Coming to Terms

Recently, many friends have announced their pregnancies. A couple are having their firsts, a few are having a second or third; one announced her 4th, and another her 5th. (Not to mention two announced they are pursuing adoption.) My reaction is always the same. I congratulate them and tell them I am happy for them. And not that I am not genuinely happy for them (especially my two friends who are having their firsts because they've waited so long to become parents--I am THRILLED for them), but there is still this part of me that feels jealous and completely gipped. There is a part of me that is still angry and bitter about the fact that I can't have any more kids. Still hits me hard that my last chance was cut short when my 3rd child died 2 1/2 years ago at the age of 1. Still angry because when I was pleasantly surprised to be expecting #3, I did not get the healthy, happy baby that so many of my friends got at the same time (I was pregnant at the same time as 7 of my friends who all had babies within a month or two of Ezra's birth). And still devastatingly sad that I cannot (biologically) have any more. I won't ever again know the feeling of life moving inside of me. And I will probably never adopt either because people with chronic illnesses (like Crohns) are rarely approved for adoption. It hurts. Every time someone else makes an announcement, the sting penetrates so deep and I have to fight back the tears. (Or not, because I usually find out about the pregnancies via phone, email, blog, or facebook. And the tears flow freely.) Oh, and then, I feel guilty for feeling like that because I have several friends who have struggled with infertility and here I am complaining that I "only" got two healthy kids. Tsk, tsk.

I always wanted a big family. When we got married, in our premarital counseling, my husband and I talked about it. I originally wanted 4, he wanted 2. We compromised on 3. Then, we experienced the trouble my body has with pregnancy. My Crohns disease does not do well with a foreign being living inside me. It arms itself and attacks like crazy. With my first pregnancy, I was on bedrest for almost 4 months. I had low amniotic fluid and a short cervix. I originally wanted a natural birth with a midwife; 14 weeks in, I was referred to a perinatologist who oversaw the rest of the pregnancy because I was considered "high risk". Even after all that, we knew we wanted more than one and went ahead and tried for another when our oldest son was 2. My second pregnancy was uneventful. I had a moderate flare-up that lasted a month, but that was the only complication. I never saw a doctor and got the all natural, midwife labor and delivery I wanted. Still my best pregnancy/labor to date. After that, my husband and I started to talk about whether or not we should pursue any more biological children. Pregnancy is rough, and both deliveries caused further complications with Crohns disease (tearing, fistulas). We decided we were done, with a healthy son and a healthy daughter. My husband was researching the vasectomy procedure when we found out we were expecting Ezra. We were pleasantly surprised because we felt as though God made the decision for us. And then Ezra was born, 2 months premature and with an array of developmental disabilities.

We faced the fact that in addition to the two older children, we now had to raise a child with developmental issues (heart, lungs, hydrocephalus, eating issues). We knew it would be a challenge to add more to the mix and decided we couldn't handle any more "surprises" and so my husband had a vasectomy. And then, Ezra died. Despite his issues, he was expected to have a "reasonable" lifespan, so his death was a shock to us. He died from complications of pneumonia, which is devastating to "normal" premies, much less ones with the issues Ez had. And so our complete family was suddenly incomplete.

Thus, while grieving the loss of my precious boy, I was also grieving the loss of the possibility for more children. We still believe we made the right choice (the third pregnancy took a huge toll on my body--I had a flare-up that lasted 5 months; was put on bedrest; almost hospitalized because I couldn't eat or drink anything; and had to have an emergency C-section due to a prolapsed cord), but it still hurts. And, even if we could have 10 more, our family would still feel incomplete without Ezra. So, does it really make a difference whether or not we can have more children? It shouldn't, be still.....

I am learning to come to terms with our baby days being behind us. I am celebrating each milestone (our oldest son, age 9, is now carseat free, which is a big deal). I am enjoying the new stage of parenthood we are in. No strollers, no diapers, not as many doctor visits. We help in their classrooms, have "real" conversations, and they are old enough to play "grown up" games like Life, Monopoly, Scrabble, Uno, Bingo, and even RISK. Every day, our kids become more independent: they ride their bikes to and from school, they help make their own lunches, they get breakfast for themselves in the morning (except when Daddy makes yummy eggs or pancakes or oatmeal). They have chores and they read me stories at night instead of me reading to them. It's an interesting stage and I like it. It doesn't mean I don't still have that "pang" for another child, but I know this is what is meant to be. God has given us so much and it would be extremely ungrateful of me to pout about the things I am "missing". So, I suck it up, put on a smile and enthusiastically congratulate my expecting friends. I AM happy for them; I am just sad for us. Because now, we are a family of five surviving on earth as a family of four. A "complete" family that will always feel incomplete.