Memoir: A lesson in fertility
Like a slap on the face, the shock and numbness give way to a slow-burning sting. It’s been more than an hour since we said our goodbyes, yet still the resentment continues to build. I am sitting alone — with my computer — in a New York wine bar, having flown in this morning from Montreal for a dinner with three women. This first-time meeting as a group was preceded by cyber friendships that go back several years for some of them, but were just beginning for me.
The common denominator? All of us are over 40 and scarred in some way by infertility or the taboo of being childless. I feel both shy and familiar with these friends — our bond is new, yet so intimate. But any lingering guardedness vanishes when an older man, who was eating at a neighbouring table, approaches us on his way out. “You know,” he says in a thick Parisian accent, “your life is not so interesting, with your pregnancies and all your troubles. We did not all need to hear about it,” he sneers.
One of my companions responds politely, but I do not hear her because I find myself retorting, “We didn’t ask your opinion.” I catch the end of his reply as he turns away: “I have Father’s Day and then my job is done.”
As the door swings on his parting words, my new friends exchange serene, commiserating smiles. But I am enraged. My pulse is racing and tears are pricking my eyes. “You’re so calm,” I cry, clenching my fists in pure frustration. “How could you apologize?”
And then it hits me: They Have Been Here Before — and I have not.
So what brings me to this gathering, feeling almost guilty to be included?
I am conscious of how motherhood envelops me as I listen to them talk. I scramble to cover up a precious baby picture when my wallet falls open, and make a mental note not to open my cellphone because of the mother-daughter screen saver. I’ve spent 14 years proudly wearing parenthood like a badge, and now, for the first time in my life, I find myself hiding it away. I am loath to rub it in, but also ashamed my own pain persists, especially since, to me, their situation seems unfathomable.
My invitation to the NYC get-together came from California-based Pamela Mahoney Tsigdinos, who first contacted me a year and a half ago. As a medical journalist, I have developed a specialty in writing about infertility, and she wanted me to write a review of Silent Sorority, her autobiographical account of infertility and coming to terms with childlessness. Pamela has also made an international name for herself in the infertility blogosphere, with two popular blogs appropriately named Coming2Terms and A Fresh Start.
Pamela first met all of us online. Stephanie Baffone is another blogger and a grief counsellor in Delaware. Our fourth dinner companion does not share our sense of loss, and focuses more on giving childlessness a voice.
The common denominator? All of us are over 40 and scarred in some way by infertility or the taboo of being childless. I feel both shy and familiar with these friends — our bond is new, yet so intimate. But any lingering guardedness vanishes when an older man, who was eating at a neighbouring table, approaches us on his way out. “You know,” he says in a thick Parisian accent, “your life is not so interesting, with your pregnancies and all your troubles. We did not all need to hear about it,” he sneers.
One of my companions responds politely, but I do not hear her because I find myself retorting, “We didn’t ask your opinion.” I catch the end of his reply as he turns away: “I have Father’s Day and then my job is done.”
As the door swings on his parting words, my new friends exchange serene, commiserating smiles. But I am enraged. My pulse is racing and tears are pricking my eyes. “You’re so calm,” I cry, clenching my fists in pure frustration. “How could you apologize?”
And then it hits me: They Have Been Here Before — and I have not.
On the outside looking in
I am a guest at this table because, while all of us share the bond of infertility treatments and failures, my road branched away when I finally conceived. I am the mother of a 14-year-old girl — one success in a string of failed procedures, before and after my daughter’s birth. My dinner companions are all childless. At ages 43, 46 and 50, they are at various stages of accepting this finality.So what brings me to this gathering, feeling almost guilty to be included?
I am conscious of how motherhood envelops me as I listen to them talk. I scramble to cover up a precious baby picture when my wallet falls open, and make a mental note not to open my cellphone because of the mother-daughter screen saver. I’ve spent 14 years proudly wearing parenthood like a badge, and now, for the first time in my life, I find myself hiding it away. I am loath to rub it in, but also ashamed my own pain persists, especially since, to me, their situation seems unfathomable.
The pain never ceases
At 45, I’m surprised to find that the pain of infertility has resurfaced. I have unfinished business with this ache; there is more I wanted of motherhood. I have mourned the loss of many tiny embryonic lives that never made it out of the petri dish. I envisioned a full house, a full car, a gang of us.My invitation to the NYC get-together came from California-based Pamela Mahoney Tsigdinos, who first contacted me a year and a half ago. As a medical journalist, I have developed a specialty in writing about infertility, and she wanted me to write a review of Silent Sorority, her autobiographical account of infertility and coming to terms with childlessness. Pamela has also made an international name for herself in the infertility blogosphere, with two popular blogs appropriately named Coming2Terms and A Fresh Start.
Pamela first met all of us online. Stephanie Baffone is another blogger and a grief counsellor in Delaware. Our fourth dinner companion does not share our sense of loss, and focuses more on giving childlessness a voice.
