It’s not that I didn’t reflect on infertility during the holidays.  It’s not that I forgot I was infertile for awhile.  It’s certainly not that I “got over” my infertility. 

I just never had a private moment to sit and collect my thoughts in a blog post.  I have scraps of paper with fragments on thoughts scribbled on them.  Little bits of inspirations, perhaps revelations, that broke through the cacophany of the busy days and nights, thoughts jotted down in the margins of church bulletins, on napkins, even one on the back of a realtor’s business card.  But the opportunity to transform those incomplete musings in a coherent blog post just never presented itself.

I had my MIL staying in my house, as well as our 25-year-old nephew, neither of whom I feel particularly comfortable sharing my innermost thoughts and feelings with.  My nephew probably just doesn’t want to hear about his aunt’s dealings with infertility.  He knows we’re childless, and he knows it wasn’t our choice, but I’m sure that’s all he cares to know any more about it.

The fact that I can’t share my experience with my mother-in-law, however, is very sad to me, because she, too, faced the pain and heartbreak of infertility.  I know from my husband that her very real pain stems from five or six miscarriages, a pain I can never completely comprehend.  I can’t imagine the pain of feeling life growing within me, and then suddenly dying away.  Five or six times.

But we never talk about it.  Our relationship has never been close, and at times it has even been combative, and the one thing other than her son that we have in common is one thing we never talk about. 

I remember one time, while we were just beginning to make the rounds of the fertility specialist, the labs, and the radiologist, MIL was visiting in our home.  Very hesitently, I broached the subject that Tony and I might be having “trouble” in that way, and that we were seeking help.   Her response, one I’ll never forget, was “You’re not going to have children, so stop saying it.  You need to accept it.”

I was stunned.

And then I was hurt.  And mad.  And indignant.  And unforgiving.

Now, five years later, as I have moved from active trying to trying to accept it, I think I understand her reaction a little better.  It was not entirely directed at me and my situation.  It was borne of her and her own difficulties, so many years ago, and yet still fresh and raw in the face of our difficulties. 

Perhaps, standing there in the hallway, she could smell my fear, and it stirred up her own fear and heartache from the unforgotten corners of her soul.  It might actually have even been the most sensible advice she knew how to give at the time, a kind of emotional ripping off of a band-aid quickly.  Say it quickly, and maybe it won’t hurt so badly. 

Of course, understanding her reaction doesn’t take away the affront of her response, but I am glad that I have reached the point of thinking beyond my own hurt, and considering the hurts of other women.

That’s a huge step in the healing process. 

So, my MIL was here for a week, and once again, we never discussed the topic of either her or my inability to bear children.  As always, we carefully avoided the issue, dancing gingerly around any mention of babies and children, never reaching out to each other to establish any kind of a common ground between us based on our experiences. 

And whatever reflections on infertility that I happened to jot down in church bulletin margins and on paper napkins remained tucked away, waiting for a few moments when I could let down my guard and even admit to these thoughts and feelings.

For now, our only voiced commonality will be her adopted son.