In October 2020, I discovered that I was pregnant with my second son.
Nine months before I found out that I was pregnant, I went into a kind of isolation. My husband and I were diagnosed with “unexplained infertility” and encouraged to begin a series of intrauterine insemination (IUI) in order to conceive our second child. Infertility is itself isolating. Secondary infertility is the red-headed stepchild1 of the inability to conceive. The whole fertility-technological complex has been designed around the needs of people without any children. And it definitely was not built to cater to parents with toddlers during a pandemic.
The world shut down a month after our diagnosis, delaying our hopes of conception and further distancing us from friends, family, and community. We had felt hopeful, but wary in February. By the end of April when the clinic reopened, I felt hopeless and adrift. By Mother’s Day 2020, a week or so into our “two week wait,” the celebration was bittersweet. Yes, I was a mother already, to a wonderful and healthy son. But would I ever get to experience the joy of more children and of giving my son a sibling? Was I an ungrateful monster because the absence of this hoped-for second child at times felt heavier than the presence of my living son? It seemed selfish to talk about this with friends who longed for children, but it also felt dishonest to pretend that my heart didn’t ache every month we weren’t pregnant.
A week later we found out that the IUI had failed. We could try again in a few days. And so began my summer of discontent.
--
The cruel irony of infertility--secondary or otherwise--is that it makes you feel isolated, even though it’s actually more common than we might realize. By the time we received our diagnosis, we had already walked with multiple friends through miscarriages, inability to conceive, and unwanted singleness (which even in the 21st century can be stigmatizing in many circles). We knew that we weren’t the only ones struggling with fertility. Our faith gave us hope that this hard experience would be made good in some way, even if we never had another biological child. But knowing that didn’t take away the sting of feeling utterly powerless to grow our family. It didn’t take away the sting of a predictable monthly reminder that even our best efforts were futile.
To work through infertility is to fight for hope. Every month we weren’t pregnant felt like a kick in the gut and a wrecking ball to our hope. The frame of our hope was still standing, but the walls that kept our fears at bay were a heap of bricks. Then we’d start another cycle and begin to re-lay some bricks. “It could work this time!” we told ourselves. Every twinge, swelling, or ache felt like another brick in the wall.2 We’d imagine what it would be like to deliver nine months later--would the pandemic still be raging? Would we be able to have help from friends and family? Maybe our long hoped-for child would appear this month!
Then the inevitable call from the clinic: I’m sorry to say you’re not pregnant this month. If you want to try another IUI we can schedule it. We can also set up a conversation about IVF if you’d like to try that.
Whatever bricks of hope had been laid, were knocked down. Some were completely crushed. The anger and frustration of my powerlessness would consume me for a day or so. It would feel like a door was being shut in my face and the sense of isolation would creep in again.
This is where being both a blabbermouth and a truth-teller comes in handy. I would talk (or rant) about my feelings and in doing so, found that I was in good company. Like, really good company. Some of the most amazing people I knew were in the same weird club that we were in. After these conversations hope would come again and I noticed that some of the bricks that I had laid were more durable than others.
--
In August 2020, after three-and-a-half failed IUIs, we were informed that statistically, we’d never conceive again on our own. The only way we’d have more biological children was through IVF. This news came, not like a wrecking ball3 but like an implosion. A day or so later, when the dust settled, I saw that despite the wreckage, those more durable bricks held fast.
Cleaning up the debris of my now-destroyed hope was about as difficult as I imagined it would be. I needed an excavator4 to dig deep into the foundation of my hope and uncover what it had been built upon. I had to face that so much of my anger was being directed at God for not blessing my plans. Even though the desire for more children felt deeply embedded in my heart, I realized that I had mostly been angry that my timetable had not been adhered to. And, because I’m a truth-teller, I will fully admit that I was real pissed at what felt like an irritating Divine tendency to wait until what felt like the VERY LAST MINUTE to show up… or that God would ask me to surrender this desire.
It took several metaphorical dump trucks5 to cart away the rubble of all my masterminding. I had to let go of it all--how many more kids we’d have, if/when, and whether or not they’d be biological or perhaps adopted. But once I was free of it, I was well, free. I could imagine new possibilities--if we did IVF, we’d just use every embryo we created. We would be open to adoption. We could take a break from trying to conceive to just enjoy our son and the fun of having him in our lives. We felt surrounded and embraced by hope.
--
Today as I face Mother's Day, in the last month of my pregnancy with a healthy and extremely active baby boy, I keep coming back to that feeling of isolation. Before I was married and had any children, I remember the ache of Mother’s Day. Would I ever have a family of my own? I felt shut out of a club I longed to be a part of. Last Mother’s Day, I felt that isolation again as I longed for a second child. But as I look at the now-restored walls of my hope, I see that I had never been alone and that God had been working all along. I am part of a club of men and women who are brave enough to hope when it feels impossible or scary, to put their faith in a Holy Parent who loves us deeply. We are the people who have the courage to allow our dreams to be demolished in favor of new, divine ones we couldn’t have imagined. Happy Mother’s Day to the women who dare to hope, even when it feels futile.
No offense to redheads (I’m married to one) or step-children!
Since I know it’s now stuck in your head, as it is in mine: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YR5ApYxkU-U
You know you’re humming it now too (fyi, this is NSFW unless I guess you’re working from home):
Is it obvious that I spend a lot of time with a two-year-old who is obsessed with construction?
Yes, it’s obvious.