Infertility

I am a barren woman. This comes as quite the shock to people in the general public who see me raising my four beautiful children.

Paul and I gave it our best shot, employing every medical means known to man in the 20th century. After working my way through five years of infertility treatment, I have given up hope of ever conceiving a child. 

Whatever you do, don’t pity me. And please don’t try to comfort, telling me that someday it may happen. I consider myself one of the most blessed women on the face of this earth.

When people see my children they are pretty quick to ask (often staring at Elijah), “Are any of them adopted?” I always give myself time to take in a deep breath to stay composed, and answer with a slight smile, “Actually, all of them are.” And with that, people’s voice tone usually goes up a few octaves and I wonder if they’ll get through their next inquiry without hyperventilating.

The things people say are always well-meaning. “Really? I would not have ever guessed! You all look so natural. You’re a very good mother.” And then my personal favorite, “Are they all siblings?”

I try to be patient and understanding through the inquiry, but I have to tell you, it does get very tiring trying to control my own human response. “Thank you? And yes, but none of them are biologically related.” 

We did try. We even listened politely to unsolicited advice. “Do you get up afterward? Prop your hips up on pillows. Get drunk,” and one that beats all, “Have you tried dangling from a door frame?” Not sure what my face looked like after that one, but I’m sure it was classic.

Each suggested our lack of common sense when it came to making babies, and most implied the fault was mine. Some people even suggested that maybe we were not meant to be parents. That was the most hurtful of all. 

Instead, we moved forward with infertility treatment. After extensive testing, our odds looked really good (stellar actually). And as we started out, we decided we would take it as far as we felt we could logically go, all in good conscience.

It began with six months of Clomid, progressed to artificial insemination, and hit a flat plateau with in vitro fertilization. In fact, after a promising start with in vitro yielding 19 viable embryos (all of whom died within the first five days past conception — in the blastocyst stage), we even tried adopting some embryos (who also, sadly, did not make it). The doctors were perplexed.

It was at this point that I convinced myself I was saddled with Pandora’s Box for a uterus, counted my losses and moved on. 

I wondered if I would ever be fully content with my children, considering I had not had any “of my own”. But as it turns out, it didn’t matter. We brought home Naomi and, much to my surprise, I actually felt like my family was complete. My children were more than I could have ever hoped for, and I was excited to have a partial hysterectomy at 37 years old. I recall the doctor who laughed at my exuberance as I yelled, “Good riddance!”

My family was built by many hands. Each of my children were purposefully given to me. I was chosen to be their mother by four of the strongest women I have ever known. I am honored.