I could see it the moment I laid eyes on her. It had been a month since I last saw my dear friend Clara, and during that time, something was different. Was she working out? Her figure seemed fuller, her complexion healthier. Had she taken up strength training or started running? But when she mentioned that she couldn’t take my kids outside due to pollen, I had my answer.
“Can you watch the children next week?” I asked. “We have a doctor’s appointment on Tuesday.”
“I’m not sure,” she replied, a huge grin spreading across her face. “It depends on the ultrasound.”
And just like that, I knew.
I rushed to embrace her, our long-standing jokes about her and her husband, also a close friend, having kids flooding back. They had always insisted they were a pet-only family. Clara once even said she was content with my kids and didn’t need any of her own. Like many of us, she feared she might mess up any future kids. So, no babies, she had said. But there she stood in my kitchen, radiating that unmistakable pregnancy glow. I was genuinely happy for her.
Yet, as I hugged her, my heart felt heavy with jealousy. I would give anything for another baby of my own. When my youngest, now three, was born after a grueling pregnancy, I begged my husband not to let him be the last. I had always envisioned a bustling family — six or seven kids. But my last pregnancy was terrifying.
I suffered from hyperemesis and severe gestational diabetes. Each pregnancy took a toll on my mental health, and a year after my last child arrived, I had to seek outpatient treatment for my anxiety and depression (or as I like to call it, “overwhelming dread and constant tears”).
Now, I’m managing a cocktail of medications that barely aligns with breastfeeding, let alone the idea of getting pregnant again. My psychiatrist warned me against it, noting that my mental well-being seemed to decline with every pregnancy. When I told her we were adopting, she felt it was the best path for me.
So here I am. My reproductive journey is closed. No more pregnancy, no more joyous ultrasounds, no more births. The dream of feeling a newborn placed on my chest, eyes squinting in confusion, is gone. Most likely, I won’t nurse again — my three-year-old will be the last child I breastfeed. I hold him close at night during our final nursing sessions, trying not to dwell on the day he’ll wean. It breaks my heart.
And then there’s Clara, chatting about how uncertain she is about her due date. She’s grateful to have me and wants support as a new mom. “I need you to teach me how to wrap and breastfeed!” she exclaims. I’m happy to step into the role of Auntie, feeling the warmth of being needed. I can contain my immense joy while also grappling with my sadness and frustration. I shared my feelings with my psychiatrist, who simply nodded and said, “The heart is a remarkable thing.”
In my happiness, I promised Clara all our baby gear — from cloth diapers to baby clothes to a co-sleeper and baby carrier. I genuinely meant it.
“Except for the changing table,” I added. “We’ll need that for our future foster/adopted child.” I reassure myself that one day, a baby will fill this house. Someday, a baby will be here.
For now, that baby will be Clara’s. I secretly hope it’s a boy so he can wear all the clothes I saved from my boys. That thought brings me joy, and I look forward to sorting and labeling it with her. I’ll help her carry him in a wrap, guide her in breastfeeding, and even buy her a Boppy pillow. I’ll crochet tiny baby gifts and cherish him like a nephew. I am thrilled for this new life, this unexpected miracle. They need my support, and I’ll be there to give it; it will help distract me.
Perhaps this baby can ease some of my anger — the frustration of “why not me?” The resentment towards my own body for making pregnancy so challenging and my mind for making it seem impossible. Maybe this baby is perfectly timed — for Clara, for the universe, and for me too.
This article originally published on June 6, 2017.
Summary
This heartfelt piece explores the complex emotions of a woman whose best friend is expecting a baby while she faces the reality of being unable to have more children herself. It captures her joy for her friend, Clara, intertwined with her own sadness and frustration about her infertility and mental health challenges. As Clara prepares for motherhood, the narrator resolves to support her, hoping that this new life will bring healing and joy to both of them.