there’s just no escaping it

The fact that I’m childless, not by choice.

No, there is no escaping this reality — the deep longing, the empty ache of my heart and arms, the silence in our home where a toddler should be playing. There is no forgetting our unfulfilled plans, our failures. There is no suppressing this primal urge, the instinct and desire to parent. There is no end to the lingering anguish over the fact that my baby boy is gone.

And yet, even if by some miracle these feelings were to somehow magically vanish, I could still never escape the painful, cold hard truth that I am childless. That my only real chance at becoming a mother may have died with my son. I cannot avoid the sad reality that we may never become parents, even though I know in my heart it’s what we were meant to do.

The reminders are constant — they are everywhere. Pregnancy announcements by friends and family. Baby showers, blessings, children’s birthdays. Expecting colleagues planning maternity leave. Pregnant strangers in the street. Bellies and strollers everywhere. Mothers and fathers with their children, or just talking about them. It’s a natural part of life, simply unavoidable. And our encounters will only continue as the children in our lives grow and have ever more occasions to celebrate — graduations, weddings, and some day even babies of their own. 

It’s not just the sight of bellies and strollers, or proud parents, or invitations to baby and child-centered events. Though some days that’s enough to put me over the edge. It’s everything we’ve wanted but can’t seem to have. It’s all the effort and failure. It’s every conversation I’ve wanted to join but won’t, every conversation I’ve wanted to run from but can’t. It’s being defined by loss and infertility. It’s being betrayed and defeated by my own body. It’s being the only childless couple in the room. It’s feeling incomplete and hopeless in the most profound way. It’s being left behind alone while life goes on… 

Even beyond the internal turmoil, it’s other things we can’t escape. It’s accommodating everyone else’s schedules because they have kids (of course). It’s being aware that our home is not child-proof when guests come over (why bother?). It’s having to drive because we don’t have a carseat in back (why would we?). It’s being expected to have time for all kinds of things because we don’t have kids (as if we don’t have busy lives already). It’s being told how lucky we are that we don’t have kids (who knew?). It’s being asked “are you sure” by tired parents (are you serious?). It’s being told don’t worry it will happen (by fertiles). It’s listening to women talk about how easy their pregnancies were (best to have your kids by 35!), and how wonderfully fulfilling their lives as mothers are, and about every little thing their children are doing. It’s all this and so much more. 

Yesterday we went for a walk in the hills by our house. It was a gorgeous, clear sunny day, and getting outside was perfect after a day of much-needed spring cleaning. I don’t get out enough, but when I do I enjoy the time to think and connect with nature. The fresh clean air clears my head and lifts my spirits. It’s an escape. As we were climbing to the top of the hill, I began to feel the fresh air reach deep in my lungs, and I paused to inhale the scent of wild sage growing on the hillside. It was so peaceful.

It was then that I saw on a huge rock at the top of the hill sat a young mother with a little girl. No problem, I thought, just offer a smile and hello and move on. As we got to the top, I could see she was also nursing a newborn, and she looked as happy and serene as you can imagine, just enjoying the day and the wonderful view with her beloved babies. Who could blame her? The scene was perfect.

In that moment, I realized once again that I can never escape the constant reminders and impact of infertility. Even in my momentary solitude, away from the everyday thoughts and encounters, I cannot escape reality. 

I can’t imagine how I will spend the rest of my life like this — trying to find ways to avoid the reminders, to escape the void of our childlessness. I know it’s impossible, unavoidable. I honestly don’t know how I will ever come to peace with that which I cannot change, or how I will ultimately cultivate the strength and courage to accept it. Like any life-altering challenge, I imagine that will be a lifelong process. 

~ by luna on March 11, 2008.