I’m ten weeks today, and it suddenly struck me that I have
written little about where I am emotionally with this pregnancy.
Of course, I have one basic emotion; I hope it comes through
in my updates. I’m grateful. Unbelievably, overwhelmingly, every-moment
grateful. Grateful in a way I can’t
imagine I would have been if this had happened when we first started trying
two-and-a-half years ago.
But there’s other stuff going on, too.
I didn’t talk about this before I got pregnant, but I’ve
always been aware that, in the realm of infertility blogs, this one doesn’t
exactly fit in. That’s putting it
mildly, actually: I’m waaaay below the average age (far enough that I imagine
more than one person read my profile and thought me ridiculous for complaining
about infertility at age twenty-three); we weren’t actively pursuing adoption
or treatment or even fertility testing; and I’ve written as much about theology
and other random topics as I have about our quest for a family.
I always thought it appropriate that my blog didn’t fit in,
because I’ve also felt from the beginning that infertility was, for me, a
different sort of struggle than the one most of the women around me in
blogworld were undergoing. (I don’t
mean this in a look-at-me-my-pain-is-so-unique way; bear with me here.) With my background, it was bound to be.
It has to do with being Catholic, the particular brand of
Catholic that we are. (I am on friendly
terms with more people who don’t use birth control than most of you will meet
in your entire lives, I imagine.) When
Bryan and I got married at twenty-one and nineteen, lots of people, mostly
friends of his parents, told us that we should make sure to wait a few years
before having children. And I think
that most people who get married at the age we did (assuming they’re not
getting married because they already have children) plan to wait, to enjoy life
together for a few years before they take on the responsibility of
parenthood. But Bryan and I never planned
to do that, because we believed we
couldn’t, in good conscience. We
did use NFP to avoid conception during our first year of marriage, when we had
no income, but as soon as Bryan landed a job in the summer of 2003, we started
trying. The rest, as they say, is
history.
It seems to me that most people start trying to have a baby
because they want a baby. It’s part of
what makes infertility so hard – seeing babies all around, and not having one
of your own. I can definitely relate to
that, as my desire for a little one to care for and kiss and love definitely
increased as the months of our wait went on. At the beginning, though, the decision to start trying wasn’t about
that. I was barely twenty-one at the
time. I was concerned about midterms
and research papers, excited about having my first legal margarita. The decision to start trying was one of
obedience more than anything else; Bryan and I both felt strongly that now that
we had the means to provide for a child, we had the responsibility as Catholics
to be generous with our fertility, and to let the children come if that was
what God willed.
In the meantime, I was busy. Ever since I had started kindergarten in the fall of 1987, I’d
been a student. My parents impressed on
us from the time we were little our responsibility to be good stewards of the
talents God had given us, and in the academic realm, I found, I could use my
talents well. I loved math, science,
history, politics, literature, philosophy, theology - and, especially after I
transferred to my little liberal arts college, got a lot of fulfillment out of
learning and out of communicating what I had learned. I may have dreaded writing those papers and procrastinated on
them until the last minute, but I discovered, again and again, that the writing
itself was actually enjoyable for me. Heated class discussions felt like my natural habitat. “Student” was a good identity for me.
During my last year of college I watched my classmates face,
as college seniors everywhere must, the question: what comes next? Some made plans to go to grad school or
seminary – they would continue to be students, at least for a while. Others found jobs – they would be teachers,
or construction workers, or cubicle-dwellers for faceless corporate
entities. A few girls had plans to get
married right after graduation – they would be wives, and soon after (they
expected) mothers.
I identified the most with those who struggled with the
challenge, who had found no plan to fit them, for I considered that I was among
them. I’d had my identity planned out
for as long as I could remember – as a student until I graduated from college,
and then as a wife and stay-at-home-mom. I’d jumped the gun a bit on the “wife” part, but the “student” part
still sufficed as identity for me. Now
I was losing it, and the “mother” part didn’t seem to be coming along, and the
questions loomed. What would I do? Who would I be?
A job dropped into my lap moments after I graduated, and I
seized upon it as the answer to my dilemma. Now I was no longer a student, but I was a paralegal. As an identity I imagined it would work just
as well. Unfortunately, as I discovered
in the following months, “paralegal” was not an identity that fit my personality
and talents the way “student” had. In
fact, it made me miserable. I hit
rock-bottom before I gave my perfectionist self permission to bail on that one,
and was surprised at how relieved I felt.
But still I was faced with the question: who am I? It was the part that always hurt me the most
about infertility, not being able to take on the role I’d always expected to
take on, a role for which I believe I am well-suited.
My parents got married when my dad was still doing his
undergrad work, and they had me and Rosie before he graduated. They were very poor for a few years, but
they felt confident that God was calling them to have children, and so they
did. Along the same line, I know many
young Catholic couples who struggle with their finances in order that they make
continue to be open to the children God sends them. (No joke, I know a couple who got married four months after we
did who are already expecting their third.) Young, poor, but fulfilled and happy – it’s the story of these years for
them; it was the story of my parents’ early years; I always imagined it would
be the story of mine.
Instead, we’ve got a house and two cars and we travel and go
out to dinner and have a Netflix subscription and never worry about where that
next meal is coming from. We’re not
rich by any standards, but we’re comfortable, and I know people who can’t even
imagine what “comfortable” feels like. I am not complaining about the fact that I don’t have to pinch pennies,
but when I got married at nineteen I imagined that penny-pinching would
necessarily be in my future because children (early and often) would also
be. I am grateful for the fact that
we’re comfortable financially, but it is not worth it; I would much rather have
had those children than the extra cash.
After I found myself in the middle of a depression and got
up the courage to drop the impossible identity of “paralegal,” I started
thinking about my identity crisis. I
had imagined I would be a mother by now, poor but happy, and instead I found myself
in an empty house, with a third bedroom that sits unused almost all the time,
not needing to work but with little to occupy my time otherwise. I pondered for a while (weeks, not just
hours) and, as always seems to be the case when I pray and ponder hard enough,
found myself with a solution of sorts, with an identity that fit me, at least
fit me far better than “paralegal” had.
I started applying myself to housework, meal planning, etc.,
and found that, when I took care to do it well, it occupied a lot more of my
time than I’d expected. But in addition
(and this is the key part, I think), I embraced the fact that “waiting to be a
mother” can be identity, too. I’d
prayed and begged and wrestled with God for long enough to realize that the
answer of “Sure, go ahead and [adopt, do fertility treatments, etc] right away”
was not forthcoming. I had the choice:
reject what I was hearing and go ahead with my own plan, or accept that “one
who waits and hopes” was meant to be my title for now.
The first was never really an option. So I accepted that hated identity. I didn’t necessarily accept it gracefully,
but I accepted it, and found
a lot
more peace
than I had expected to find. It
surprised me that the new identity seemed to fit me so well, although it shouldn’t
have. Like any true vocation, it was
bound to fit.
But then, before I knew it, I
was pregnant. And it completely
floored me. I was not prepared for the
abject fear that rolled over me moments after I saw that second pink line. I wrote this
post the day after I found out I was pregnant, and the fear I was talking
about had been brought on almost completely by my pregnancy.
The pain of “sorry, not this time” that I faced each cycle
was something I knew I could handle, having been through it so many times
before. The pain of losing a child,
even an embryonic one, was something I couldn’t face.
As I told my husband, tearfully, “I know how to wait. I don’t know how to do this.”
I think that the pain of missing identity was the hardest
part of infertility for me. Now that
I’m facing the possibility, more real with each passing week, of giving birth
and dedicating myself to taking care of that little one, the missing identity
of “mother” is within my grasp. It’s an
adjustment, and it (already!) involves sacrifices, and I am much, much more
vulnerable here than I ever expected to be.
It’s true. I don’t
know how to do this. But fortunately we
humans are an adaptable race, and this is a happy adjustment. I’m unbelievably grateful to be making
it. And I have thirty more weeks to do
it, so all will be well.
Pregnant! Me! Still surreal, but you won’t find me complaining.
