Fertility: A Story of Loss & Grief

At 41 years old, I am the mother of a 5-year-old. I came to motherhood a bit later than most do (in the Midwest at least). My first marriage was one without the thought of children. And it was only near its end that I realized I wanted very much to be a mom. I’d like to think my second marriage would have taken place regardless of my daughter’s conception, but it was definitely a big factor in taking another set of “till death do us part” vows. 

My fertility was never in question five years ago. In fact, my pregnancy came as a surprise, albite a delightful one! My husband and I would joke that my welcome gift to Williston (the Wild West of modern-day America) was a baby. 9 months later, my daughter would become one of over 800 babies born in oil boom USA in 2013. Up over 50% from the previous year. National Geographic did a spread on the oil boom of North Dakota and Williston was featured prominently. Oil was not the only thing booming – babies and dogs too! The economic impact was indeed wonderful for so many, but the demons that came with such quick growth were evident even without reading the article. I tucked that issue into a shoe box so I could one day show my daughter how her birth was a part of American history.

When I found out that I would be giving birth to a girl, I knew that the community I had built would provide me with the scaffolding necessary to raise a human being who was strong, brave, capable, smart, funny and kind.

After settling into the long-term realization that I was housing another human being and would be responsible for her safety and health for a long time to come, I glowed in the knowledge that I was now a mother. What I once thought was not for me was now something I was over-the-moon about! I remember calling my dearest friends to share the news. They weren’t shocked as much as they were happy for me! They assured me that I would be an amazing mother. They were mothers themselves and had children that were healthy, resilient and more than amazing! In fact, I realized then that I had a lot of women in my life who would make excellent role models. When I found out that I would be giving birth to a girl, I knew that the community I had built would provide me with the scaffolding necessary to raise a human being who was strong, brave, capable, smart, funny and kind.

The physical part of pregnancy left me lonely. Because my husband was working 12-hour shifts and half of those shifts were at night, I became bedfellows with the Harry Potter movie franchise. To this day, I play those movies on nights I have trouble falling asleep. Living in North Dakota kept me far from family and friends. The previous 6 years, I had lived in Minneapolis and worked very hard to create a community of like-minded and supportive people. Those that knew me best still lived there and phone calls just weren’t the same. But perhaps the person I missed the most was my sister. She jumped into the deep end of motherhood 5 years before me, and I witnessed her blossom into her identity with a determination and commitment I admired. I desired the same for myself. I wanted to share all the little bits of pregnancy with her and compare notes. Again, the phone was inadequate.

I want to have another child. A sibling for Addy. Like I had in my sister.

^[1]Every society is rich with stories. There are stories that help to explain who we are and why we are here. Stories tell us what is most important. They make connections and point us toward something beyond ourselves.

I sometimes wonder if my deep desire to have another child is simply to experience pregnancy in the midst of my supportive community. I am back in Minneapolis and have reconnected with those friends who I wished I had had near me 5 years ago. They are near now, and I take advantage of that. Those dear friends who first cheered me on are now my daughter’s cheerleaders. They are that scaffolding that she (and I) need as she navigates this big world. Three of my dear friends have specific roles in that they are her Godparents. The rest don’t have titles, yet I would call them more than friends. They are Addy’s family. They are the ones that are tasked with providing her with a narrative that gives her a place holder in the world. They are storytellers. Addy loves stories, especially ones where she can see herself within them. My husband and I are very intentional about who we give authorship of heard stories, because we know that stories are some of the strongest building blocks that she will ever have. The research linking brain development and reading to children is well cited. I knew this when I read my baby her first book, one of those simple board books with less than 20 words and pictures that she could not yet focus on. But she could recognize my voice and feel the gentle vibrations as her body lay on top of mine. What about the stories we tell our children? The ones we make up or the ones we retell from our own childhood memories of parents reading to us? Or what about the stories about us, about our parents and grandparents? Some of Addy’s favorite stories are those that are about me when I was her age. Time spent in the car usually brings about begging for stories about Mom and Dad. The Atlantic ran an article (that I happened to catch on public radio) that spoke about the power of family storytelling. There is a connection to higher self-esteem and self-concept, more robust identities, better coping skills and lower rates of depression and anxiety. They also show a better understanding of other people’s thoughts and emotions.^[1]Every society is rich with stories. There are stories that help to explain who we are and why we are here. Stories tell us what is most important. They make connections and point us toward something beyond ourselves.

I love being a mother. It is a story I write and rewrite every day. But there’s another story.

It’s a fertility story. It’s a story about loss and deep grief.

Since Addy’s 3^rd birthday, I have had 3 miscarriages. That’s 3 within the last 3 years. To say devastated is an understatement.

Now living without siblings, my desire to defy my aging body and broke down ovaries is strong. Addy needs someone, because it sucks to be alone. And she would be a damn good big sister!

My husband and I still have sex (a lot of really mind-blowing sex), and I still hope once a month that we got lucky. That God answered a prayer.

Nope.

So, I invite Addy to love her baby cousins and to be the best big cousin she can be. She excels. I cry.

I’m not sure which is worse: getting pregnant then losing him or never getting pregnant again. My husband says it’s the first. He adamantly wants to be finished and is happy with our little family. Addy is 6 years old now, in Kindergarten and well beyond diapers and sleepless nights (I miss the naps). She understands that Mommy having another baby is nearly impossible. She inquires about adoption. I mean, “duh”. Wouldn’t that be our next step? Remember what I said about my husband. He is happy. Why rock the boat he would say. So, I invite Addy to love her baby cousins and to be the best big cousin she can be. She excels. I cry.

It has been 2 years since my last miscarriage. We’ve sought 1 round of IVF. No success. Not only is one of my ovaries finished producing but my husband doesn’t have viable sperm. I’ve imagined having a friend be a sperm donor. And hiding it from my husband. Perhaps a bunch of timely sexual encounters and I’ll get lucky. He’d never have to know. I sound desperate, because that is how it feels as I prepare to celebrate 43 years in April. Desperate and hopeful are terrible bed fellows. I hang on to both, because…

Why do I hang on so tightly? Am I unhappy? 

After my sister died, I visited a clairvoyant. I was pregnant then. She sensed the baby and said that she would be born someday. When is that someday? That phrasing sounds hopeful and terrible at the same time.

I am very happy.

I’m not unhappy. I am very happy. My daughter is cool! Our family has a routine that makes sense to us and serves our needs well. And I think there are more fabulous years to come. We have dreams and goals, and we are thankful for what we have right now too.

I’m a person who doesn’t need to know how things work; I need to know why they work. Or in this case, not work. It’s my biggest weakness by far, because often times I get unsatisfying answers or no response at all. Is this where I have faith in God’s time? My loss of fertility is not even a blip on God’s radar. At least that’s how I feel. So, I sit in the thankfulness of my daughter. I wake every day aspiring to be a woman she can look up to and learn from. I volunteer in her classroom. I hold other people’s babies. I cry every month for a little bit. Then I go play dolls with Addy. And for some reason, I’m always the mom. Thank you indeed.

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^[1] “What Kids Learn From Hearing Family Stories” by Elaine Reese, The Atlantic, December 9, 2013.