I blame my indecisiveness on the stars. I am a classic example of an oscillating Libran, having struggled my entire life when it comes to making big choices, such as what to study, which career to pursue, where to live and, especially, whether or not I should have children. When mulling over decisions, I see a multitude of possibilities, write endless lists of pros and cons and can envision a pretty rainbow of varied paths stretched in front of me, making choosing just one feel impossible. Therefore, it still surprises me that I made the life-altering decision to go through five rounds of fertility treatments as a single woman, following two decades of paying minimal attention to the question of motherhood.
I am still not entirely clear as to why I woke up the day after my fortieth birthday with only one thought penetrating my mind: ‘Maybe I should have a baby.’ What made me push through my deep ambivalence and do everything within my power to become pregnant, including spending hefty chunks of hard-earned savings, adhering to a punishing diet and supplement regime, enduring surgery and its painful aftermaths and risking my own health? Why did I put myself through this anxiety, strain and turmoil to try and conceive a baby with a complete stranger? Looking back, sometimes I shake my head in wonder, believing I must have been gripped by a form of temporary madness; other days, hot tears of sorrow and failure still fall out of the blue. I remain ambivalent, caught between the grief of childlessness and the relief it never happened for me.
Until the day of my fortieth, I was poised firmly on the edge of the proverbial fence when it came to having children. I would tell people it all depended on who I ended up with and whether my future partner wanted kids or not. Perhaps this was my way of wriggling out from beneath the too-heavy decision of whether I actually wanted to be a parent. Leaving it in the hands of an imaginary person allowed me to procrastinate; to avoid facing my entrenched uncertainty regarding the issue and my paralysing fears of regret, either way. At this point, I was also nowhere near finding a suitable future partner with whom I could even discuss the possibility of raising a child together. The relationships I encountered during my thirties were with unpredictable, emotionally abusive men. I did everything possible to prevent pregnancy whilst trapped in these dysfunctional situations as I knew, beyond a doubt, that I did not want these particular men to father my child.
Then I turned forty and the question of whether or not I should attempt to have a child finally crashed in on me like thunder. One of my closest friends, who had been single and childless for years, told me she had secretly undergone IVF and was nine weeks pregnant. Her announcement utterly floored me. Aside from feeling hurt she had not shared such significant life choices with me, I was devastated to learn one of my last-remaining, childless friends was now also going to the ‘other side.’ Her unexpected pregnancy left me reeling for weeks. I felt bereft and isolated, layered with a sense of shame that I couldn’t simply be delighted for her.
Six months on from this milestone birthday and my friend’s shock news, I managed to extract myself from the miserable relationship I had been in. Possibilities began to appear after this toxic weight lifted and tentative thoughts started to surface: ‘Perhaps I could undergo fertility treatment as a single woman.’ ‘My friend has done it – why can’t I?’ Were these thoughts my true desires emerging after being buried in order to survive abusive relationships? Were they present because one of my few comrades-in-childlessness was about to give birth? Maybe the thoughts had simply been triggered by the reality of turning forty and facing the end of my fertility. Or they could have been related to losing my father two years earlier, when I comprehended so viscerally the importance of family, the briefness of life. The baby thoughts likely surfaced with a vengeance because every one of these factors came together in 2018, all colliding, spinning and merging to create the perfect fertility storm.
At the time, I had no inkling this storm would rage on for two years. It took many months of frantic researching, counselling and agonising before deciding to go ahead with fertility treatments. Months of contemplating every pro and con, perusing sperm donor profiles, weighing up the invasiveness of each treatment option and sifting through various dilemmas related to how I would raise a child alone. My age weighed on me like granite, urging me to make a decision sooner than I was comfortable with. It still took me a year and two pointless IUI cycles to finally follow the specialist’s advice and sign the IVF consent forms. Even now, I wonder if the treatments would have been successful had I been more decisive and taken action sooner, rather than sitting in ambivalence and doubt for so long.
Once I did eventually decide to take action – spurred on by a gnawing panic that I’d already wasted too much time – I threw myself headfirst into the eye of the fertility storm, wholeheartedly embracing my choice. It is somewhat ironic, therefore, that the question of children was ultimately decided for me, not in one but two separate ways. To begin with, every treatment cycle was a spectacular failure. All those needles, all those early-morning blood tests, all those long drives to the clinic, all the waiting and wondering, all the hopeful ultrasounds and the fat egg numbers written on my hand, viewed excitedly through bleary eyes post-surgery. All of that and I ended up with two measly embryos, both of which managed to sidestep even the basic process of implantation. The outcome was then reinforced further, just as I was completing my third round of IVF, when a friendship evolved into a giddy romance. I barely saw it coming, but suddenly the promise of a life shared with a loving, gentle partner appeared on the horizon and I was genuinely happy for the first time in years. He is older and already has three gorgeous, grown children. Understandably, he does not wish for any more.
I cannot claim I was completely swallowed up by grief once I truly understood that I will never be a mother. Instead, my feelings on the topic are a complicated, fluctuating conglomerate of sadness, hope, longing, contentment, angst and relief. As always, I see every possibility, understand the extensive pros and cons involved in raising children and can still envision that rainbow of varied paths stretched before me. I will remain childless in this lifetime and some degree of loss will always be present; however, I have made a definite decision on this one, for the sake of reclaiming inner peace and enjoying life as it stands. Rather than remaining stuck, helpless and transfixed in the eye of the storm, I will allow it to pass and inch, gradually but resolutely, towards the rainbow.
Renate
Photo by Stainless Images on Unsplash