three {one}

Three is how many kids I wanted to have.  Well, 2 at the very minimum, but preferably 3.  You know, back when I thought infertility was something that happened to other people.  It never crossed my mind that just having one child would be next to impossible.

Oh to be that naive again... to live in blissful ignorance, dreaming of a picture-perfect future... to think that having 3 children by the time I turned 35 would be easily achieved.

Even in my early infertility days I never thought for a second that I wouldn't have at least one child by the time I turned 35.  Even after I was told that my body was broken, I believed God was bigger than any diagnosis (still do!) and that surely we would eventually be able to get pregnant.  Even then I never dreamed it would be an uphill, 8-year battle that ended with us expecting a baby at the ages of 38 & 40, via a surrogate.

Yet, here we are.  Our lives and dreams reshaped by this thing called infertility.  

For which I am grateful beyond words, oddly enough.

Grateful for the pain that shaped me.  Grateful for the journey that led us to this destination.  Grateful to be expecting THIS precious baby girl, at this time, in this way.   

Grateful. 

Still... that doesn't change the fact that I dreamed of having a bigger family.  Once she's in my arms I know some of that will fade, but lately I've been feeling a little wistful at the thought of her growing up without siblings.  This surprised me because it's something I've never felt before, and I'm not quite sure how to process it. 

I never considered for one moment that this much-loved, long-awaited child would very likely be an "only."  I don't know how to dream about what life with an only child will be like, because that's not something that was ever on my radar.  It's a totally foreign concept to me.

I started this post at the beginning of National Infertility Awareness Week, but then I kinda stalled.  I was prompted to work on it again today after reading a FB post referencing a conversation overheard in a waiting room where a couple of moms were discussing whether or not it was "worth the stress" to have a 3rd child (while one held her 3rd in her arms and the other was pregnant with her 3rd).

Oh what I wouldn't give for that kind of "stress." 

That's just one tiny example of the level of insensitivity that exists when it comes to infertility.  People simply don't stop to think about how hurtful words like that can be to someone who is unable to have one child, or who had to fight tooth and nail for the children they do have.

Just like any other life-altering disease, infertility isn't something you think about unless you are affected by it.

That's why I talk about infertility.

My friend Thelma said it perfectly in her blog post today (which is a must-read, by the way):

"Awareness is foundational to understanding, which in turn acts as a catalyst for compassion."

I tell my story in hopes of providing understanding to those who don't know what it's like to live with an infertility diagnosis, so in turn there is more compassion and support for those who are facing it.

Infertility is a disease.  True, it's not something life-threatening like cancer, but it is an incredibly difficult, personal struggle for the person who is living it. 

1 in 8.  The numbers don't lie.  Someone you know could be quietly hurting.  Don't push her to share if she's not ready, but I would encourage you to be sensitive with the words you say and be ready to support and encourage her when/if she does choose to open up.  No, you can't take away her pain or heal her broken body, but it would mean so much to her just to know that you care and acknowledge that what she's going through is real.