Shortly before midnight on the night of my 50th birthday, I started to cry and could not stop. My mother had died four months earlier. She was everything I wanted to be as a mother but I could not be, not now, not ever. Turning 50, I realized, was the point of no return. I was forever childless and now motherless. This was not the life I had imagined.
Great Expectations
My mother was from a big Italian family. She had four older sisters. By the time I was born, I already had second and third cousins. Every occasion, every event, large or small was filled with countless cousins, aunts and uncles. Food was always abundant, the mood merry and we never ran out of games to play. It took forever to hug and kiss everyone hello. Goodbyes always started an hour before we intended to actually leave.
At home, my siblings and I were of different ages with separate friends and interests. We bickered a lot. My cousins were my best friends, sharing laughs and tears. At that age, I would never had imaged that someday I would feel so alone in the world.
Plan A: A Fairy Tale debunked
I did the right things in the right order, like I was supposed to. At 34, I had my education behind me and my career was in full swing. I was married to my longtime boyfriend and we had just bought our first home, a big, cozy Colonial in a good neighborhood on Staten Island. As I decorated the house for Christmas, I imagined my children rushing down the staircase to open their presents on Christmas morning. The tree would be overflowing with gifts, abundant like the life I had created.
I was finally ready to have those children. Turns out, my husband, not so much. When pressured, he left me for another woman. I was devastated. I thought I would die from the pain. I thought he would change his mind and come back. He didn’t look back and I couldn’t see forward.
The house that once held dreams of children and grandchildren turned into a prison, locked up tight to hide from the random crime and endless city noise. The promise of a promotion at work died with the budget cuts. My closest friends moved to New Jersey to raise their children. I was alone, left behind.
Holding On
I clung tight to my dreams. I stayed in that house, looking to remarry quickly and resume my plan. But the house no longer had joy and my social life became a string of broken relationships, disappointment and heartache. Anger and mistrust smoldered within me. I was scaring men away.
It took many heartfelt conversations, over the course of 5 years, before my friends could cut through my angry refusal to let go of what I had planned. It was time for “Plan B” they said. Meanwhile, they had their children quickly and easily and didn’t really understand why I tried to avoid all the baby showers and birthdays parties - the torture. I watched their children grow and become close, like my friends and I were. But my children were not there. I had no children to share.
Creating Plan B: Renewed Hope
My family, now living on the Eastern Shore of Virginia, urged me to move there. Feeling blindsided by the unfairness of life, I decided to try it. I hoped that rural, isolated area of the country would grant me some solace: a quiet life filled with birdsong and gardens, a place to heal. And I knew there was a famous fertility clinic in Norfolk. Va and they would finally give me a baby, or hopefully, two.
A couple of weeks after each artificial insemination, my mother would ask how I was feeling. We both hoped the answer would be nauseous. No one had trouble having children in my family. Yet, thirteen tries later, countless trips to the Jones Institute and more money than I had to spend, I was not pregnant. Instead, I went into early menopause at 42. “My mother hugged me, trying to soothe me but I could not be consoled. She reminded me that we had each other and we did, for a while.
Plan B Unravels
I looked into adoption. I gave them money, had the home inspection and as asked, had my friends write letters of recommendation. After about 2 years of waiting for a baby, they told me to forget it because all the women wanted a married couple for their babies.
I tried to talk to my friends about my anguish, the deep, dark, clawing hole in my heart, the emptiness of my soul, the disbelief that life would be so unfair to me. But they didn’t understand and avoided the topic, too uncomfortable for them to watch my pain. I couldn’t talk about it without crying so they would change the subject. That hurt me even more.
A New Plan: C
At 45, I was at a crossroads, struggling to rewrite my future. I had no crayon drawings on the refrigerator nor baby pictures on my cell phone. I would not be a proud parent on graduation day or hold the prestigious honor of being Mother of the Bride. There would be no grandchildren to spoil. What do I do now? I have words of wisdom but no one to hear them. I worried about dying alone.
But my luck changed and at 46, I remarried, a good man, a kind man and I hoped that would be enough. I continued to see my friends. I was relieved when their children went away to college. I tried to get the old closeness back but I couldn’t get past the emotional wedge my childlessness had put between us.
So my new plan – C – is now the one that I work on daily. I have started to nurture myself as I would have nurtured my children. I am trying to applaud my own achievements and forgive my shortcomings. I share my life and love with my husband and our rescued cats. I have their pictures on my cell phone.
In this new plan, I keep in mind Robert Burns’ quote about the best-laid plans of mice and men. Some days I make big plans. Most days I just plan dinner. I hope for sweet dreams. I hope for a peaceful life. I hope to grow old. I know that life probably will disappoint me again, but I will be ready. I am secure in the knowledge that I have at least 23 more back up plans. I remember my A, B, Cs.
Cindy Diggs