My story is like many other women who I meet and talk to on a daily basis. We all started from the same place -- wanting to become mothers. Some of us have an easier time achieving that goal than others. For me the process was long and arduous. By the time I had given birth to my son I had menstruated over 325 times, purchased over 600 boxes of tampons, maxi pads, or panty liners, taken over 150 pregnancy tests, gone through bottles and bottle of Ibuprofen, 8 D & C's, more Clomid, and other fertility drugs than I care to remember, and least we forget -- Chocolate. God knows how many pounds of chocolate.
I had been poked and stabbed by oodles of needles. I'd had my uterus examined, ultra sounded, filled with saline and my tubes filled with dye. I'd given more blood I think than a faithful Red Cross fan. I had taken my temperature, examined my cervical mucus, peed on ovulation sticks, experienced hot flashes, mood swings, headaches, and had my share of sore breasts. I'd also gained lots and lots of weight. I'd experienced horrible treatment from fat phobic doctors who felt my cure was to lose 100 pounds and everything would be fine. I'd been told to relax, not to worry, it would happen all in Gods, time. I heard things like -- "Just breathe, adopt, and to take a cruise." I had been offered advice in regards to sexual timing, positions, herbal medications and other totally unproven therapies. It still didn't change the fact that my body was foreign to me -- and I did all of this in the quest to have a baby.
I had even been told by a woman who was the mother of five children that (as she says were all "happy accidents") maybe I wasn't meant to be a mother and I should perhaps focus my thoughts and energies into something else.
Needless to say we don't speak anymore - and if I thought I could have gotten away with slapping her upside her soccer mom head I would have.
By the time it was "my turn" I naively thought that by giving birth to my son that this simple and genuine right of passage that millions of women perform each and every year was going to be the elixir of all that was holy and good -- That his birth was going to heal every single solitary wound that infertility had inflicted upon my very being.
I was wrong.
So very wrong.
His birth was the catalyst that sent me reeling into one of the most incredibly painful and difficult times in my life. It was if I relived every single loss I had experienced during my trek for motherhood. The pain was so raw and fresh. Every time I held him I'd think of those I lost and I'd weep. I'd weep for them and for others like myself. When I should be basking in the glow of motherhood I was drowning in a sea of anger and guilt. I was also sure that someone would come and tell me they made a mistake this child wasn't mine and he had to go back. That whole time was just so overwhelming. While I loved my son with every fiber of my being, was a great mother, and protector I just couldn't seem to engage with anyone else. My marriage took a hit -- a big one. I wasn't sure if we'd recover. And there I'd be another single mother in this world, with divorce number two under my belt and a new baby to care for. Thankfully our relationship withstood the strains and rigors, and with a lot of hard work we made it through to the other side. I will say the personal growth was astounding. And yes the saying "Without pain there is no growth" is one hundred percent true, I can attest to that. And because of that experience it's brought me to where and who I am today, which is someone who has see where she's come from with great respect. Who is utterly grateful for her child, as well as feels compelled to reach out to each and every person who like her has been affected by infertility in one way or the other.
I began my journey in 1985. I was newly married to a dashing young man who served in the Navy. We were so naïve he and I. The memories are so bittersweet. Like any other newly married couple we spent a lot of time talking about creating our own family. Many afternoons were spent talking about names, and did we want boys or girls. Truth be told, we didn't care. We just wanted children.
Growing up I always wanted four children. Two girls and two boys. I had their names all picked out. Richard and Jarad for boys. Julie and Rachel for girls. That was the plan. So when I met my husband, we married in May of 85, and by July we were pregnant. We couldn't believe it. The bad news was Uncle Sam decided my husband was going to be deployed for 8 months and so I was left alone to experience this miracle alone. I also experienced my first loss during that time. It was scary, overwhelming, and of course devastating. Little did I know this would be the one of many miscarriages I would experience over a sixteen year period.
Nine to be exact. Nine potential children.
MVED Mom