It was Mother’s Day 2014; we were almost four years into our
infertility journey. Just days before, we had received the blow that only three
of the 13 embryos from our first egg retrieval had survived to blast. We were
still waiting for the results of the PGS testing, and I was terrified that none
would turn out to be genetically viable. I had successfully avoided the
minefield of social media all day, and we were with my husband’s family, to
celebrate my mother- and grandmother-in-law.
All of a sudden, my sister-in-law disappeared into a bedroom
at Grandma’s condo and returned with a giant box. It all unfolded in slow
motion—my mother-in-law opening the box, and a blue balloon floating out, with
a baby sock tied to the end. I realized, like a camera viewfinder coming into focus,
that I was witnessing a grandiose surprise pregnancy announcement, in person,
on Mother’s Day, in what was the rawest and bitterest period of our entire
infertility experience.
Fast forward four years, and I am a mother now to an amazing
three-year-old daughter, but Mother’s Day tends to feel more like the
anniversary of that balloon-in-a-box moment four years ago than the celebration
of me that it is meant to be. The agony I went through every Mother’s Day for
four years didn’t just disappear when I finally got my two lines. The day is
bittersweet now, at best, and I still mostly dread it.
My husband, for his part, does an incredible job of honoring
me. This year, I got flowers and a card and a massage and an elaborate
breakfast. Still, I struggle to accept the outpouring of love. What about all
the women still waiting for their chance to be a mom? What about the women who
will never get that chance? What about single moms who don’t have a husband to
orchestrate the celebration? What about all the other people who struggle with
this day, for one reason or another?
Not to sound righteous, but I truly feel that my daughter is
all the reward I need. Plus, people celebrate me on my birthday, something
everyone gets. I’ve never been crazy about exclusive holidays—in college, I
wrote an editorial for the school paper about how shitty Valentine’s Day is.
Then there’s the pressure of celebrating all the moms—every
year, I buy four cards for our moms and grandmas, and my husband has to do
double-duty of honoring both me and his mom—despite how complicated the
mother-child relationship can be. And of course, there’s guilt over the fact
that I haven’t been physically with my mom on Mother’s Day in probably two
decades.
And, lastly, there’s secondary infertility, an aching
reminder that although I’m a mom, I don’t get to blithely and easily grow my
family like all the smiling friends on Facebook, showing off how very “blessed”
they are with their big broods. I am a mother of one, but my family doesn’t
feel complete, and quite possibly never will. My eggs are scrambled; happy
Mother’s Day to me.
This year, on the evening of Mother’s Day, Elin and I went
to a performance of Disney on Ice, an event that just happened to fall on the
holiday. We dressed up and watched with delight as the princesses skated around
in their beautiful dresses. Elin had no idea that it was Mother’s Day as she
sat in my lap and buried her face in my neck during the scary parts. In the
dark, I didn’t have to force a smile at a happy family or cringe as a stranger
wished me happy Mother’s Day just because I’m female. I didn’t have to
graciously accept gifts I feel ambivalent about receiving or give gifts because
the calendar said so. I didn’t have to think about my empty womb because my
arms were full of this vibrant three-year-old life. And it was everything.