I started this blog three years ago, and now, at what I think is the half point of my life, it’s time to end it. I never celebrated my blogoversaries because the reasons I started this blog were not something I wanted to celebrate. I hope this to be much more than a “life sucks because I didn’t have a kid, so I’m closing down my blog” post. I hope that this will be more than the end of a chapter in my life, but the beginning of a great new book. What I know is this; I’m not the same person I was when I started this blog or even when I started my infertility journey.
Let’s be honest. The grieving over the loss of having a child has been one of the toughest things I have ever been through. I think I have managed to alienate most of my friends by either taking my anger out on them or not engaging with them over the last three years. While I am beginning to come to some sort of acceptance about life as it is right now, that doesn’t mean that I don’t avoid acquaintances with their newborns and toddlers in tow or that I accept baby shower invitations. I’m not quite there yet. Which is the main reason I am stepping away from the blogosphere for good. It is too difficult for me to read about everyone’s successes when I’m going no where, at least in terms of building a family.
Mother’s Day this year was excruciating as always. I spent the day hiding in my house, having my own little “Dex.ter-a-thon”, because what better to make you feel good than watching a show about a psycho-serial killer? Somehow, I feel comforted that someone else’s life is more fucked up than my own, ficticious or not.
I confessed to my mother that I hated Mother’s Day, and she told me that she hates Mother’s Day too! I also recently learned that my mom’s mom had infertility too. I was chatting with my mom, and I asked her if grandma ever wanted a boy. She said sure she did, but after having my mom and my aunt, my grandma couldn’t have any more children. I know what you are thinking, “at least she had two daughters!” Still, it made me feel for my grandma that she couldn’t have more children when she wanted to.
It also made me wonder if I inherited my wonky uterus genes. After trying to ignore that I had a uterus for over a year, I finally met with my old friend, the dildocam, and discovered that my fibroid had a son. Revenge of the uterus, I suppose. I hate those women that say to me, “fibroids are your body’s way of saying it wants children.” Yeah, tell me something I don’t already know, (insert derogatory expletive of choice here).”
I have not completely given up on the idea of having children. Magic and I had a talk about it, and nothing is going to happen until his business starts making some real money. For starters, we can’t afford donor eggs until that happens, let alone me reducing my hours and salary at work to raise a child. At a minimum, that’s three years out. I shutter at the thought of being pregnant at 48, but I wouldn’t be the only woman to do that. I am conflicted about it. While I don’t want to raise a child if I can’t completely be there for her, I don’t think I was any healthier 10 years ago. One particularly popular donor egg book berates women over 45 from having DE children. The way I look at it is that our child would have an appreciation for older people more than most of our jaded youngsters. Still, waiting three years for something that might not even happen drives me crazy. Oh, and please don’t feel sorry for me because I don’t have the money to pursue having a baby. I’m beginning to get that there is a larger force at work here that I don’t understand or have control over.
This isn’t the “I had/adopted a baby, and it’s the best thing that has ever happened in my life” post or even blog. This is the “what is there to life if not to fulfill my instincts to reproduce” question? I’m grateful for the women I have met through the blogosphere and on this journey. I think the vast majority of you have moved on to family building in some way, shape, or form. I’m happy for all of you, even if I’m not showing it.
As for me, I’m still working on the answer to the question of what are we if we are not mothers. What is the purpose of life if we do not execute our built in programming to have children? I know I failed, and I understand the reasons why, which were beyond my control. I try not to dwell on my losses anymore. The tears still come, but I don’t allow myself down that dark hole anymore. I’m accepting my losses. I’m beginning to see the bigger picture of it all. I would not have been able to really be there for my child if I had not been through the tragedy I had been through and was shown how it was linked to the trauma I experienced in my childhood.
I want my life to have purpose and to make a difference. I thought that purpose was to have a baby, but it apparently isn’t. I haven’t been moved to act on anything else yet. Maybe I’m already doing that in my job. Or maybe it’s simply enough to just be. Life is a mystery that is constantly unfolding. I’m trying to be curious about the mystery of it all as the pages of my life turn. Mostly, it just drives me f-in’ crazy.
Meanwhile, if you are looking for me, you can find me working in my garden.