This is going to be a tough one.  Another seemingly innocuous situation that should be easy, but for me is anything but.  It comes in different forms – a conversation, a moment in a TV show, a scene in a book – but it always has the same effect. Some reference to motherhood makes me flinch.  The ramifications of infertility are endless.

Today, it’s in an English lesson I’m teaching online to a seven-year-old boy in China.  I’m supposed to be teaching him to say, “This is my mom.”  Slide after slide in the lesson shows a happy mom cuddled next to her child.  Mom and daughter hugging. Toddler son kissing his mom.  Mom after mom after mom. 

There will never be anybody who says of me, “This is my mom.”

I do not resent the chain of events that led to this.  It just is what it is.  I was single throughout the years of my peak fertility.  Once I finally got married, I was diagnosed with thyroid cancer, so we had to put pregnancy on hold.  By the time my doctor gave us the green light to try for pregnancy, we were hardly spring chickens.  My peers were posting pictures of proms and graduations of their kids – budding young adults – while I was just hoping for a baby. Just one. 

We tried everything.  I took medication to stimulate ovulation month after month until I hit the maximum dose.  Then, we met with a fertility specialist.  I read article after article. And I did all this prayerfully; I fasted, and people laid hands on me and prayed for me. We believed, and we hoped.  And we waited.  And then we tried again the next month.  We exhausted all options including adoption, which my husband didn’t feel led to pursue because of our ages and season in life.  We tried everything until there was nothing left to try.

My journey to motherhood came to an unexpected end.