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JOURNALING: It’s human nature. No matter how old we get, how grown up we feel, when trouble finds us, an inner child cries, “I want my mommy,” needing someone to tell us everything will be okay. Today was one of those days, Mom, when I really missed you. I was lying on the table in the doctor’s office, counting the ceiling tiles that I’d memorized in earlier visits, when it hit me that we had this in common.I know your fairytale well. You had two wonderful sons and wanted more children, particularly a girl. After two miscarriages you were told you couldn’t have any more kids. You and Dad got on the long list to adopt and waited for years before you got the call that I was born. I was eighteen days old when you brought me home from the hospital.There wasn’t much treatment for infertility in the fifties and sixties, but now there are several high-tech treatment options and I’m in the midst of them. Clint and I’ve suffered through a barrage of embarrassing, expensive, and uncomfortable procedures. This morning’s ceiling tile count was during my sixth insemination. If it fails, I’m eligible for one more insemination then we have to pursue IVF or call off treatments and pray for a miracle.In this last year I’ve learned how you must have felt, Mom. I know how it feels to long for another child, the monthly roller coaster of sadness and hope. I know the devastating pain of miscarriage. I know the stress of waiting and the feeling of being too old. There are so many days I feel like I’m going to burst. If you were alive, maybe we would share our common heartbreaks. Then you would hug me and say that everything will be OK. I hope someday I’ll take another photo of this dress you made so lovingly for me and tucked away for safekeeping, this time worn by another little girl. You got your happy ending. I’m still waiting for mine. July 13, 2005.
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