Tired of Pretending
I don’t know how to tell you. But I wish you understood what I’m going through
Dear Mommy,
Life has been hitting me hard lately. Infertility is awful — and it’s not just about the waiting, though that part is agony. It haunts me every second of the day. All I can think about is how much I want to have children. But there’s so much more to it than that sense of emptiness. There’s the medical side — the exhausting, relentless, invasive part that no one sees.
That’s why it hurts me when you tell me to “just grow up and call XYZ” about something. I know I’ve always hated making phone calls to strangers, but Mommy... do you have any idea how many people I’ve had to speak to over these past few years? How many times I’ve pushed past my comfort zone, over and over again? Doctors. Nurses. Rabbanim. Counselors. Fertility organizations. It never ends.
Mommy, I’ve done things I never thought I could do. Things that go against every part of who I was. I was the kid who turned green at the whine of an ambulance siren. But now? Now, I can inject myself with medications like it’s nothing. And I want you to know. I want you to be proud of me, of the way I pick myself up off the floor and try again. Proud of how I go on and on, without a break, without an end in sight.
And still, at the end of it, all I’m left with is a broken heart and one lonely pink line.
I sit next to you on Friday nights and smile like everything is fine when you have no idea where I’ve been that week or what I’ve gone through. I’m so tired of pretending. So, so tired.
The hardest part is watching my younger siblings “skip me.” I’m your oldest, but I’m not the one who made you a grandmother. I never imagined it would be this way. And sometimes, it feels like you don’t even care. But you do. You have to. I know you do.
I know you and Tatty aren’t the emotional, gushy type. I know you probably don’t know what to say. But from where I’m sitting, it feels like you’re just happy to have eineklach, no matter whose children they are. And Mommy, that pain is so deep, I didn’t even know a place like this existed inside me.
I’m not even sure what I want from you. Maybe some small sign that you see me. That you realize how hard this is. That this hurts you, too, even just a little.
I talk to you about my siblings’ pregnancies like we’re discussing a recipe. And then I hang up the phone and cry.
I know I can’t expect much when I barely share the details. This is so private. Please understand, I can’t bring myself to open up to you. And maybe that means I can’t blame you for not knowing how to respond.
Everyone else is moving forward. And I’m still standing here, trying to find a way through this. I can’t do it anymore. I have nothing left.
And yet, somehow, I’ll keep going. With my husband by my side, I’ll keep going.
But sometimes, I just want my mother.
I love you. And I know you love me, too.
So please… show me. Say something. Anything.
Your Daughter
(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 963)
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