For as long as I can remember I have been on the see-saw of potential motherhood: hopping between being excited for one day becoming a mother and being too terrified to even want it.
I am convinced that I would have been a good mom, in the sense that I would have been wholly committed and devoted to the children entrusted to me. But deep in my heart, if I am being truly honest with myself, the excitement was eclipsed by the fear of royally screwing up my children.
But when I got sick and my potential to bear kids was ripped away in a very short space of time, it put into perspective how 100% unprepared I was for parenthood.
I have a Pekingese, whom I love like a child and would take a bullet for, so I cannot imagine the unmatchable love and irrational fear that a parent goes through from the moment they find out that they are becoming a parent.
It was difficult enough having to go through multiple surgeries, a major recovery and a course of radiotherapy without having little people, who are wholly dependent upon me, to care for. I wish I could personally hug every parent – in the world – who has gone through such a physical trauma while also caring for and raising children. Those parents are unsung heroes who have fought wars unseen, wars for which the world has no medals or recognition to bestow on them.
I have, to an extent, made peace with the fact that I will never be able to bear children, but that doesn’t mean I don’t still sometimes get sad about it.
We wanted a boy and a girl, Aaron and Fallon (the girl’s name was all me – hubby and I could never come to an agreement about a girl’s name). I know they never were, but they will be “what-ifs” that I will carry with me for the rest of my life.
The fact that we were never able to conceive our kids has made it so difficult to mourn them. We have nothing to bury, no ashes to scatter or a memorial to visit – because they never existed. How do you grieve something that was never real to begin with?
I don’t have the answer to that question. It’s just something I have to do, little-by-little and day-by-day let the reality sink in and our hearts heal.
The cost of not having kids has brought an opportunity to spend quality time in our lives and making way for other dreams.
We have the opportunity to pour ourselves wholly into our marriage, into dreams of seeing the world or starting new ventures without carrying the guilt of what society expected from us at our age – after all, a family without kids is still a family.
Shattered Warrior 