There was total silence in the room where all of us couples (and two single women) gathered. There were maybe thirteen of us in total. All of us came with our years of infertility baggage in tow. You could say the room was rather crowded. I sneaked looks at the others, where we sat in a big circle, wondering who they were, were their stories similar to ours, were they feeling just like I was?
.
It was a very weird moment. Because everything in me so did NOT want to be there. To be someone who needed someone else's baby. Icould not did not want to identify with them. This wasn't in the plan. Surely I wasn't supposed to be one of them? Is this my reality? Waiting in line, with others, hoping someone might not want their own baby enough to keep it? Or might not be able to keep their baby. Whatever. Either way, my baby has to be provided by someone else's generosity / disaster / inability to cope. I don't get a say in when I get it, who provides it, or even from which country my baby will come from. This was not in the plan.
.
But in the same breath, I realized, this was where I belonged. With others who know. All of us seated there have experienced the disappointment, the depletion of our resources, the denial and the eventual surrender to the reality of our circumstances.
.
What a weird and unexpected place to come to terms with my reality. The notion that this might be a permanent condition had always lurked around in the most ignored regions of my semi-consciousness. But sitting there, in a circle, feeling those primal and raw emotions emanating not from myself, but from those around me... I really just wanted to run away. And then I realized, quite literally, that no matter how far I run, this infertility thing is not something I'll ever be able to outrun or eventually escape. It's my reality. And if I want a baby, really want one, then in that seat is where my butt belongs.
.
I said to the lady next to me "How bizarre that I belong here!" And she nodded and smiled. And so did the lady next to her. And the one next to her too. Even as I write this, I can't quite fathom that this is it. This is the best possibility we'll ever have of acquiring the babe our heart desires. It's just so. Weird.
.
I yearn to say to Robin like so many other normal people do, "Don't you think we should stop using contraceptives, and try for a baby?" and to know that two or three or even four months later, we'd have that Big Fat Positive result. But that's not to be, for us. I don't even remember the name of the contraceptives we used. It was that long ago. I almost want to kick myself for even using them. Like for that year we used contraceptives, we might still have been able to fall pregnant. And we wasted the opportunity. And now, we stand in a queue. Waiting. Which is, of course, the nature of the game. Nothing new to us. Except this time round, the decision and the responsibility of the decision is not mine. Someone Else decides if I'm worthy of parenting. Someone Else decides if our finances are stable or not. Someone Else chooses my baby for me. It's all Someone Else. It makes me feel helpless and like I need to beg that Someone Else to pick me! pick me!
.
I feel robbed somehow. I feel angry again. And hurt. And like this is all wrong! This is surely not my life? Surely, someone somewhere made a mistake. It wasn't supposed to be me that is infertile. Surely? Surely, something can be done to change this? Isn't there some pill somewhere that I can drink that will magically fix my faulty plumbing? I sit there, in my comfortable chair, surrounded by others, just like me, wishing I could be anywhere else but there.
.
And yet, I can't escape. I can't choose anything but this. My heart refuses me the opportunity for freedom. My dreams for the future have chained me to Hope. And I drag that Hope around with me, like some despised ball and chain.
.
And so, we've opened the door. We sat through the meeting. We listened to the policies. We heard great stories from other people. We made contacts. We filled in forms. The ball is rolling. And I'm exhausted. Emotionally. Physically. Spiritually. I'm so afraid. Afraid that this is it. Our only chance. And I don't get to decide.
.
It was a very weird moment. Because everything in me so did NOT want to be there. To be someone who needed someone else's baby. I
.
But in the same breath, I realized, this was where I belonged. With others who know. All of us seated there have experienced the disappointment, the depletion of our resources, the denial and the eventual surrender to the reality of our circumstances.
.
What a weird and unexpected place to come to terms with my reality. The notion that this might be a permanent condition had always lurked around in the most ignored regions of my semi-consciousness. But sitting there, in a circle, feeling those primal and raw emotions emanating not from myself, but from those around me... I really just wanted to run away. And then I realized, quite literally, that no matter how far I run, this infertility thing is not something I'll ever be able to outrun or eventually escape. It's my reality. And if I want a baby, really want one, then in that seat is where my butt belongs.
.
I said to the lady next to me "How bizarre that I belong here!" And she nodded and smiled. And so did the lady next to her. And the one next to her too. Even as I write this, I can't quite fathom that this is it. This is the best possibility we'll ever have of acquiring the babe our heart desires. It's just so. Weird.
.
I yearn to say to Robin like so many other normal people do, "Don't you think we should stop using contraceptives, and try for a baby?" and to know that two or three or even four months later, we'd have that Big Fat Positive result. But that's not to be, for us. I don't even remember the name of the contraceptives we used. It was that long ago. I almost want to kick myself for even using them. Like for that year we used contraceptives, we might still have been able to fall pregnant. And we wasted the opportunity. And now, we stand in a queue. Waiting. Which is, of course, the nature of the game. Nothing new to us. Except this time round, the decision and the responsibility of the decision is not mine. Someone Else decides if I'm worthy of parenting. Someone Else decides if our finances are stable or not. Someone Else chooses my baby for me. It's all Someone Else. It makes me feel helpless and like I need to beg that Someone Else to pick me! pick me!
.
I feel robbed somehow. I feel angry again. And hurt. And like this is all wrong! This is surely not my life? Surely, someone somewhere made a mistake. It wasn't supposed to be me that is infertile. Surely? Surely, something can be done to change this? Isn't there some pill somewhere that I can drink that will magically fix my faulty plumbing? I sit there, in my comfortable chair, surrounded by others, just like me, wishing I could be anywhere else but there.
.
And yet, I can't escape. I can't choose anything but this. My heart refuses me the opportunity for freedom. My dreams for the future have chained me to Hope. And I drag that Hope around with me, like some despised ball and chain.
.
And so, we've opened the door. We sat through the meeting. We listened to the policies. We heard great stories from other people. We made contacts. We filled in forms. The ball is rolling. And I'm exhausted. Emotionally. Physically. Spiritually. I'm so afraid. Afraid that this is it. Our only chance. And I don't get to decide.
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