I will reiterate that I have some of THE best friends in the entire world.
Pupil, is one of them. She comes over weekly to my house, with agenda in hand and we meet about adoption, we discuss adoption...among other things. She is the one who encouraged me to post every day for the month of November about adoption. Funny, when I woke up this morning and checked my blog almost around noon, I came and there were 21 comments. I was like, "WHAT?!" I didn't think the post was THAT grand...so I started reading comment after comment, then I got to anonymous...and then I saw mrs. r's comment, and then comment after comment from people I have met, most I have not...and tears rolled down my cheeks when I realized that these people had read the comment long before I had, they were on a mission to not let one person hurt another one of our sisters...sisters in blogland, sisters in infertility, sisters in adoption...
Every word in her post struck me...right down to the irony. She was at my home when I was writing the "Are you there God?" post. It was a tag team post. Brilliantly thought up and wonderfully executed. As I wrote it, I said over my shoulder, "You know what happened the last time I posted something this deep..." Well, I was so hurt and so crushed that I deleted the blog I had had for over a year. How utterly sad that was. How could I let one person dictate who I was?
Well, it won't happen this time. As you can see...just like me, there are HUNDREDS, and THOUSANDS of women and men who suffer with this particular trial.
You know what? The past three years of wanting another child have taught me, to love more deeply, to cherish EVERY moment because they are so fleeting. To suggest for even a moment that I am not thankful and grateful for what I have been given, it only proves that the person who tried to hurt me does not know me. Every night before I go to bed I spend a large amount of time by the bedside of my children. I hold their hands, I sweep the hair from their little faces, I cover them up...I kiss their cheeks. I recognize and realize that they may be the only children I ever get to have. I kneel down and thank my Father in Heaven for them, and because of the joy I have in them, that is the reason I want to be a mother again.
I want to thank EACH of you for your love and support yesterday. It meant so much to me. It brought tears to my eyes. Every comment touched my heart, if any of you are struggling through something similar, I encourage you to take the time to read each comment, because there is strength in not feeling alone. I will leave you with one particular comment that touched my heart especially, and in keeping with the spirit of the posting this month, I think it is perfect. Thank you Ashley.
I totally understand where you're coming from.I have a daughter through adoption.
I don't want another baby yet.
I am not ready to face my "broken" body again.
I want to feel normal.
I want to have just something, ANYTHING happen without a million pieces of drama, an ordeal or having to lay out my entire life history to the world.
I hate having no privacy.
I hate the fact that the events surrounding the birth of my daughter, and the 45 days afterwards, were spent in fear and pain, not joy. We never talk about it.
I hate the loss of the other children I'd hoped for. I had also envisioned myself with kids in a pew; four, to be exact. But it looks like two may be our limit. That kills me.
I hate that people don't try to understand. That you're told, "Be grateful." It's like being told, after losing your leg, to be grateful for the other one. It's not that you aren't grateful for your leg, your arms and every other appendage you've been given, but you still miss the lost leg.
Having to once again face your own infertility is just another reminder that you're a freak. You can't do what God designed you to do. If you can't produce children, then what good is having the instincts? It's being reminded of all the hopes and dreams you have had to let go of, ones you've probably had since you were a girl.
I love my daughter. I couldn't love her more if I'd made her out of playdough myself. I celebrate her adoption and I give myself major props for being able to pull off an adoption at the age of 24. But I still mourn that I couldn't feel her kick inside of me, I couldn't share seeing her for the first time with my husband. I couldn't look at her for months without feeling guilt and pain for her birth mother.
I would love to share the joy of being pregnant with my family.
And I mourn that I may not be able to.
And that's what makes me totally normal.