I have always wanted to be a mom.
When I was a kid, I played teacher. I’ve convinced myself that at some point I wanted to be an astronaut. My grandma insists that I wanted to be a writer. But none of those are true. The only thing I have ever wanted to be is a mom. I was going to be a stay at home mom and I was going to homeschool my kids. In fifth grade, my best friends Courtney and Carrie and I made our own version of the game True Colors and we played it every day. One of the questions was, “Who is most likely to have seven kids?” And we all, always picked me. Because that’s what I wanted. Not just to be a mom, but to have seven kids. Seven. That has been my dream my entire life.
I didn’t know what to major in when I went to college, because I wanted to be a mom. I don’t mean to sound pretentious, but I knew I was smart enough to be anything I wanted to be. If I wanted to be a doctor, I could have done it. If I wanted to be a lawyer, I could have done it. But I wanted to be a mom. What degree do you get for that? So I just went with the degree that I enjoyed the most, because I didn’t think I’d really end up using it that long. After I got my Bachelors, Daniel and I moved to Oxford for me to get my Masters, but we moved back because even though I wanted my PhD someday, I didn’t want it even a fraction as much as I wanted a family. I just enjoyed being a student and kind of thought of it as something to do until my real life started. Don’t get me wrong, I love what I do. Teaching has brought me a lot of joy over the years. I love sharing the love of literature with my students when they’ll let me. But I always thought it was only temporary. I never thought I’d retire from teaching.
I’ve known I am infertile and/or can’t carry a child beyond a few weeks for over 10 years, so believe me when I say that I’ve considered all of the options. Daniel and I finished everything but the final visit from the social worker to become foster parents, but I couldn’t go through with it. It didn’t feel right. I think I thought I would be one of those people who would find out they were pregnant the day they finalized an adoption or accepted their first placement. As it turns out, that’s not a good reason to become a foster parent.
I have been on and off birth control for years. My menstrual cycle has been literal hell since I was fourteen years old, and birth control is the only thing that can control it. But I can’t do it. I can’t take it. It makes me crazy. Not because the hormones make me crazy, but because I can’t live with myself knowing that I am intentionally taking away any chance I may have of ever having a baby. I literally have breakdowns every few days if I try and take birth control. I don’t ever cry. Unless it’s about a baby. And then I either cry for hours at a time, trying to hide it from Ryan so he doesn’t feel guilty, or sob uncontrollably to the point that I can’t breathe.
When I married Ryan, I got two beautiful step kids, both of whom I love more than I could have imagined, but they both have mommas. And while I love the role I play in both of their lives, it’s not really the role of mom. They were both a little too grown for that when I came along. And by the time I get to be grandma, I will be 10+ hours away, so I will never be grandma who takes care of her grandkids everyday after school until mom and dad get off work, just grandma we get to see once or twice a year who brings good presents.
I have had this narrative in my head my entire life of, “When I have kids . . .” but something has happened recently. A few weeks ago I heard the word “Adenomyosis.” I have read and read and read, and I think it’s describing me. Long, heavy periods. Does a six month long period count? Or a period that sends me to the ER with a hemoglobin level of 4?
I have had terrible periods my entire life, but there are three that stand out in my memory as the worst. And I think they may have all three been miscarriages, but I’ll never know. I haven’t taken a pregnancy test in over 15 years because it’s just too hard to see “No,” “No,” “No,” over and over and over again even though you haven’t had a period in six months. Six months on, six months off. That’s normal, right? I convinced myself it was a balancing of the scales and only told people/went to the doctor around the six month mark both times. So I’ll never know whether or not I was pregnant, all I know is that I mourned like I was.
I plan to call my doctor soon and talk to him about Adenomyosis and getting some testing done. But I’m scared. See, more and more research is being done about Adenomyosis, and it would seem that because the tissue lining grows into the uterus, that individuals with Adenomyosis cannot carry a baby even if they do manage to get pregnant. (Look up Gabrielle Union’s story to learn more.) Since I’ve been with Ryan, I have joked that I have a .05% chance of getting pregnant. Here’s the thing, I have clung to that .05% for dear life. I truly believed a Vasovasostomy and/or IVF were in our future. But if I do have Adenomyosis, that’s the end.
I have always had that .05% chance of hope, and I feel like it’s been taken away since I heard that word. And I have to be honest, I’m not okay. I’m not okay. I don’t know how to move past this. I don’t know how to accept it. I don’t know how to move through life watching people I love get pregnant and have babies, or watch people who don’t even want babies have babies. It’s shaking my faith. I specifically remember a night when I was laying in a hotel room having a break down after Daniel died, and I opened my bible and began to read. It was Genesis 22, when God promises Abraham that his lineage will be like the stars in the sky or sand on the beach. Then I cried some more and raged at God. I opened my bible study and the verse for the day was Hebrews 6:15. Again about God’s promise to Abraham, and I knew in that moment that God was making a promise to me. I knew it without a doubt and prayed about it on my knees for hours. I feel like all of that hope is gone now. Maybe I just read it wrong. Maybe I lied to myself.
I know so many strong, amazing women who don’t have children. And sometimes I just want to go to them and shake them and beg them to tell me how I can live a life with meaning without children, but I don’t want to belittle their lives or desires for their lives. I understand there are women out there who don’t want children and don’t feel like they were meant to have children, and I don’t ever want to make them feel less than. But that’s not me. I feel incomplete and I have lost hope that this hole will ever go away. And I am not okay.
