Saturday, 15 January 2011

The wall is never thick enough

Just when I'm celebrating feeling free and anonymous, unjudged about my childless/free status, old hurts wedge their way through the cracks in the wall I have put up between my life now and my infertility.  I was lucky - I had about two weeks of freedom from hurt.  But uncharacteristically there were some ouch moments too. Sweeping it under the carpet is good - it works most of the time, lets me feel good about my life, and for the most part I'm not hurting.  Not allowing myself to think about what life could have been works well for me.  In fact, for the most part I'm very happy.  But just occasionally I want to say, "hey, this isn't fair, I'm not over it, and it does hurt."  And I feel this especially given the strength of my emotions over these two incidents.  So I record them here because I want to acknowledge the pain and the loss that hits sometimes.

  • Seeing a brother and sister playing poolside at the resort.  They were having such fun, mum and dad were drinking cocktails and looking on.  I looked on too, thinking what joy it would give me if I were their mother to see them enjoying themselves, and each other, so much.  Then I sipped my own cocktail and looked in another direction.
  • Two little blond girls on the train with their mother and father, coming back from the Weekend market.  They had bought shiny, sparkly mirrors.  They fought over which colour - the older girl won of course - and they played with the mirrors.  They could have been me and my sister.  And suddenly, tears came to my eyes.  That's the first time that has happened in public for a number of years. Thank goodness for sunglasses.

And yet, even acknowledging that these moments made me sad, I realise that others would also find these sad.  My niece is an only child, and will always be.  My sister could equally have had such a reaction, knowing little CJ will never have the joy of playing with a brother or sister like that.  Was I sad for her or for me or for us all?

7 comments:

  1. For us all, I think. You don't want the pain of infertility to be inflicted on anyone else after you've gone through it.

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  2. You inspire me to know if our day doesn't come, I will be okay. Thank you.

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  3. “For all sad words of tongue and pen, The saddest are these, 'It might have been'.”

    The idea that no matter much you want something, it won't happen is a very hard thing to come to terms with. I'm still digesting that fact.

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  4. For us all, i think. I think, to some degree, we carry the sadness that others won't know, and we carry it for them, too. Those parents, sitting there complacently, have no concept of the sadness that they just missed. Or the sadness that could come tomorrow as none of us know what the next day brings.

    I wish i could wipe out all of this sadness, for you, for me, for all of us. But that is not how it works.

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  5. For all of us, I think too. Because we all carry the same lost hopes and dreams.

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  6. Yep. I understand what it's like, watching other people's kids with a lump in my throat. Dh & I were on the train a few months ago, sitting across the aisle from a couple & their two cute young daughters (about 6 & 10). The parents proceeded to take out their cellphones & fiddle with them (the dad playing a game) & ignored their daughters for the entire rest of the trip. The girls kept trying to get their attention -- not in an annoying way, but they kept asking questions, asking if they could play with the cellphone, etc. -- & the parents were so absorbed in their screens they barely looked up. It almost made me ill. I meant to blog about it at the time but never did.

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  7. It's never easy to face up to the "what ifs" in life, is it? I so admire your ability to see through the lens of other's lives, too. Not many people exercise that capacity...

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