Being a mother

As a child, I remember playing different games, but the two I liked the most were "teacher" and "mommy." In both games, I got to be in charge and quite bossy (hmm . . . a little insight into the darkness within). Later on, people inevitably began to ask "what do you want to be when you grow up?" I never had a definitive answer, beyond being a mother.

I went to college straight out of high school, because that's what you're supposed to do (though I had no clue what I wanted to study, what I wanted to "be.") I ended up falling into art history, simply because I enjoyed the classes and museums a whole lot. I didn't have the grades or the drive to go forward with a career in the art world, so I became a secretary. My work wasn't important to me anyway; my goals were simple: husband, house, babies, financial security, happiness.

Everything started falling into place. I married my college sweetheart (check!), we bought a house (check!), and began trying for a baby. I was building my perfect life, and nothing was going to deter my progress. Um, yeah. After a year of trying, still no pregnancy. I saw my gyn, had a surgery and was given the news that not only do I have endometriosis, but it had damaged my internal organs such that I had little chance of becoming pregnant. But in vitro fertilization was a good option for me, so I dove right into the world of infertility treatment. A few weeks before I was to begin my first round of potent hormone injections, my marriage came to an abrupt end. Turns out I was so busy making plans for the both of us, I failed to notice we were no longer on the same page.

All at once, my life unraveled. No husband, no house, no hope for a baby, definitely no financial security. And as I hadn't yet figured out what I wanted to be when I grew up, no career, no direction to my life. For a time, I was self-indulgent in my grief, isolating myself in my new apartment, crying to my therapist, spending too much time at family members' homes, glomming on to my few friends. I knew I had to pick myself up and start over.

To begin, I had to identify the things that I most wanted in life. My heart still longed for a baby of my own, and now also yearned to help others have their longed for babies. When I joined the ranks of the infertile, I met many women struggling with the crushing uncertainty of not knowing if they would ever have a child. There is no way to accurately describe this state of being, but it is life-altering, all encompassing, and incredibly lonely. I found I was extremely interested in researching causes of and treatments for infertility. Though I was not actively trying to have a baby, I kept seeing my surgeon, kept having procedures to keep the endometriosis under control so my body would have a chance when the right time came.

As I was figuring all of that out, I was also becoming seriously involved with Bruce. He did not fit into my life plan, was not someone I would have imagined myself with for various reasons, but as I got to know him I saw how rigid I was, how limited my world view. In a short time I could feel myself shifting, loosening up, blooming if you will. He did not set out to change me, but just being with him, listening to his thoughts and living life at his speed made such a difference in my life. I began to enjoy the journey and obsess a little less over the end result. I talked about how much I wanted to help other infertile women, and he suggested I go into nursing. I resisted, overwhelmed at the thought of more years of school, fearing I may not pass the difficult science classes. As time went on we had many talks about the kinds of things I wanted to do, and it kept coming back to nursing. Eventually, it became obvious to me that this was my path, and so I started nursing school.

During my second semester (of four) I took the maternal-child nursing class. We spent one clinical day in the well baby nursery of a hospital, and among all of the babies I held and cared for, a perfect Chinese baby girl stole my heart. As I rocked her, longing swelled in me so strongly I felt I might explode. All of the nurses remarked to me that I looked like I was ready for one of my own. They had no idea, I thought, and tried to push my fear of never holding my own daughter down deep. That was the week I got pregnant with Kaya. Out of the blue, when I least expected it, my dearest wish had been fulfilled. I blame the hormones my body let loose when I held that beautiful baby that April day.

Sometimes I feel guilty that I became pregnant so easily, had an uneventful pregnancy, and that I was blessed with such a wonderful daughter. I am overwhelmed with my fortune, and fearful of how fate may repay me. Mostly, I am so greatful. I work on a women's health unit, and many of my patients are on extended bed rest, trying so hard to keep their high-risk pregnancies going until their babies are strong enough to be born, often very prematurely. I've watched some of these women lose their babies, and my heart breaks. But I have seen fantastic outcomes, and love knowing that I am a small part of that success. I have more years of working, learning, and schooling ahead, but I am working toward a job at a fertility clinic one day in the not-so-distant future. I want to help give other women their dream babies.