There have been a flurry of posts from me this week. Mostly, I’m trying to play catch up.
About a week before Christmas last year my younger sister told me she was expecting.
For most people, this sort of news would be wonderful news. But for someone who has been struggling with infertility since 1998, it wasn’t wonderful news at all. It was crushing.
Oh sure, I said, “Congratulations!”, wished her the best, and told her to make sure to take care of herself, but moments later when I was finally alone on the train ride back into New York City, I silently wept as I processed that piece of information.
My sister was going to have a baby.
Again.
For.
The.
Fifth.
Time.
I spent the next 6 months or so being depressed, crying, eating chocolate, and meeting my spiritual director for countless fruitless discussions over why God had put a baby in her womb when He knew how much it would hurt me.
I went to a healing mass and got prayed over. I said novenas, prayed, lit candles, and wept in Eucharistic Adoration.
And when I realized that every time I was ovulating, F. H. was out of town, it occurred to me that God really, really didn’t want me to have a baby biologically. There’s no way a baby is going to be created if my husband is on another continent.
So, after years of talking about it, we finally started the process of adoption.
We had already done tons of research, so we filled out the paperwork, got finger printed, background checked, inspected, and were examined by doctors to ensure that we were healthy (and cancer free so as to provide a stable home for any future children I suppose) and able to parent a child.
Then in the middle of the night on June 16th, I got a phone call from my sister. She was bleeding profusely and was being rushed to the hospital.
Someday I’m going to write out everything that happened, but the short story is that she was in Florida and I was in NYC. Doctors delivered the baby by emergency c-section at 31 weeks. My Lovely Sister was still bleeding so they did an emergency hysterectomy. She was still bleeding so they gave her 20 pints of blood and then literally said, “Well we’ve done all that we can do. It’s time to pray.” Agnostic doctors saying it was time to pray. It was crazy.
She spent 14 days in ICU. It’s a miracle that she is still alive.
I was able to fly down a couple of times to see her and on my second trip she was released out of ICU to a regular room. This meant that she could visit the baby in the NICU. So we arranged for a time when my mom, my sister and I could go see the baby. For this first meeting, they made an exception to the rule and allowed all three of us to be there.
But for the second trip to the NICU, only two people could go in to see the baby at one time. My mom wheeled my sister in her wheelchair into the NICU and I had to stand outside to wait my turn.
So there I was, standing in the hallway looking through the window pane at my little sister holding her 5th child. I was ridiculously living the analogy of my life: watching everyone else experience the joy of motherhood while being somehow trapped outside of it. Stuck outside, looking in.
There were teenage moms who were breastfeeding their children. There was a teenage moms who’s boyfriend couldn’t figure out how to buzz the doorbell properly so that he could get in through the security door to get into the NICU area, all because he didn’t take the time to read the sign that was posted on the door.
To make matters worse, I feel like crap because I feel like I’m not allowed to say anything about how I’m feeling. All my family is so worn out from taking care of my Lovely Sister, that they don’t have the time or strength to listen to me.
My Lovely Sister is so busy trying to recover and trying to take care of her newborn that she has completely forgotten about my cross of infertility. She sends a picture of the baby to a bunch of family members, with me included and inadvertently sets me up to receive all of their congratulatory replies.
Plink. Plink. Plink.
Their excitement comes into my inbox like a penny into a tin can, and it just so happens that for me, it’s as heavy as a millstone.
I’m supposed to just suck it up and pretend like I’m not jealous that my sister has 5 kids. I’m supposed to pretend like I’m not jealous of God gifting her with a child again. I’m supposed to just sit there in the middle of the nursery and watch all of the other moms hold their babies and pretend like I don’t want what they have. I’m supposed to pretend like I don’t wish that my life was different.
The saying, “God’s grace is sufficient.” doesn’t really feel very true.
I’m so exhausted from carrying this cross of infertility that I feel zapped. I don’t have the energy to do anything creative or joyful. I feel defeated.
I feel like a fool for trying.
I feel like a fool for hoping…
…
and then I feel angry that this gift has been given to so many others who don’t appreciate it.
* sigh *
Yes. Yes I am glad that my Lovely Sister is still alive and yes, God listened to my prayers to save her life. Yes, I am glad that the baby is doing great and now both he and L.S. are home.
But honestly, I fear that every time I look at him, I am going to remember that day when my L.S. told me she was pregnant again. God crushed me that day by bringing Baby W. into life at a time when God knew I was already so burdened. Baby W. is proof that God ignored my pleas for peace and mercy during Advent so that I could enjoy Christmas.
But the question is: where do I go from here? How do I get back to being the cutest me? How do I climb out of this pit of sadness, when I feel like I don’t have any strength at all?
The Cutest Me 