Anonymous
My grief journey began innocently enough. Someone else posted a pregnancy portrait session they were really proud of. She was in a Greek style white gown against a beautiful green backdrop, with several beautiful bouquets of flowers. Each image was beautiful, and at the same time, devastating.
I was 31, married, and before I saw the images I described, I had been actively avoiding my infertility grief. At age 19, I had received my diagnosis of severe PCOS and told my reproductive system was broken, and would never carry a child. I was informed that my genetic inheritance included hormone imbalances that meant both physical and emotional pain until menopause occurred.
My love for my husband included a strong desire for just one son with him. For a time I harbored a small hope that maybe it could happen. But my husband was sterile, just as reproductively disabled as myself. A series of negative pregnancy tests, and I understood - there would be no child.
That beautiful pregnancy portrait session was what I would have chosen if I wasn’t barren, and part of the tribe of childless women. I could not deny any longer the reality of my infertility being part of my identity. So, reluctantly, I began to tentatively take steps into my infertility grief journey.
I remember so many occasions of my married sisters announcing pregnancies and allowing myself to immerse myself in my tears. It hurt to feel like God favored them over me because they got adorable babies and all I got was physical pain and bloodbaths. In those dark days I felt lost in the abyss of sorrow, but my husband comforted me as best as he could. I was grateful for him.
I found out that there are more painful situations than being married and childless. My husband died of multiple organ failure after our 5th wedding anniversary, which meant my new title was childless widow. Meanwhile, my married sisters were continually having healthy babies. Some years, two were pregnant at the same time. I reacted with stormy tears at each new birth or pregnancy announcement, devastated because I had no husband or children.
I let myself feel all the aspects of my infertility and widowhood griefs. I let myself cry, be angry, scream, and write down all the feelings as I adjusted. It’s been a very, very difficult nine years.
I remarried over a year ago. Recently I was introducing my new husband to my Aunt Jan, and her family. She has a wonderful husband, a son, daughter-in-law, and as of a month ago, a new grandson. My aunt and uncle are intimately acquainted with grief because their second son died of a rare bone cancer when he was 17 years old. So, for them, the addition of a grandson is a sweet joy after coping with loss. I had the privilege of meeting my cousin’s wife, and their newborn for the first time recently.
So many times in the past, a newborn from any of my married sisters sent me into a crying, sobbing grief storm. I felt apprehensive that I might react to this precious little boy the same way.
But . . . for the first time in my childless journey, the sight and sounds of this baby boy inspired a completely different feeling inside my soul. I was overwhelmed by love and joy and hope. I felt love for this child, his parents, and grandparents. I felt joy over how much happiness my aunt and uncle got from holding him. I felt hope shine in my soul that I could and I would not only survive infertility, but thrive in my own way.
So many times in the past nine years I didn’t want to cope with grief - it was exhausting and uncomfortable and would occur at inconvenient times and I wanted to be anyone but myself. Whether I liked my life or not I had to accept it, and the “me” I would become was at war daily with the “me” I would never be again.
Here’s your sign post on the childless journey: “The Best Is Yet to Come.” It means you can reach the mountaintop and come through grief stronger than you went into it.
Photo by Maksim Shutov on Unsplash