Submitted by Becca in AR (You can read more from Becca by visiting here.)
I was meant to be a mother. Some little girls grow up dreaming of being a ballerina or veterinarian, but not me. I was meant to be a mother. Other people are destined to take certain career paths based on events in their lives—her third grade teacher was the first person to ever believe in her, so she chooses education; his abusive father drove him to spend the rest of his life as a counselor. I had no epiphany. I was simply meant to be a mother.
Sometimes the things we want the most are the most elusive. That pursuit can define us if we let it. I did. I was the girl who couldn’t get pregnant, maybe not to the world, but to myself—a much more venomous prospect. My desire was so strong, my pain so raw, that I became consumed by the process. Every morning was another opportunity to let a little stick decide what my view of my body would be—am I ovulating this time, or is this yet another day of failure? Every evening was a chance to let the morning’s findings determine my relationship with my husband. Every baby shower was a test of my character. Every probing question from an acquaintance was an occasion to have to explain that despite the length of my marriage, I did not have any children.
It all started for me in November of 2001. After months of prayer, I approached my husband with my heart’s desire. From the moment he said yes, a baby could not have come soon enough for me. Wouldn’t it have been funny if I had gotten pregnant the very first month? That would’ve been perfect, I thought. Every month carried a potentially perfect story and an eventual disappointment. When November didn’t work, I thought a December pregnancy would be a perfect gift. In January, a baby would have been a great start to a new year. February would have meant the ultimate Valentine’s Day gift of love for each other. This lasted for two years.
During that time, my self-esteem plunged to a level I had never experienced before. My body, which seemed to have no connection with my mind, was failing miserably. Despite my understanding that it was not my fault exactly, I couldn’t help but feel responsible as we watched all of our friends have children. Who is a woman who stays home but does not have children? She’s a stay-at-home… wife? Sure, I had reasons for working from home and even took part-time jobs outside the home during that time. For the most part, though, I was a stay-at-home wife. In the world’s eyes, I was simply a housewife. It’s such a degrading term. Was I merely his maid, chef, and personal assistant? No. And I knew my desire was to take care of my husband, our children, and our home. That was not the question. For me, the problem was what to do without the children. So I prayed, but I did not get pregnant. I prayed, but I felt no change in my heart’s desire. I prayed, and there was nothing but an ache in my chest that wouldn’t go away.
Infertility seems to bring out the ignorance in other people like few other situations I’ve experienced. Time after time, I heard flippant, hurtful comments. “If you’ll just relax, you’ll get pregnant,” or, “Well, one day it will be your turn.” Honestly, if women took turns, and their babies were just dealt out like cards, I would have already had a toddler. We don’t take turns in getting pregnant, and no number of vacations would have made my body magically start producing eggs. My friends and family were dealt their baby cards, and I was stuck watching.
At one point during my journey, I took a fertility drug to kick-start ovulation. This also brought out the best in other people—their best stories at least. It seems that everyone knows someone who has been on a fertility drugs and had at least triplets. Although these stories are just funny anecdotes from the outside, they are terrifying to someone who is taking the medicine. This drug also had side effects, which made me feel like I was in menopause. My mom was not even experiencing this stage yet, and I was having hot flashes. Some days, they came twice an hour. I had no idea my body could get that hot so quickly. One moment I was fine, and in the next instant, I was red and covered in beads of sweat. Fire engulfed my body in a matter of seconds. By the time I was finally cool and feeling normal, another surge of heat consumed me. I woke up at night drenched with my body’s sad attempt to cool itself. My emotions were hard for me to control, and I knew I wasn’t myself. I stayed on the medication for five months unsuccessfully. My doctor offered to try artificial insemination as well, but we decided to wait.
On December 4, 2003, I saw two precious lines develop on the pregnancy test. We had conceived a child with no fertility drugs and with no help from our doctor.
The next twelve hours were surreal and fantastic. Today the memory is mostly a blur with a few crystal clear moments sprinkled throughout the day. Needing more proof, I had rushed to my doctor for a blood test. That afternoon I got the call that would change my life forever. My test was positive. When I told my husband about the second positive test of the day, we were in stunned bliss. We cried and wondered how we could be so fortunate. Our dream of creating a family was coming true. My mind and heart raced with anticipation and love for my child. Although the life inside me was merely a few weeks old, I was instantly attached and in love with my baby. After all, this child, our child, was half me and half Matt—the man I loved more than anyone in the world. Our baby was physical, tangible evidence of our love for each other. This little being would be a combination of our talents and gifts, our quirks and weaknesses. That night, I had one of the moments I had looked forward to the most in the previous years. I told my parents that I was pregnant. I will never forget the moment that the words escaped from my mouth, “I’m pregnant.” We all cried with joy as I had done several times that day.
Feeling apprehensive, we decided to tell only our immediate families about our baby. I had to stifle myself from shouting the news every time I saw a close friend or stranger for that matter, but I kept my joy to myself. The day after we found out, we told our siblings. My sister-in-law and her husband came over so we could tell them the news in person. Within thirty seconds of telling them about our baby, they told us about theirs. She was due a month before me, but they had planned on waiting until their first doctor’s appointment before telling anyone. I felt happy for them and for our baby to have a cousin, but I also felt a bit heavy-hearted about sharing this time with them. It was finally our time, and now it was theirs too…shortly after they had started trying, of course. I also felt distraught about the possibility of something happening to my baby. What if I lost the baby then had to endure the rest of her pregnancy? Those thoughts were frightening but quickly went to the back of my mind as I was overwhelmed by delight. Christmas neared, and we were so thankful to have our baby growing inside me. The two previous years our families had large pregnant bellies or newborn babies. Although I had been happy for them, my heart ached at each family gathering. That year, I could hardly contain my joy.
On Friday, January 2, 2004, we had an ultrasound to see our precious little grain of rice. Such a sweet, white spot on a screen of black. It seemed fitting to me—the contrast of black and white. Our baby was the white speck in a sea of black, my moment of joy in a period of darkness. White has always been the symbol for good, and black that of evil. I would come to understand this fully sooner than I would have liked.
“I can’t find the heartbeat.” In that moment, the screen and my world went black. I should have been eight weeks then, but my doctor said we might have miscalculated. He retested my blood for HCG, the pregnancy hormone, to see what it would do over the weekend. I would have another test done on Monday, then another ultrasound on the next Friday. My heart was aching, but I still had hope. I cried and prayed though the weekend, hoping for a miracle. My test on Monday brought good news—my HCG had risen over the weekend. Maybe God was granting me the miracle I had pleaded with him for! I waited impatiently for the rest of the week and went to the appointment on Friday. I felt nauseous before I ever walked through the door. We knew almost immediately. Our baby had died. My body convulsed in sobs. This was a pain I had never known before. My child, my dreams, my joy—all were gone in an instant. My love, however, was not. Maybe that would have made it easier.
By my choice, I had a D & C the next Tuesday, a surgical procedure to clean out my uterus. Otherwise, I would have had to wait an unknown amount of time for my body to naturally miscarry. The day was a nightmare from beginning to end. My husband and I dragged ourselves to the hospital early that morning, an early surgery granted to us as a favor from our doctor. Feeling like I had been beaten, it took all my strength to complete the tasks required—filling out paperwork, walking to the surgery area, changing into a gown. All were done amidst free-flowing tears. My IV took several tries and nurses to get in. I was bleeding from one arm as a nurse dug her needle into my other one. As they finally finished my pre-surgery routine, I was overwhelmed by emotion. My previous tears were nothing compared to what came when I considered that I was getting ready to literally lose my baby. I knew the baby was already gone in spirit, but I couldn’t bear the thought of having it taken from my body. Where would my child’s body go? Would someone throw my baby in the trash? I would never know. All I knew for sure was that I would be going to sleep pregnant and waking up empty.
The following days and weeks were a foggy mess. Relationships were strained, my body was in pain, and the world seemed distorted and unfair. I rarely left my house for several weeks. When I did, I was sickened by the fact that everyone else was normal. People were laughing and living their lives just as they had before my baby had died inside my body. I took on a huge project at church as a creative outlet and necessary evil to get myself out of the house. I loved what I was doing, but sometimes I just wanted to stay in bed and dig back in to the prescription pain medication I had been given after the surgery. I wouldn’t let myself do it.
The thick curtain of pain eventually started to lift one thin veil at a time. I started to feel more like myself, although a new version of myself. I knew the old me was gone forever, and I was okay with that. How could I go through this and remain the same? I didn’t even want to be the same. Many people do not view miscarriage as a real loss. If it’s not, then how can I explain my immeasurable sorrow? I lost my child as so many other women do, and that is a valid, devastating loss, which deserves to be mourned.
I was meant to be a mother. I’m now the happy mother of two boys, but I didn’t start being a mother the day my oldest son was born. Motherhood began that day when those precious two lines appeared, and I began loving my child who would never see life. I might have lacked the tangible signs of maternal privilege, but my heart loved and broke like only a mother’s could.
What an amazing story that had me in tears.
Your boys are beautiful.
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