My husband and I knew our journey to parenthood would be a somewhat rockier than others’

I’m peeling potatoes and my eyes are raining. My younger sister-in-law just had a baby and I’ve been crying over my half-prepared supper since the phone call came.

I was scheduled to have a pre-treatment test today, and I couldn’t even get it done because of a minor allergy I mentioned that sent my doctor into a tizzy. We rescheduled, and I will be back at the clinic for the test tomorrow. Same time, same place. Again.

I know we all have our journeys, but right now the differences between my sister-in-law’s and my own seem so stark. I can practically see our separate cars flying on the highways of life, roaring off in opposite directions.

I struggle to make sense of that, of my empty little car with a mind of its own.

But then I look out into the highway and there’s another car, just ahead. I know that driver, I met her one night, not long ago. And now we drive parallel as we travel this ever-quieter stretch of road.

***

A while ago, I decided what the end of my world would look like. It involved a round table decked in a silk tablecloth and adorned with flowers, my friends from school, and conversation I could not be part of. With all I was going through, it’s almost ludicrous that this was the scene of my nightmares. But somehow, that image, complete with the faces of my peers, was worse than everything else…

I got married pretty early. Life was good. It was a while before I noticed we were different. Women who had married months after me were showing up in maternity. The first few “It’s a girl!” text messages and visits, where blanketed bundles took center stage were nice, exciting. I joined my friends’ simchahs with happiness, if tinged with concern.

Months later, with a PCOS diagnosis on my charts, my husband and I knew our journey to parenthood would be a somewhat rockier than others’. We knew there’d be stepping stones and we started wading through the waters of treatment, step after step.

I had always been gregarious, the life of the party. This was new; a “party” just for us. I couldn’t — didn’t want to — share it with others. How could they understand? What did they know of bated anticipation and wrenching disappointment, what did they know of insidious questions that crept into my soul: Was it okay to stop hoping that this would be the successful month, when maybe the yeshuah is in the hoping? And in the dead of night, when it seemed the morning star would never rise: Would we get there, would we be parents, ever?  

The night my world ended, a good friend got married. A dear friend, one of the few I would really talk to. It had been a long time since school, and everyone was excited for her — and to meet everyone else. To me they were a chattering, carefree bunch. They converged on the table and the talk began. Cribs and carriages and the merits of pacifiers. Nursing versus formulas and babysitters and school options and on and on and on. I ate the whole first course. The entire piece of salmon. I hate fish.

It was happening, the end of the world. I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry — and, more immediately, who to talk to, where to look.