense pain, inability to urinate and hemorrhaging. More sad diagnosis followed. My hope started to wane, but it somehow still slightly lingered.
Now I am approaching the age that I really thought I would have conceived by. And my hope has all but faded. I ache inside. And then I feel guilty for being so sad. I have SS. She is an answer to prayer and I have often told God that I wouldn’t trade her for bunches of babies. I feel selfish for wanting both SS and to experience pregnancy.
I am mourning my infertility. I am feeling the death of a dream. And it feels as though a part of me is dying with it.
Hope deferred makes the heart sick, but a longing fulfilled is a tree of life. Proverbs 13:12