I’m like a badly dubbed foreign film. The words sound right, but the voice is all wrong. My lips keep moving long after the words are said. It feels laughably false, but they keep on watching anyway.
If I go through the motions, I may actually start believing what I say. It’s not lies or misdirection, simply an unspoken truth that lingers in the air.
I am desperately sad that I cannot have another baby.
There, I’ve said it. And very few will understand. It seems I am speaking a foreign language after all.
“ANOTHER? You want ANOTHER child? Seriously?” the woman shrieks at me, wide-eyed and astonished. I wish I had just left it alone. This is why I stick with the abridged version, the words they expect, familiar phrases that mean less than nothing at this point. No one wants to hear about this crazy hope I have been clutching for years.
Even my dearest friends, who love me and listen patiently, do not understand.
I love the life I’ve been given. I adore my three beautiful daughters. I have been absurdly blessed. And I feel greedy wanting more of it, but I can’t seem to reason my disappointment away. I have tried and tried.
I still remember the parade of doctors that came to my room: GP, OB, Nephrologist and even a few nurses. They began to cautiously broach the subject in the days after B was born. I had made no secret of my desire to have a big family, at least four (and a whisper in my head adds “or five, or six”). Add that to my “religious” demeanor and I can see why they were worried that I wouldn’t listen.
No more babies for me.
My kidney would not survive, and neither would I.
I didn’t give it much thought at the time. A twinge of sadness that I would not feel the wonders of pregnancy again; a sigh of relief that I would not feel the wonders of pregnancy again. Of course we would adopt. It had been discussed since we were starry-eyed teenagers planning our perfect life.
I’ve been holding tightly to the dream ever since. My husband, not so much. As we enter our third year in the process, almost a full year with our name on the list of approved homes, it has finally occurred to me that this may not happen.
No more babies for me.
After all the classes, workshops, paperwork, praying, homestudy, endless discussions, hopes raised only to be dashed again, waiting, waiting, waiting… we are near the end. We aren’t on the same page anymore.
He’s been good to do this for me, though now I wished we hadn’t even started. It was something he felt we should do, but had no actual desire for. But adoption is a team sport. And when push comes to shove… well, I just can’t keep pushing.
I know this isn’t a real tragedy. I’ve lived through that before, the complete and utter devastation of it.
But in some ways this is even lonelier. I feel guilty for being this sad about a normal thing. So I minimize the longing and paint a happy face on it. I’d rather keep it to myself. It’s so much worse when I share and they stare at me blankly. Or, worst of all, act like I’m crazy for feeling this way. Because deep down, I wonder if they’re right.
It’s time I face it, so I can move on. I want to dream new dreams, but first I have to grieve the old one.
We all must learn to lament,
otherwise “year by year,
as we deny and avoid the pains and losses,
the rejections and frustrations,
we’ll become less and less,
trivial and trivializing,
empty shells with smiley faces painted on them.”
Eugene Peterson (Leap Over a Wall)
So here’s me, and this is my lament. Because God hears my secret disappointments… especially when no one else understands.
What about you? Do you have a grief that people don’t understand? How do you mourn for hidden hurts?
So Here's Us... 
January 17th, 2012 at 10:15 am
Any time we experience the loss of a dream, there is a need to grieve. Prayers for you as you figure out what God has planned for you.
January 17th, 2012 at 11:54 am
Thank you! That means a lot.
January 17th, 2012 at 10:27 am
My heart breaks with yours… 😦
Love you lots, still… and I’ve never minded your laments, I like it real! Praying that this would open the doors to desires you didn’t know you had and that the LORD would fill that hole with something that is more than what you can think or imagine…
January 17th, 2012 at 11:55 am
Amen! Thank you for always being a safe person and teaching me to be real too. Love you!
January 17th, 2012 at 11:16 am
You are so good… your husband is not worthy.
January 17th, 2012 at 11:56 am
You are the best man I know and I love you. Bear with me.
January 17th, 2012 at 11:42 am
Thanks for being so real, Christie…I have never seen anyone else grieve as truly and honestly as you have and you do. I know that what I learned from watching you made me more compassionate to others experiencing similar things. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate being allowed in to have a better understanding of things that I haven’t, and am afraid to, go through. I pray that God would take what you’ve given up and give you back tenfold. I know you’ve identified with Job while going through the hardest parts with your boys…and I hope you get to have what Job was given in the end and I hope it’s better than you hope for or imagine. I think it’s one thing to be honest and out there about what you’ve been through in the past and another thing entirely to be honest in the midst of it. To step out and choose to trust that God’s plans are better than our plans is so hard and against our nature…but I know it pleases Him and I believe He honours that kind of letting go and trust. Love you.
January 17th, 2012 at 12:00 pm
I have sat here and sat here trying to think how to respond to all that encouragement. Nothing profound comes, just thank you! Love you too!
January 17th, 2012 at 4:45 pm
Although I am not a expert I do have compassion and understanding regarding the passage of grief one goes through when there is a loss of a dream. So yes, this grief is normal, healthy and understandable. Prays and hugs for you my friend. I love your heart’s desire.
January 17th, 2012 at 8:06 pm
Thanks E! You’re always encouraging!
January 20th, 2012 at 1:52 pm
I feel your pain. I feel it in a very real way. We so desperately wanted more children as well. When I say “we” it really is more a “me”. Shortly after the birth of our youngest my hubby developed rheumatoid arthritis in his feet. He has to be on a certain medication for it for the rest of his life. As long as he is on this medication I cannot get pregnant. When the baby was 2 we made the heartbreaking decision and conceded to a vasectomy. As my friends continue to have children I cry deep inside where no one can see. Hugs to you and your grief. I share it with you.
January 20th, 2012 at 5:41 pm
I’m so sorry! This is a loss and it sounds like you feel it as deeply as I do. It’s hard to feel like you’re missing out.
I especially have a hard time when the talk turns to how happy everyone is to leave those baby days behind or have kids all heading off to school. Or when another baby is such a hardship. Ouch.
January 21st, 2012 at 1:41 pm
A longing for a baby is a very real pain whether it is longing for the first second or seventh. I am struggling to conceive my second. It sounds like you are doing the painful grieving work. There is an awesome book called the Fertile Female. It helps to guide woman to follow their longing, surrender and open to life. I highly recommend it. I think it will help support what you are already doing.
January 21st, 2012 at 5:55 pm
Thank you so much Tracy! I will look up that book. I wasn’t sure if this counts as secondary infertility, but I don’t think grief works rationally or fit into the boxes we’d like it to.
I hope and pray that you find peace and the child you long for.
January 21st, 2012 at 1:42 pm
Sending you support on your journey.
January 21st, 2012 at 5:55 pm
Likewise!
June 7th, 2012 at 7:07 am
i get it.
June 8th, 2012 at 4:19 pm
Thanks. That means a lot!
June 8th, 2012 at 8:13 pm
ditto.