For the Suffering

Since I started this series of posts, I have had several people reach out to me, apologizing for anything insensitive they may have said to me during my time of infertility. I don’t hold grudges. I don’t remember most of who said what and it wouldn’t matter if I did. That’s over. Though there are always scars from loss and trial, I wear them with contentment and gratitude now. They are a badge of honor. A part of my fabric. Without them, I would not be me.

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For the Helpers

I have hesitated to write this post, and struggled in the writing, because it can become a toe-stomping hoedown. I’ve had infections that hurt less than some of the things that were said to me during the years we were trying to find our family. I know friends that have experienced the same thing. There was no place where I was immune from the inappropriate questions and remarks. But there was one place where I was especially exposed. One place worse than all the others. One place where all the questioners seemed to gather with dry-cleaned clothes and journals full of great ideas.


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Finding Peace

It’s funny what the brain chooses to retain or cast aside as unimportant over time. Mine must have a method, but I never do know what it is. I’ve always remembered my phase of infertility as being 3.5-4 years. That’s what I have always told people. That period defined the time from my first thought of having a child in 1997 to the moment we adopted Andrew in 2001. I forgot he didn’t come out of me. And his birth did not end my infertility. It went on for almost another 3 years. Only today did I realize my math was bad.

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The Helpers

In 1997, just after my 4th anniversary, I made a plan. It was a plan with solid foundations. It was such a good plan, that I categorized it as God’s plan and pretty much counted it as done before I had even gotten started.

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What Now?

Yesterday, while trying to fit laundry into a piano lesson I forgot about, a meeting with a decorator, 2 pick-ups, and the 4th dental appointment of the week, the question of fertility–and infertility–came up to me. Out of the blue. Twice.

That was oddly coincidental. Or not. Because as severely as I struggled with this issue, those struggles are so far in my rearview mirror now that I almost can’t make out shape or color anymore.

But I remember. Oh, I remember. A person doesn’t forget a thing like that.

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