Carol
My name is Carol, and I am the firstborn of my parents’ seven children. My parents home schooled us, took us to church every Sunday, and formerly subscribed to the Bill Gothard philosophy of “if you can have kids, have as many as possible.” I say formerly because when Bill Gothard was caught molesting young women at his organization, my parents recognized him as a false teacher. The Bill Gothard doctrine influenced many families in my home schooling circle, including one of my brothers-in-law, whose parents had 13 children together, and Jim Bob and Michelle Duggar of “19 Kids & Counting.”
Both my parents came from small families. My Mom is the second of four children, and my Dad is the youngest of four children. They fell in love and got married with the intent to have as many children as possible. Three healthy babies, a miscarriage, four more healthy babies, and two more miscarriages, and they decided they were done breeding.
As is often the case in large, home school families, the firstborn daughter is given a lot of childcare responsibilities from an early age. My childhood was cut short because I was required to help my Mom with household chores and childcare responsibilities, and in my teen years I was required to do the same for one of my Mom’s friends who had 8 children herself. I never got to have boyfriends when I was a teenager, because I was too busy babysitting my siblings when my parents went out on dates with each other. Childcare was my mother’s aspiration, but not mine.
When I was 19, I hemorrhaged and was diagnosed with severe PolyCystic Ovarian Syndrome, or PCOS for short. I had inherited PCOS through my Dad’s side - his mother and sister both had much lighter cases of it. The gynecologist who had run the diagnostic tests and bloodwork told me that my hormones were too messed up to carry a pregnancy, that a fertility specialist would be a waste of money, and that I would experience a gazillion more bloodbaths, intense abdominal cramping, excessive hair growth on my face, and every pregnancy test would be negative. She knew this because she herself had severe PCOS, and everything she told me was excruciatingly accurate. She told me she couldn’t cure my PCOS, but she could treat my symptoms through the use of birth control, and I would need to stay on that until menopause to maintain control over my PCOS symptoms. Holding my gaze, and compassion in her expression, she warned me to never, ever plan on having a child of my womb because it would never happen.
I was 19 and single then. The devastation of my diagnosis wouldn’t set in for another eleven plus years, as I was single through my 20’s. I moved out of my parents’ house, into my first little apartment, walked to work. I chose a career as a certified nurse aide, working with the elderly and disabled. I found that I liked this new life of being free of all childcare responsibilities. Some of my patients were very precious and quickly won my affection, and I remember being excited to get to work and see them. They truly enriched my life, and I consider myself very privileged that I knew them. Of course, when they passed away I felt sad - they weren’t even mine and I felt like I lost a loved one.
It wasn’t easy returning home to a silent apartment every night. I was lonely. So, on my off days and outside work, I went online and chatted, in an effort to find a significant other. There were so many discouraging times where I knew there was no future with so many men I chatted with. I knew what I searched for in a man, and what I couldn’t tolerate. Finally, five months prior to my 30th birthday, I started chatting with a Louisiana man and he was who I wanted. He moved to Texas, and we married in January 2014, shortly after I turned 30.
He was childless just like me, and reproductively disabled. I remember that my love for my husband included an intense desire to have just one child, a son, with him. This is when the devastation of my diagnosis finally set in. I was very sad, and began grieving my loss in the summer of 2014. I joined childless groups on Facebook, one being Childless Path to Acceptance. I was so pleased to see all the World Childless Week articles that year - I realized I was not alone.
Our marriage centered around the part of the vows, “in sickness and in health” as we joked about him being the sick, and me being the health. He had End Stage Renal Disease, which meant his kidneys no longer functioned, which qualified him for disability. He also had epilepsy, so seizures were happening regularly. Even with all his medical issues and the numerous doctors office visits and hospital stays, I was happy. I loved him and he loved me. Then his liver failed and he couldn’t keep his food down, kept vomiting it up. One final crisis sealed his fate when the artery supplying blood to his bowel collapsed due to the damage from dialysis treatments - emergency surgery was performed by one of the best cardiovascular surgeons in the United States, at one of the best hospitals. I was by his side when he died, at the end of March 2019. We were married 5 years, 2 months, and I was 35.
My mental and physical health declined rapidly in the following months. I moved back in with my parents. I grieved intensely, I attended my church’s Grief Share program, and even their widows’ ministry called Journey of Promise. Slowly I came to accept that my late husband Donnie Gifford was never coming back, and I would live without him.
Being a young childless widow was challenging during my church’s Journey of Promise functions. Most women there were in their retirement years, having had 30, 40, 50 or more years of marriage, multiple children and grandchildren. They looked at me and asked me whether I had children, and when I answered no, they always responded that I better get busy and remarry “before time ran out.” Then they chattered on about their offspring and how wonderful they were, completely ignoring me from then on. I was fighting back tears and I couldn’t find the words to tell them how much their words hurt me. So I remained silent.
By the time the third anniversary of my husband’s death approached, I had done enough healing that I was ready to find love again. I was still living with my parents who tried to enforce a “local men only” dating rule upon me. I did try to find someone local but there was no success. In February 2022 I met another Louisiana man named Charles Frye online, in a Facebook support group for widows and widowers. He was childless and his wife died of cancer in January 2017. I hid my conversation with him from my parents for a few months. In that time I became sure he was my better half, my soulmate, and I knew I wanted to marry him. My parents did get a FB messenger message from a stranger who warned them Charles Frye was a scam artist. My Dad confronted me, and I lied, saying I didn’t know a Charles Frye.
My parents left to go on vacation and I moved to Louisiana and married Charles. I wasn’t going to allow my parents to destroy my relationship because they thought he was a scam artist. I stayed gone a year, and when Charles and I visited them this past April, my parents had adopted a new attitude of humility. I think they finally understood they couldn’t write my love story, after being excluded from not one, but two weddings of their firstborn. They did welcome and accept my current husband, Charles. I have never been so happy in my life as I am now.
I count my infertility as a blessing now because I have the freedom to travel with my husband in his job as an over-the-road truck driver. I’ve had the privilege of seeing beauty in various places we have gone to. I love my life, and I’m really truly happy.
This is my story, and I am sticking to it.
