By Lisa Manterfield
Today’s post is dedicated to Share’s Walk of Remembrance and the Wave of Light in support of infertility and pregnancy loss. Through this Footprints blog tour, we aim to shatter the stigma. Please check out this list of courageous bloggers sharing their stories. Here’s mine:
Before my children were born, I imagined them vividly. I laid out a smorgasbord of family traits and handpicked the best of them.
My son, Valentino, would be named for my husband’s favorite uncle, and he’d be a chip off the old block. He’d have his daddy’s good looks—the profile of an Aztec Prince—paired with Grandma Tilly’s curiosity and great-grandpa Aureliano’s piercing green eyes. I pictured my Valentino to be charismatic and creative; he’d love music and art, and of course, he’d adore his mother.
My daughter, naturally, would take after my side of the family. Sophia would be named for my dad’s mother and would inherit her spirit of survival and her generosity, and she’d get my straight hair, so I’d know how to deal with it. I could picture Sophia easily, and I’m sure you’ll understand when I tell you that I knew she would be beautiful.
Before they were born—in fact, before they were even conceived—I imagined my children to life, and they were absolutely perfect. And why wouldn’t they be? Does any mother really imagine her future offspring any other way?
But here’s the thing. My children are perfect. Sophia and Valentino could never be anything but perfect, because they never got the chance to exist anywhere but in my imagination.
I was 38 years old, and four years into trying to conceive my children when my doctor pulled out a notepad and drew a lopsided oval. “Imagine this is your ovary,” he said.
“You have one producing follicle.”
It just takes one, I thought, but the doctor looked at the wall just past my eyes and I could tell this news wasn’t going to be good.
He explained what was going on in perfectly logical, unsentimental, doctor speak—I assume—but what I heard was:
“A normal ovary should have 6-10 good follicles, but you have mumbo-jumbo-icky-sticky-messed-up-insidy-bits-itis, so you have a snowflake’s chance in hell of having a baby.”
The actual math worked out like this:
Mr. Fab (my hubby) plus Lisa (that’s me) to the power of love, equals big fat nothing, no baby to infinity.
Mr. Fab plus Lisa times IVF times unknown X equals approximately 25 percent chance of conception.
Mr. Fab plus egg donor minus Lisa minus love, all to the power of voodoo times big bucks squared equals a 50-50 shot, maybe baby, maybe not.
I can’t move on from this particular part of the story without mentioning that up until this point, IVF had been sold to us as the silver bullet, the sure thing, with glossy brochures showing healthy bouncing babies and glowing parents. There was no mention of the outrageous expense, the painful injections, or the emotional toll of the slippery slope of hope, expectation, and disappointment. The odds quoted covered the vast spectrum of all women, all ages, all scenarios and were not calculated for one Lisa, one set of dud ovaries, one desperate attempt. Instead we were simply told, “It will all be worth it when you get your baby.”
I’m sure the doctor expected us to say, “Where do I sign?” But his glossy offer wasn’t nearly good enough for me to bet my money, my body, and, most of all, my heart on, so we said, “No thank you,” and left.
There’s a lot more to this story of course, enough to fill two books and almost 1,400 blog posts. Suffice to say, my husband and I, armed with information from every possible source, explored all the avenues available, but ultimately our children, a pregnancy, even a near-miss, eluded us. We made the hardest decision of our lives and started trying to figure out how to build a life that didn’t include Valentino or Sophia.
It’s been a long road of acceptance, filled with a lot of tears, much stomping around being furious at the world, and yes, I’ll admit it, a fair bit of glaring at mothers who don’t fully appreciate the children they’ve been given, and griping about the unfairness of how life’s blessings are sometimes doled out (see any Whiny Wednesday post for details.) But I’m doing pretty well at this childless thing now.
That said, my wounds have scabbed, rather than healed, and I have yet to put myself through the torture of accepting a baby shower invitation. The last one I went to was for a baby boy who’s now in middle school. I’ve sent gifts and visited every friend’s newborn, but I just couldn’t face all that comparing pregnant bellies and passing around impossibly tiny onesies, or the smiling faces saying, “You’re next!” I knew I’d just end up hyperventilating in the guest bathroom again.
But if a well-meaning, but stressed-out mom tells me, “You wouldn’t understand; you’re not a mother,” I can now simply grit my teeth and try to put myself in her shoes. I’ll suggest that maybe because I’m not entrenched in the child-rearing wars, I could offer a different perspective, and that perhaps my four decades of preparing for my own children, might give me some grounds for an opinion.
And when this mom tells me how perfect her children are, I’ll just smile and nod, because I know that mine are perfect, too. My daughter, Sophia, is whip smart and beautiful, and has never slammed a door or yelled that she hates me. And my son, my Valentino? He’s just so handsome, with those gorgeous green eyes, and oh, how he loves his mother.
I know every mother thinks her children are perfect, but in my memories and in my heart, mine really are—and they always will be.
The Footprints Blog Tour runs until October 15. Be sure to check out Erin’s piece that ran on Thursday and Lisa’s blog, out tomorrow.
If you’d like to participate on October 15, please post your Walk of Remembrance photos on social media using #ShareWalk2016 and your Wave of Light candle at 7pm that evening using #WaveofLight #pregnancyandinfantlossawareness.
Rebekkah and Alexander…my perfect kids. Mine were the other way around. He was going to be a mini me and she was going to be a mini daddy’s girl.
My little girl was going to be named Faith Molly and a little boy named Liam.
Lovely, moving post.
After I found out I had real problems with my undercarriage, the self-preservation kicked in and I refused to allow myself to imagine ever having ‘real’ children at all. To this day, it’s not clear to me whether my ambivalence towards children was genuine ambivalence, or a self-defence mechanism to ward off disappointment. Anyway, for about five minutes before I discovered I had endometriosis and zero ovarian reserve, I thought I might have a boy called Leo (Leonardo) or a girl called Emilia. They’d be bilingual (Italian/English), which I’d secretly feel a bit smug about.
I’ve never told anyone that I had those names. Ghost children. I suppose they still exist somewhere in my head, but I probably won’t ever let them come out again…..It’d be too much of a can of worms…. Or like opening the floodgates….. or something.
“Ghost children” sums them up perfectly.
Beautifully written. And so true. Sean was our boys name. We were still debating names for a girl, but her middle name was definitely going to be Ruth after hubby’s grandma.
Like Lisa, I am glad I can even type that out without tears. They will exist in my imagination, but visiting that imaginary place *has* to be fewer and farther between. That is the essence of healing.
Lovely post. <3
My ghost children are Annie, Emma and Joshua. I mourn their lost lives every day. Thank you for sharing this.
Well this just hit me in the feels tonight.
I always knew that I was meant to be the mom of boys. Two boys. I knew I was not cut cut out for girls. They would have had the height and health of my side of the family but the good looks from hubs. They would have had my academic aptitude and hubs’ attention to detail and creativity. They would have had our shared love of sports, especially soccer.
Joshua (after my husband- even though he wasn’t thrilled with that! Lol) and Melanie Ann. Melanie because my husband is a musician and I dance hula, so we could call her Mele which in Hawaiian means song… And Ann after my mother. …… Thank you for this post. I have never told anyone their names!! Bitter sweet! So important!!
That’s a lovely post, Lisa.
We named our children-who-never were too. And they’ll always be perfect. Thanks for letting me know that we’re not alone in this.
Wow, I thought I was the only one who did this. This is amazing to realize a lot of us do this to help make us mend. I too think of my children all the time.
Annika. I never came up with a boys name though. My husband doesn’t even know that’s the name I picked for our daughter. And I was REALLY angry when my cousin named her daughter Annika.
This is a really beautiful post. Your last three paragraphs were perfect.
I try not to think about what my children would have been like, because there’s only heartache going there now. I don’t share the names we would have used – they’re held very close.
I sometimes walk with my imaginary son… He likes to walk along the tops of small walls while I hold his hand. Sometimes I walk along those walls for him, because he never really will, but I don’t want those paths unwalked…
Thank you for sharing this. Even though I tell myself I am getting too old, every month I am still hopeful that a miracle will happen for us. Tracking AF, ovulation, BBT, even though the PT is always negative. TTC for almost 12 years, you would think I love torture. My daughter’s name would be Rachel Virginia. Not sure where Rachel came from except I am a huge fan of the TV show Friends lol and Virginia for my hubby’s grandmother who died when we first starting dating. I never thought about boys names. I need to start thinking of her less and less for my own sanity.
My husbands middle name is Ray, My Middle name is Gay so my daughter was to be Brandilyn Kay
She was perfect too & on our honeymoom I bought her a souvineer bracelet from where went.
the bracelet has been given away as well as our dreams, after numerous surgeries, countless drugs, tests, expenses, and 7 lost adoptions.
What now? We are Sr citizens (in our 60s) hubby has cancer & who knows how long he has left, after that there will be just me…..
We worry what others say to us, we get upset at words & situations….but in the end it is just one of us left.
I loved this post. Sometimes, someone writes something so true, you feel they must have listened to your heart. Thank you for this Lisa! I kept one thing from our farthest IVF, I was 10 weeks, I have a beautiful picture of my baby… a girl or boy. I haven’t looked at it in a few years, but if she was a girl, I would have named her Penelope. I never had a boy name, maybe because I always wanted a girl, but I know my son would have be perfect too. I think of so many things I would have done, bought, taught my child to do and see. But then I have to remember that it just is in my head, and that those things will never be anymore than that. It’s really good to have you all here, it makes me not feel so alone in my thoughts after so much pain from fertility.
Thank you again Lisa ❤️
That was beautiful!! 🙂
Mine were Laryssa (but we’d call her Lilly) and James. Lilly would be named in honor of my Mom who passed away from cancer at 60. Her laugh would have been music to anyone’s ears and she would have been a smart, sweet and kind soul. Jamie would be the ideal big brother, caring and compassionate.
We would have had wonderful Christmas’ together practicing the family traditions and fun weekends going to the zoo and the museum. And quiet moments, or crazy fun moments, family game night, trips to the park- you name it. And my husband…. he would have been amazing with them. What a happy family we would have been, sticking by each other no matter what.
Thank you Lisa, for giving us the chance to do this, at least once. This brought tears to my eyes.