It’s been almost 8 years since my only pregnancy and miscarriage,
Five years of fertility treatments, and
many embryos that did not grow in my body.
So many sad months of getting my period.
So much grief.

When did we decide to stop with the treatments?
How did we ever decide to stop?

I got the call from our last fertility doctor.
It was the last egg retrieval and it did not grow.
It would not become a child.
After I stopped crying,
there was a answer settling in me.
“No, dear one, you will not be having children.”

I had been praying for an answer for years,
and even though it was not the answer that I wanted,
it was clear.

With this fact settling into me,
I was able to have the hard conversation with my husband.
I was able to say that I could not do any more treatments.
I could not risk another pregnancy loss.
I could not do any more blood draws, shots,
or the waiting for the calls.
I was able to listen to him, too. His desires,
needs, and grief.

I was eventually able to say that I wanted an IUD.

I’m three years past this no settling into my life.
I tell people that it felt like a fact.
Like science spoke to me with data.
Or maybe, it was more like I finally accepted
the data. I finally allowed it to be real.

It feels as though many people have forgotten
that we went through it.
They are relieved that I’m not actively depressed
or talking about how much I wanted children.
They don’t take the tender care that they used to.
Some will ask (and cry with me).
Some will gladly ignore.
Others don’t know at all.

People really want to tie my story up with a bow-
A silver lining.
“Oh, you get so much time to yourself.”
“Can you imagine kids during this pandemic?”
“The sleep you must get.” “You could still adopt.”

Here is what I know...
I will always rather have had a child.
If I could go back and change it, I would.
Every day.

And.

There are times that I can lean into the role of Aunty
and find it pleasurable.
There are times I am grateful for my quiet time
and spaciousness.
Grateful and in appreciation, yes.
But, make no mistake,
I still and always would rather have been a mom.

I see the people who want to gloss over this.
Simplify the story.
“See! It all worked out in the end. You are fine.”
I may be “fine” and I do not forget the other life I wanted.
I carry it all within me.

I don’t lead with the grief as I used to.
It does not cast its light into my vision everyday.
I can fall in love with my nieces and nephews, now.
I can (barely) feel genuine warmth at a birth announcement.
I can.
I do.

And right next to that spot of acceptance,
is the scar tissue of missing my baby’s whole life,
my husband’s life as a dad,
and my life as somebody’s mom.

Jennifer Asdorian

Photo by Jess Bailey on Unsplash