Volume 199 - Issue 5
MJA Eric Dark Creative Writing Prize - There must be joy
Author: Name withheld
Med J Aust 2013; 199 (5): 367-368. || doi: 10.5694/mja13.10385
Published online: 2 September 2013
Published online: 2 September 2013
The story of one woman’s journey through heartbreak to peace and acceptance.
Highly commended (Practising and retired doctors category)
At 14 weeks
The waiting room is pretty typical for an obstetrician–gynaecologist. Lord knows I’ve been in a few. There are baby photos on the walls and baby photo albums filled with happy snaps adorning the tables. Maternity and child-rearing magazines make up the bulk of the proffered reading material, all at least two years old of course, and there is a play area for patients’ children offering brightly coloured blocks and educational puzzles as child-friendly distractions. In a nutshell, a place of pure torture for the reproductive failures among us: the ones who are seeing the doctor not for pregnancy care, but for care related to non-pregnancy — or, worse, lost pregnancy.
We are left waiting, sometimes for hours, in rooms that mock us: rooms full of bulging bellies, healthy infants and energetic toddlers, surrounded by images and paraphernalia that remind us of our defect. Do these doctors realise that they are alienating and distressing us before we even get to see them?
But not me. Not today. I have changed teams, become one of those glowing pregnant women with an expanding girth that I cannot refrain from touching frequently. I relish being on this side of the fence, but that doesn’t mean I lack compassion for those poor souls who remain in purgatory. I spy one sitting opposite me. Her tear-stained face and hungry, desperate eyes speak volumes. I smile at her kindly. She looks away, not wanting to accept pity, not knowing that I probably understand her better than she understands herself.
At first I think the cramps are psychosomatic, imaginary, but they soon intensify to sickeningly familiar waves of agony. As I stand to attract the attention of the receptionist, I feel a gush of warm, sticky liquid between my legs. I don’t have to look to know that it’s blood. A lot of blood. The last thing I remember is the look of pity and empathy from the woman opposite: the woman who shunned my attempt at connection only minutes ago. A lifetime ago. She now knows that I know. That I understand. That I am one of her kind.
I’m rapidly heading back to the barren side of the fence, where the grass is definitely not greener.
Reclaiming the joy
I’ve never failed at anything before. Not in the long run, anyhow. When life has thrown me a challenge, I’ve always risen to the occasion. I’ve become more determined, worked harder, and tried, tried and tried again, until at last I have succeeded.
I vowed that this would never beat me. Failure at the most fundamental, the most important task expected of a living being — to reproduce — was not an option. I was determined to fight to the bitter end for the one thing I wanted more than anything else.
However, there comes a time in every struggle to look around and count the casualties. After the fifth miscarriage, I did a battle damage assessment — and found a life devoid of joy.
The vibrant, capable and energetic woman I once was had been replaced by a bitter, resentful, obsessive stranger. I didn’t like this person and neither, it seemed, did many of those close to me. Several of my friendships weren’t as robust as I thought: the cracks appeared early and soon widened to unbridgeable chasms. My situation made my friends uncomfortable and they quite simply didn’t know how to react.
The women fell into two groups. There were the mothers in the baby mindset, the “kids zone”, and then there were those who weren’t there yet and were still childless, through choice. I was stuck in the middle, in limbo: some crazy, nowhere place. The ones with kids felt that they couldn’t whinge about their sleepless, chaotic, dirty-nappy-filled lives, because they had what I didn’t. The ones sans kids felt uncomfortable because they were trying hard not to do what I was trying hard to do. It worried them to see what lengths an intelligent, rational woman would go to for a child, and I’m sure they secretly hoped that my desperation was not infectious.
I can’t blame my friends entirely. I played my part in it. I probably avoided them more often than they did me. I had to. What used to be pleasurable social activities, such as Sunday barbecues, were now pure torture. Watching happy, healthy toddlers running around, and listening to incessant “mother talk” filled me with jealousy, rage and razor-sharp pain. Hanging out with the single ones was not much better. Going out on the town and talking about the latest fashions seemed so trite, empty and meaningless — far removed from my life and dreams.
I never felt as alone as I did when I was with friends.
And so I became emotionally withdrawn. From my friends. From my husband. From my patients. From life.
Tenacity is admirable, but I realised that there were too many battle casualties for this fight to continue. I finally made the considered decision to surrender.
For those who have difficulty conceiving, the choice doesn’t have to be quite so black-and-white. A passive route can be chosen: “If it happens, it happens”. However, I fell pregnant all too easily and suffered horrendous first trimester symptoms. I’d been poked, prodded, tested and medicated by a top fertility specialist who’d informed me that my chances of carrying to term were maybe one in a hundred. Having been pregnant five times, for an accumulated total of 13 months, I had no desire to spend the next ten years either battling severe nausea gravidarum or recovering physically and emotionally from a miscarriage, in the vain hope of winning the jackpot. Enough was enough. I’m an optimist but not a compulsive gambler.
Using all the strength and wisdom I could muster, I gave up ... and reclaimed my life.
I chose a new destination, engaged the clutch and revved the engine. I was moving forward again, released from my tortured limbo.
At first it was really tough. In my work as a general practitioner, I came into contact with young children and pregnant women on a near-daily basis, and it took a very long time before I could genuinely share their joy rather than become overwhelmed by envy and self-pity.
Spending time with friends, family members and their progeny continued to be particularly painful. Much as I appreciated being an auntie, I’d always find myself wanting more. When these mums whined about having to juggle work and family, acrid resentment rose in my throat and I had to choke back the words, “I’d swap places in a heartbeat”.
However, inch by grinding inch, I came to both empathise with their challenges and appreciate the freedoms my childless life affords. While it’s still somewhat bittersweet, I can, with hand on heart, now say that my being around small children is far more sweet than bitter.
Time is in itself a great healer, as is actively pursuing that which kindles joy. I immersed myself in creative pursuits and have sung, played, danced, taught, acted and written myself back to good physical and mental health. I’ve resurrected old friendships and made new ones. Not only have I reclaimed my personality, I’ve found that it’s been returned to me stronger and wiser. I’m a new and improved version of myself, with a full and enriched life.
Embracing opportunities and focusing on silver linings were welcome salves to my raw wounds, but my healing process required something more: acceptance.
At first I tried to escape the universally expressed sentiment that having children is the most rewarding and fulfilling accomplishment in life. I refused to acknowledge that end-of-life regrets about not spending enough time with one’s offspring staggeringly outnumber regrets about insufficient material wealth accumulation or work achievements. I told myself that this collective wisdom was a myth designed to help lessen the animosity felt by tired and stressed parents.
Not anymore. I accept it. I am at peace with the knowledge that my life has headed down a different path to the one I’d chosen. I also accept that there will always be a part of me that grieves for the five children I’ve lost and the missed opportunities they represent. No longer does my grief define me. Acceptance has set me free. Thus unfettered, I can use the strength, wisdom and empathy accumulated during my journey to add meaning to both my own and others’ lives.
But, most importantly of all, acceptance has reignited my inherent ebullience. The colours of my life are once again bright and vibrant, enabling me to celebrate all that life itself has to offer. I revel in its challenges — and its freedoms.