Resurfacing from the holidays

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. 

Coping with the Holidays

There’s no doubt about it: the holidays are some of the hardest days to handle when you are struggling with infertility.  No matter how we try to focus our thoughts on Christ and God’s plan in the world, there is bound to be that incident, that comment, that moment when our grief breaks through and whisks our hearts away from the babe in the manger to the babe we wanted so much, and never knew. 

Because there’s not any getting around the pain of our infertility, we must learn to anticipate those occaisions that are likely to stir up those agonized feelings and learn how to cope with them when they face us down.  

I found this newsletter on dealing with infertility during the holidays on the RESOLVE website, and thought it was valuable enough to share with my readers.  In fact, I needed some of these reminders, too.  I hope that it gives you some help in dealing with the particular stress and pain that the holiday season can bring in its wake.  It’s a pain that our families and friends often won’t understand, but be assured, you are not alone.  Please keep me in your prayers, and I will do the same for you.

In other news, I have posted one of our new family holiday traditions on my other blog.  It’s a silly thing, but I have found that whatever brings me laughter and joy brings me one step closer to healing.  You know, whatever it takes…

Things I didn’t want to know

I  was blessed to have a relationship with my Great-grandmother until I was 17, a woman I’ve always admired as the most loving, quiet (as in not-anxious), generous and genuinely good woman I ever met.  Yes, in a way I idealize her, and I always will.

But last night, my Great-Grandmother came crashing down to earth as a real-live, flawed human being.  She didn’t come back to life, she didn’t visit me as a ghostly apparition.  She just became so much more….imperfect….

And I’m sad about it.  I didn’t want her to be that way.  I wanted her to always stay on that pedestal.

Here’s the story:  I have a cousin who is adopted, and the fact that she is adopted never, never in any way meant to me that she was any less a part of our family.  But last night, my grandmother told me that Great-grandma, although she loved my cousin, never really considered my cousin as her own great-grandchild.   She did not take the same pride in her that she did in her genetic great-grandchildren.  She never considered my cousin to be a real member of the family.

That hit me like a ton of bricks, because it addressed so many of my own fears and hesitations about adoption.  Not that I wouldn’t love my adopted child with all my heart.  I have no doubts about that.  But I do fear that my parents and the rest of my extended family would love any adopted child of mine less than the genetic progeny of the family.  I have felt really guilty about feeling that way for a long time, though in my defense, it’s not the primary reason that Tony and I haven’t adopted. [I'm sure I'll post more about that at a later time.]   But it has been a nagging concern of mine.

It’s a way of looking at your family that can be difficult and painful; trying to evaluate, not only how do you fit in your family as an infertile woman, but how would any adopted children fit into the family? Is your family open enough, accepting enough, tactful enough to see your child as  your child, regardless of the way that child joined your family?

My Great-grandmother had been my yardstick for Christian living all my life, and this unwelcomed piece of information does not sit well with my understanding of either her,  family or Christianity.

I believe that God honors adoption.  Some of His greatest works were wrought through adoption.  In fact, two of his greatest leaders, Moses and Samuel, were both adopted into other families.   And the letters of Paul indicate the very special relationship we have with God as adopted children.

Interestingly, I read this blog post today that brought the whole thing to mind again.

I will forgive my Great-grandmother for being imperfect.  In so many ways she still epitomizes Christian womanhood for me, and that’s probably where I committed my error.  The only measure of Christian living we look to should be Christ, anyone else is bound to disappoint us, but He never will.

And we can always be assured that He loves us as His very own children.