I recently learned that a close family member is going to have a baby. They called to share their news excitedly with my husband and me. “Our first try and we got pregnant!” A knife to the heart.
After almost twelve years of trying to have a baby and not succeeding, my husband and I adopted a baby. I have been utterly thrilled to have our daughter and have felt that every urge I had to be a mother has been fulfilled. I grieved my inability to get pregnant and accepted that it will not happen for me. I have been at peace with this knowledge.
My path to getting to this point was not simple. Like many women, I sobbed each month when I started my period. I raged against the unfairness of life, my inability to do something so seemingly simple as getting pregnant. I chilled out and let go. I availed myself of so many remedies that I am a walking encyclopedia about fertility and mainstream and alternative treatments.
I endured innumerable comments from people who were often well meaning but completely clueless—“You just need to relax,” “You’re not trying hard enough,” “Once you adopt you’ll get pregnant, you’ll see.” Actually, not very many people get pregnant after they adopt. Yes, we all know about someone who knows someone who got pregnant, but in reality, the statistics are low. And telling me that I was not trying hard enough is simply beyond comprehension.
I had to deal with the pain of being near babies and wondering if I was ever going to have one, other women’s joy about being pregnant, attending baby showers. There were times when it was unbearable. It felt like rubbing salt in a wound. While I was very happy for those who had children or had just found that they were pregnant, waves of emotion rolled over me about my own inability to get pregnant.
In time, I grieved to the point that the impact lessened, and found that the process of adoption helped me heal much of the pain. I treated it as if it were my pregnancy and labor. The challenge in the beginning was to surrender to the need to be fully scrutinized. While I intellectually understood the need, I railed against the fact that no one would bother to look at my finances with a fine-tooth comb if I got pregnant. Or do a background check and run my fingerprints through the FBI database. I knew it needed to be done, but it didn’t lessen the pain.
