When a new chapter begins in your life, you can never fully grasp how it will unfold or the changes it will bring. You can’t predict if this relationship will last or if you’ll soon face the heartbreak of separation. The arrival of something—or someone—unexpected often leaves you uncertain.
For me, there wasn’t a specific moment that marked her entrance. She slipped in quietly, like a shy teenager in a classroom, with bubblegum gloss on her lips and wide, innocent eyes that tricked me into thinking she was harmless. I invited her to join my lunch crew, unaware of the chaos she would soon wreak in my life. And then she whispered to my friends, “Just relax; you’ll get pregnant when you stop trying.”
Before I knew it, we were inseparable. I didn’t realize the grip she had on me until the day my grandfather lay in his hospital bed after a heart attack. “When are you going to have a baby?” he asked, and her shadow loomed larger than ever in that moment.
In my 30s, her reminders marked my calendar every month, driving me to take Clomid, a fertility drug that not only boosted my egg production but also my waistline. I had to face the ugly truth: she had become a significant part of my life, and I was repulsed by it. Yet she didn’t care.
We were too comfortable with each other. After a particularly harrowing episode, I found myself alone in my living room, and she convinced me to take a break from the drug. My weight returned to normal, but I was left with reminders of what could have been—breasts that wouldn’t nourish a child and a belly that would never cradle a baby.
Then, like a miracle, a 9-pound, 11-ounce baby boy arrived three days late, born to a mother juggling a 3-year-old and the weight of unfulfilled dreams. My mom showed up the next day with a teddy bear twice the size of the newborn, aptly named “Chosen.” Surrounded by friends celebrating this bundle of joy, she whispered her new mantra: “Now that you have a baby, you’ll get pregnant.”
Fast forward 17 years, and that teddy bear is worn but still holds cherished memories. My son, now nearly a man, carries the truth of his adoption in his spirit. While my heart swells with gratitude, my body still yearns to nurture life within.
Two years later, I found myself with another baby boy, who had the most enviable eyelashes on the playground. She lingered during playdates, taunting me while other mothers with swollen bellies pushed their toddlers on swings. “They’re so lucky you adopted them!” they’d say. Little did they know how she had been my twisted fortune, bringing the joy of sticky fingers and runny noses into my life.
I clung to hope, counting the days on the calendar like my kids count down to Halloween. Each month, she played games with me, whispering sweet nothings that filled my mind with false promises. “Am I late?” I’d wonder. Yet, our bond had solidified; she wasn’t going anywhere.
The recession hit, and life took a turn. My younger son needed a reading tutor after a tough year in first grade, while the other sought solace in Harry Potter books. My husband’s father passed, and his career faltered, leading us back to Bainbridge Island. A new woman entered the picture, and soon, my husband accepted her offer to leave. I heard two phrases that burned into my memory: “I don’t want to have sex with you anymore,” and “You can only hear the word ‘no’ so many times.” Even she shed a tear for what we were losing.
Since that day, we’ve drifted apart. As I approach my 50s, our connection has lessened. It’s finally time to part ways. I set up folding chairs in the church basement, inviting her to sit in the circle of my sorrows. A paper cup of coffee in one hand and a stale donut in the other, I reminisced about the good times we shared. I remembered hugging trees in parks that promised children, celebrating my son’s milestones, and the laughter echoing from birthday parties.
We held hands, eyes misting, and as the coffee grew cold, I realized the bitterness she brought was as necessary as the sweetness. It was time to say goodbye. She was my friend and foe, my regret and delight, and now, we must part. Her name is infertility.
For those navigating similar journeys, check out resources on the CDC’s website for valuable insights into infertility. And if you’re considering home insemination options, visit Make a Mom’s BabyMaker kit for a comprehensive guide. You can also explore Intracervical Insemination for more information.
In summary, infertility can be both a tormentor and a teacher, shaping our lives in unexpected ways. As we say farewell to this chapter, we can embrace the journey ahead with hope and resilience.