When It Isn’t Mother’s Day

Mother’s Day is one of the worst days of the year for me. It is an in-your-face reminder that I can’t seem to manage something that 15 year olds do in the back of cars every day.

Two weeks ago I was staring at what must be my hundredth pregnancy test, willing the second line to appear. “Please God, this time, let me be pregnant. I can’t take another failure.” I had been muttering these words for the last two weeks. When that one lonely line appeared on the test, I told myself it was ok. I’d make it through this, again.

My husband and I were on our way back from a conference on polycystic ovarian syndrome (PCOS). PCOS is one of the reasons I am in this infertility boat. I started driving north out of Arizona. About 20 miles of highway flew under our wheels before I was forced to pull over when the road started floating in my tears. My husband drove for the next three hours as I cried myself to sleep, woke and cried some more. My brain said we could, and would, try again. My heart felt as exposed and desolate as the wind-sculpted red cliffs around us. The twisted sagebrush desperately sought moisture from the desert soil. I wondered if my womb was as desolate as the sun baked clay. Did a fertilized egg seek that frantically to find sustenance within my body—and fail?

By nightfall the sight of red blood silenced any fantasies that the test might be wrong. It was more than just menstrual hormones that kept me in tears over the next week. Just days before the insemination we learned that we would never have a baby without help—and expensive donor sperm. I know that our financial and emotional stamina is limited, so each attempt feels like my only chance—even though I know it isn’t. I know that even if we run out of fertility options that we will someday have enough saved for an adoption and we’ll probably even find an agency that will give us a baby despite my husband’s health. Knowing this doesn’t help much. My heart still feels like an empty piñata. I wonder if the next swing will bust it wide open.

I’d already taken an emotional beating long before I started the infertility treatments. Nearly five years ago, while I was still single and living in Virginia, a social worker at a Washington, DC, foster adoption agency told me she was looking for permanent homes for four babies. She promised me that if my file was complete in the next 30 days one of those babies would be placed with me. I needed one signature from one person to complete that file. When that person finally consented to sign that paper after five months, it was too late.

Red tape started to fly between the various agencies and the state border was closed to children from DC. I begged the state of Virginia to place a child with me. I offered to take older children, sibling groups, children of any race, pored over web sites asking about child after child. After 18 months I sold my house. The handpainted clouds still floated over the wild animal border in an unused nursery. I’m not ready to go the public adoption road again and we don’t have the money for a private infant adoption right now.

I’m an active griever. Since I closed the door to that unused nursery I have lived in 5 states, married twice, divorced once, changed careers, written two books, acquired three cats, and found a million reasons to smile. No matter how busy I keep myself, my arms stay empty.

I believe we will be parents someday, but each day I struggle to maintain that hope and faith as I see and hear of children who are neglected or abused. When I hear of murdered children or hear a parent explain why they left three small children alone in a car while they ran into a store, I think of the hundreds of infertile women I have talked to over the years I have worked with women who suffer with PCOS. Each time, I pray that these women will each find the peace and healing they need and, if possible, someone to call them “Mommy” next year.