Stillness. I never realized there would be so much stillness. My husband and I were always introverts but this was a far different atmosphere than we were used to. After years of trying-and failing-to have a family we were tens of thousands of dollars in debt and surrounded by stillness.
At the beginning of our baby journey, I was awash with friends who were new mothers. One had two boys: One age two and another just a few months old. She was very slender and I was just the opposite. I was that stone fertility goddess statue in girth. Ironic. Stone.
And her boys would love cuddling up with me. They would fall asleep on my chest and slumber for hours. I imagined with great happiness that this would soon be taking place in my own home with my own children.
But over the years, as family members and more friends had babies and as those babies would clamor onto my lap for a turn at napping on my belly or my chest, returning home to the stillness became harder and harder.
I distanced myself from the never-ending calendar of baby showers and baby visits from all the women that worked with me. On one hand, I didn’t want to be seen as the frigid old bitch, but I just couldn’t bear to expose myself to the constant reminder of my failure. I always signed the cards. I always gave congratulatory hugs. But then I would return to my office and shut the door as the gushing and squealing continued just outside. Where was my chance? What had I done wrong-in this life or another-to be punished like this? There were no answers.
Another blow came during a yearly physical, 5 years after the last IVF. “Oh, Mrs. Kelly, I see you’re in menopause.” My ears rang. My understanding went from the dreaded “M” of miscarriage (I’d lost eight at last count) to the dreaded final bell toll of “M” for menopause. I always held out a tiny hope that there would be a chance that Mother Nature would be kind to me in those post miscarriage years of my 40s. That somehow once I stopped trying, she would step in and make it all better, just as you hear in miracle pregnancy stories.
But no. It wasn’t meant to be. Back to the stillness.
So you try to make do. You try to busy yourself with activities that mean something, that make a difference. Other childless girlfriends have volunteered to help refugees, rescue animals and senior citizens forgotten by their families in old folks’ homes. Because being childless doesn’t at all mean that you have no love to give. It means that you have your own version of unrequited love. And that has to go somewhere or your heart will break all over again. And it won’t heal. It will turn ugly and dark and change your personality. You’ll become the nasty old bitch in the dilapidated house yelling at passers by while 25 cats saunter around the property.
Now, years after the last miscarriage, my husband and I relish in knowing that although we never had our own children, we saw both my parents from this world into the next with as much grace and ease as anyone could hope for. Their passings were gentle and filled with love. We rescued two dogs, Boris and after he passed, Sherman. And they became our children. The babies of our friends are now teenagers who frequently seek us out for advice and friendship. So we have an outlet for all that love. For each other and for the children and animals who cross our paths in need of love.
And so now, the stillness gives us a chance to be grateful for everything we have, each other being the most important. It no longer causes us the pain it once did, but the opportunity to heal and move on and find peace. I’m not saying the pain will ever leave, but the cracks and cleaves in our hearts slowly fill and heal and allows us to give love to others-young and old-who might not be able to get that love from their biological families. So know that you have a choice: to stay on the road of hurt and heartbreak or channel your love to help others. I’ll be the first to try and help bring you from that dark place where I lived for so long and into humanity once again where you can help others in whatever way moves you most. Being selfless after such loss is truly the greatest gift of all, to you and to those you help.
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Shelley Moench-Kelly is a New England-based writer and editor.
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