I love being a mother. I hate Mother's Day. It is a reminder of my infertility. Being at church on Mother's Day is exquisitely painful. As long as I don't go to church on Mother's Day I'm fine. My infertility battle has been made infinitely harder because of my religious belief in eternal families and the command to "multiply and replenish" so I usually go to work to escape the agony of my memories.
I could not escape the memories this year.
I went to work and became involved in an adoption case and sat with a single mother as she decided whether to place her precious newborn with an adoptive couple that have had dozens of failed adoptions. My role is to determine that a woman is not being coerced into adoption and to remain neutral while being supportive and giving her space to explore all her options. I listened as this potential birth mom weighed the pros and cons of placing while I validated and acknowledged her thoughts and feelings.
But as she continued to talk, my desperate desire to be a mother to so many more began to crawl out from the dark recesses of my infertile heart. The woman in front of me was oblivious to the gargantuan effort it took to remain impartial as she dealt with her own crushing sorrow. Memories I tried to suppress of our own failed adoption ten years ago came crashing around me in wave after wave. To add to the sucker punch of this situation, the social worker from the adoption agency was demeaning and worked with the social worker who had been with us during our failed adoption.
Ultimately I do not know what happened with the woman who was weighing the options for her and her child but my heart aches for her as she faces the impossible choice to walk away. And my heart aches for the adoptive mom out there who feels as gutted by infertility as I do while praying for the impossible miracle of a child.
I held it together until the car ride home when I cried until there were no more tears and just a heavy sadness remained. Steve was gone with the kids dropping something off to his Mom. The house was quiet and still. I put my things away and wandered into the kitchen where M had left sticky notes for me telling me what a wonderful mother I am. It was sweet, innocent, loving and a brief smile flickered across my face.
More tears pooled in my eyes.
My beautiful daughter, who is my reason for everything, is only mine because her birth mother was once faced with an impossible choice. She needed more for herself and her children and the only way she could have a fighting chance at survival was to give her beloved daughter to complete strangers and hope to God they were good people.
Life is cruel.
I hate Mother's Day.
Comments
Post a Comment