Mother’s Day is this weekend. Bet that totally fell off your radars, right?
Ha ha, just kidding. This date looms large on the calendar for practically every woman who’s ever experienced infertility.
Last year, Mother’s Day hit me in the gut, this suckerpunch reminder of the thing I want most and yet can’t have in this moment. Normally, Mother’s Day wouldn’t phase me. It didn’t really, right after I was diagnosed in 2009. But as the calendar flips anew each year, there was something about ticking off another Mother’s Day gone without children – when knowing that the luxury of fertility escapes me – that just started to bury inside me: stinging, hurting, aching.
I talk a little bit about this emotional transition over time at a guest post for RESOLVE New England’s blog today, along with some tips for coping with Mother’s Day this year.
But now I need to talk about a very weird confluence of events this week that will make Mother’s Day equally as difficult to cope with emotionally. This year stands out more so than the past three Mothers’ Days.
As I write, a dear friend of mine is in labor, about to birth her first child: a girl. She knew they might encounter issues conceiving and it did take them a little longer than they would have liked to conceive. This friend is quite the trooper: she’s going completely natural for her first birth. I am so excited to meet her daughter as soon as she (finally) graces us with her appearance. Labor has been 31 hours and counting.
This Thursday, I have my hysterscopy scheduled. It’s the first medical step I need to take to make sure that my uterus is ready for a baby, hopefully later this summer. My mom is coming down Wednesday to be here for my surgery and staying with us through Saturday. Ironically enough, she needs to leave Saturday because she has to work Monday so she can have Sunday to relax.
It’s this very weird confluence of events (and don’t forget about that supermoon this past weekend). A new life coming into the world, spending time with my own mom while I have a surgery that explores the very barren state of my uterus.
And like every year, hoping, wishing, praying, bargaining that this is the last Mother’s Day I stand on the sidelines… always a bridesmaid but never a mom.
Have I played the “Yes, Let’s Torture Myself” game where I go looking up due date calculators should we have an embryo transfer on XYZ date? Totally. And G-d-willing if our cycle works this summer, I could be getting as special a Mother’s Day gift as my friend is right now.
I have all of this estrogen-centric Mother’s Day brouhaha swirling around me while the big Three-Oh stands ready at the horizon.
“I’m comin’ for ya,” it says, menacingly. “Only 18 more days.”
Could my biological clock tick ANY louder right now?