The kimpeturin heim was the same. I was different

The kimpeturin heim was a déjà vu of my previous postbirth experience: sumptuous meals, quiet rooms, and knots of friendly women schmoozing in the spacious lounge, punctuated by the occasional wail of a newborn to remind us that this wasn’t simply a hotel.

The kimpeturin heim was the same.

I was different.

Cradling my baby, savoring food made by someone else, I looked like the other women. But I knew I would never again enjoy bonding time with a newborn at a kimpeturin heim. Or anywhere else.

This precious baby was my last.

It wasn’t what I expected. My previous medical history put me in the slightly higher risk category, and my doctor briefly mentioned worst-case scenarios, but I roughly pushed away the fear. I was in my twenties, healthy, strong, and I had three adorable kids who needed me.

Three weeks before my due date I went into labor, and my husband drove me and my hastily packed wheelie to the hospital. In the haze of active labor, I didn’t notice the grave faces of the OB and my nurses, couldn’t grasp when things started to go wrong, but fierce panic took over as my room filled with anxious-looking staff. Orderlies rushed me to the OR, and the last thing I remember before the anesthesia pushed me into darkness was my panicked screaming.

Waking up in the recovery room, I wondered if I had dreamed the whole nightmarish scene. And then a doctor came in. She sat down next to my bed and reached for my hand.

“Where’s my baby?” I croaked. There had been a baby, right?

“He’s in the NICU. We operated and saved both of you.” She paused and slowly revealed the truth. I had had a hysterectomy, and I would never have another baby. Mind blank, face frozen, I couldn’t process her ridiculous statement. “There is support in your community,” she continued. “You’re not the only one. There are many other women in your situation. You’ll see, life goes on. This isn’t the end of the world.”

It was the end of mine. When the numbness receded, I felt pain so intense I could barely breathe. I was alive, my baby was alive, and I had three other children at home — but all I could do was cry, struggling with denial, rage, and crushing grief.

A few days in the hospital, and I felt much better physically, but emotionally I was a wild pendulum of guilt and tears. Over and over, I struggled to process the doctor’s words. I was 26. I was young! How could this happen to me? When my baby was released from the NICU, my husband decided that I needed a few days to recover at the kimpeturin heim — and I made a conscious decision: I was going to share what I’d been through, unleash the feelings and thoughts, talk and talk and talk until the words ran out and some of the pain bled away. Some women in my situation never speak about their experience, and that’s also completely normal, but I couldn’t bear to keep everything inside.

So I shared my story, again and again, crying and mourning the loss of my dreams, my new status as a woman who couldn’t have children, the babies I would never hold.

“This is my last time at the kimpeturin heim,” I would begin, and then the words would pour out of my mouth.

“That’s so sad,” one young mother said, eyes brimming.

“And you’re going home soon. It’s amazing that you’re strong enough to do that,” an older woman said.

The most healing response came from the women who just listened, their faces filled with compassion, quietly sharing my pain.

And as I relived my experience, I began to come to terms with my new reality. There was a healing calm, a sense that I could go home and be a mother and wife again, instead of this hormonal, crying mess.

Back with my family, I thought I was doing fine. I had a new baby, a family that needed me (including some jealous older siblings), and a house that demanded thorough cleaning. In retrospect, I didn’t realize how much the hectic routine of caring for four little children shielded me from my grief.

My baby grew older. The toddler of the golden curls and mischievous smiles celebrated his upsheren. Before I could absorb the sight of my baby’s new yarmulke, everyone was in school or playgroup, and I noticed — my friends and siblings were all having more children.

The feeling hit so hard, I was blindsided. That should be me. It froze my smile at yet another bris, pulled at my heartstrings when I saw an expectant woman in the grocery store, stung my eyes when I inhaled the scent of my niece’s newborn skin. And my children noticed, too.

“Mommy, everyone else in my class is having new babies. Why can’t we have one?” my daughter complained.

“I’m davening so hard for a baby,” my son confided. I blinked back tears, and tried to explain — to my children and myself.

“Hashem decides how many children each family will have.”

I didn’t say how much I also wanted a new baby, how I also felt lonely and left behind among a sea of larger families. Being unable to have a baby denied us the freshness of a new child and evolving family dynamics. Additionally, the absence of a typical woman’s cycle had repercussions on my marriage. It wasn’t easy to be happy. There were plenty of (private) tears. When my son was four, I realized how much of my day was haunted by feelings of inadequacy, so I went for therapy. The support, along with different resources, made all the difference. I attended get-togethers and group activities sponsored by different organizations, where I met many other women who could no longer have children. Finally, I was talking to people who understood, even though each woman had her unique circumstances. Some couldn’t relate to family and friends who were constantly expecting, giving birth, and endlessly discussing the merits of different bottle brands, while others loved to hold other people’s babies.

Because I shared my story when the wound was raw and I needed support, some people think I still want to talk about it. But my priorities have shifted over the years. I’ve grown and changed, making peace with the life I’m living. I don’t need commiseration about how old my baby is getting, or emotional sighs accompanied by admiration for my positivity and cheer (as if I should really plod through each day moping and dripping tears).

It’s nine years since I woke up in the OR, disoriented and confused, and I’ve gained a hard-won clarity. I thanked, and continue to thank, Hashem for my sensitive friends and family, who treat me normally and tactfully, because one of the hardest parts of my experience is feeling judged. Over the years, I’ve received my share of unbelievably ridiculous comments or mysterious envelopes about shalom bayis classes stuffed into my mailbox.

“I know a rav who’s good at helping couples,” one woman told me with all the delicacy of a bulldozer.

“Do you know about ATime?” another do-gooder asked, obviously appalled at my small family.

I’ve learned to laugh through the pain.

I’ve learned to rejoice in the simchahs of others, to understand that their joy doesn’t take away from mine.

I’ve used the time I’m not parenting babies to build up a business, support my husband in his learning, and be the best mommy possible to the children I treasure. I look at my baby, and I work on accepting that this big boy of mine is also my last baby.

It’s a process that looks different for all of us.

When that compassionate doctor held my hand in the OR, telling me there was life after the inability to bear children, I didn’t believe her.

Now, I do.

Because even after dreams die, there’s life — and it can be good.

Something you should know:

Respect my privacy. Even if we both know about this aspect of my life, until I bring it up, please don’t say anything. Just because I told people about my situation when the pain was fresh, that doesn’t give you the right to ask pointed (read: nosy) questions now — even if you mean well.

Please don’t:

Look down on someone with a small family. The worth of a woman should never be tied to how many children she has.

Please understand:

That we aren’t nebachs. I have a wonderful, full, busy life, and this is only a part of it.

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 929)