As astute followers of my blog know, Memorial Day – and May 28th in particular – is a significant day for me. Although the holiday is intended for remembrance of those who died while serving in the US armed forces, it is also the day my father died and so, for the last 28 years, I have observed Memorial Day with somber reflection. I even blogged about it in 2008, 2010, and 2013.
This year’s Memorial Day observance has even greater reason for gratitude and reflection: Katie and I recently had a baby. You might be surprised that I haven’t been shouting about it from the highest mountains (which would be much more “in character” for me!) but we have avoided as much of the “pageantry” of both pregnancy and birth as we have been able to get away with. Perhaps Memorial Day is a good day to explain why.
Six years ago we started trying to have children. Many things in life have come naturally and easily to us but conceiving turned out not to be one of them. After two and a half years we sought out medical help. We were diagnosed with “unexplained infertility,” one of the most useless terms I have ever encountered. It was amazing to me that we could put a human on the moon and cure myriad diseases but still had so much unexplained about one of the most basic human functions, reproduction.
At long last, though, we managed to conceive, and we were elated! It was just before the winter holidays so we shared the news with our closest family members. We spent long evenings discussing all our hopes and dreams for this new chapter – baby names, parenting philosophies, house rearrangement, necessary gear, etc., etc. Everything had changed for us. And then – abruptly – it hadn’t.
Shortly before Christmas we lost the pregnancy. It was heartbreaking. I was astounded just how bonded you could become to a tiny little cluster of cells – no personality, just the promise of a new life. We had already hopped on board the train to our new future – and then we were kicked off. It was not our best Christmas.
We are resilient, though, so we got back on the horse and lost a second pregnancy. And a third. And a fourth. Gradually the feelings changed from the acute stab of loss to a mounting fear that we may actually never be able to have children – and a feeling of impotence to do anything about it.
The irony was that we didn’t want kids desperately. We have some friends for whom it was the be-all end-all desire and that just wasn’t us. But it was something that we wanted, and our repeated failure to achieve it – especially in light of our peers who seemed to be bursting with fertility – just felt sooooo . . . disappointing.
In many ways my career in startup entrepreneurship had prepared me for this – repeated failures until you finally hit it big. I was more worried about Katie, who, no matter how much support she had from me, was still the one to bear all of the physiological consequences of both pregnancy and miscarriage. Katie proved to be strong, though, and resilient in the face of adversity. Although I wouldn’t choose to have had the experience we had, it certainly brought us closer together.
At first we didn’t share our struggle out of feelings of shame and failure. Eventually we opened up about it to some of our closest family and friends, though, and that made all the difference. Some of them (Surprisingly many!) shared their own experiences of infertility and loss. Some shared advice. Some simply shared compassion and support. It was exactly what we needed and we were/are eternally grateful for it. We felt less alone, which made it easier to persevere.
And now, having been through the dark times, our baby’s arrival brings us all the more light. Rather than just the light of joy, though, there is the light of gratitude and humility as well. We don’t refrain from tooting the horn of our baby’s arrival because our joy is muted (And our joy for others who welcome new children into the world is no less in magnitude.) but rather out of recognition of our journey.
Now each Memorial Day we don’t just honor those who made the ultimate sacrifice for our country. And we don’t just remember my father on the day of his death. We also now remember our four little babies who didn’t make it. And we remember those of all of our friends who have also experienced such loss.
We especially hold in our hearts all those of you who continue to struggle with infertility and miscarriage. Now that we have “succeeded,” we haven’t “graduated” from your tribe. Our journey has left an indelible mark on us and we will always be one of you. Please let us pay forward the overwhelming love and support we received along the way. We will always be here for you – on Memorial Day and every day.