Involuntary childlessness sucks. Believe me, I know what I am talking about. I went through it for 11 years.
Months before my wedding date, all medicinal means of family planning disappeared from my life and the chips were allowed to fall where they may. Destiny would decide when the first crib appeared in our household. Life went on. And on. And on. Little did we know when we left our life in the hands of fate that she was such a procrastinator.
Over the following decade, my friends and sister and sisters-in-law pressed out one baby after another while I let a thermometer and a calendar determine what I did and when. That got a bit old.
Enter the specialists.
The problem with them beyond the yuckiness of those examinations for both of us is not that they didn’t find any reasons. They all found reasons - after all, that is what we were paying them to do. They just found different reasons. At some point you start putting off the next appointment. At some point you completely stop talking about it. At some point you realize this medical way is not your way.
So where did that leave us? I have already written about the long time it took for my husband to even consider adoption. (“Color Blind“). A long time before that moment, I once asked him straight out if he still even wanted kids. He said he didn’t know. I said I needed to know his answer in order to figure out how I felt. He said he needed time, so I gave that to him. Six months later, I brought it up again. Still no answer. Many more months went by, still nothing. In the end, the answer came a year and a half after the original question was asked, and it came as ”No”.
The very next day he walked in the front door after work, a scrap of paper in his hand with a telephone number scribbled on it. He said it was of a couple who had just adopted a child from Romania. It seemed that once the words were out of his mouth, he realized they weren’t true. He did want a family.
And we were off.
Nine months later - almost to the day - I was standing in the Missionaries of Charity in Addis Ababa, Ethiopia and a nun named Sister Mariska was placing a bundle into my arms.