It has been difficult to write.
There has been much on my mind, more on my heart, and much sickness in my body.
But a post has been mulling in my mind since the last Sunday of Advent. A post which I have been afraid to write for fear of the negativity that may come from it, for the pain it brings up, and for being this vulnerable, but I feel more and more that I must tell this story, and I must relate the feelings. So here it is.
I sit here and listen to the song, “I Will Wait” – a song that is forever connected for me, with my dear friends Jason and Michelle and their adoption journey – and waiting for their second child. A song that I cannot listen to without crying – because it’s connected with my own journey, and my own hopes and dreams and longing to have a child.
On December 20th, I got a phone call. It was the fertility center.
“Charity… The test was negative. I’m so sorry.”
I felt numb, but I had felt this horrible feeling just a week before – a feeling when I knew something was wrong, during an extremely stressful event. That feeling of love and warmth and peace I had previously just disappeared, and I began to feel cold and sad. That day, the 13th, my hormone levels were off. I kind of knew then, but I still hoped.
It wasn’t until a few days later that it really started to hit me, and has continued to hit me since.
On Sunday, December 22nd, I sang my favorite Christmas hymn in church, with the congregation – “In the Bleak Midwinter”
“But his mother only
In her maiden bliss
Worshiped the beloved
With a kiss”
And I broke.
I had already been tearful at every song, every note, every prayer, every word.
Is about a baby.
A baby waited and hoped for.
Like mine and D’s.
And we wait and we hope that next time will work. And a letter and imagined conversation happens in my head from time to time…
You who were chosen to be mother of all mothers. How you must have felt! I can only imagine how scared you were. I don’t know that you can understand how I am feeling right now. The situation is rather different. But I do know that your cousin would understand – Elizabeth. She waited and hoped, and then hope came for her.
The baby in her womb leaped for joy, while my womb leaps for joy in the midst of sorrow and longing – longing to be filled.
Many would say my lesbian womb should remain empty – as empty as a tomb those people want to speak of.
But I also know of jars becoming filled with wine, bowls with meal, and baskets with fish and loaves.
I know of hearts being inhabited, sight and sound in blind eyes and deaf ears, and barren wombs teeming with life inside.
I do not speak to you often – well, actually this is the first conversation – outside of catholic churches, it’s looked down on. But I thought that somehow, you might understand, and that you might think of me.
And so we hope, and cling to each other, and to that one who came as a baby. And we work to stay positive and to make ourselves ready for the ones we will be trusted with.
And we will wait – we will wait for you, little one. For you.