The Gift Never Given

  Christmas: A time of celebration - of new birth, redemption, salvation, family, the list goes on. 

 For some of us, it's a time of deep mourning.  

 Doing my shopping during the Christmas season has always been a bit of a drudgery, simply because the stores are packed, and people seem to have forgotten how to drive. 

 Last year was hard, because I had hoped to be making a special announcement over Christmas just like other people do - but instead, I was trying to accept the new reality of having cancer. 

 This year; after a whole year of fighting, and hoping for a good report - the day after Thanksgiving I was told it got slightly worse.  It's not life threatening. It's a simple fix - just cut it out. But it feels like what being cut out is my heart. 

 Most day it's fine. But the little things always get me. Like the "Baby's First Christmas" ornament hanging on the shelf at Walmart. The one I had sort of hoped to use as an announcement.  Or, the Cyber Monday deals on toys.   Seeing other people browsing the toy section trying to find the perfect gift for the toddler desperately trying to keep up with their larger steps.  Or the new baby announcements on Facebook. Tons of them. Everyone seems to be pregnant, or newly delivered. Everyone that is, except me. 

 There's the off hand remark about "You can always adopt", as if that were the same thing. Or, "It's better than losing your life" as if this doesn't feel like death. 

 Here's the thing about infertility.  It IS a death.   It's a dream that never comes true. It's a life that never was. 

 Sure, I need to have the cancer removed so that I don't die.  There's no chance of pregnancy with cancer anyway, so might as well have it out.   But to me - there is a baby. And getting it out is not just saving my life, but is choosing my life over theirs. It's removing any future possibility of children. Children that I can see every time I close my eyes. Every time I see someone else's child, I think of the child that only I can see. That only I know.  

 Just because there has never been a heartbeat, doesn't mean he/she isn't real - to me.   

 Infertility is the loss of a child that no one else recognizes.  A child that never existed, except to one person.  It's a miscarriage that never happened, but feels like it did.  It's a loss that isn't socially acceptable to mourn. 

 An orphan is a parentless child.  Infertility is a childless parent. 

 It's a grief that can't be seen or felt unless you've walked the same path.  

 It's a depression so deep that life loses visible meaning. 

 It's a death with no closure, because you can't even give them a decent burial. 

 It's a hole in your heart that can never be filled. 

 It's feeling guilty for not being "happy" during a time of celebration, but not having anything in you that wants to celebrate. 

 It's feeling like nothing is right, and never can be. 

 Infertility is a silent grief that often gets ignored, or misunderstood.  

 It's a grief that is very real.  

 It needs time to heal, just like any other kind of grief. 

 It needs grace.

 It needs understanding.

 It needs space.

 It needs recognition. 

 It needs time.