Sunday was a day my husband and I wept for our infertility. We grieved, reminded that we had lost something that was never ours in the first place. While we were on our long NHS fertility journey, hoping and waiting and hoping some more that we were moving forward to a solution, albeit at snail’s pace, each breath became increasingly saturated with sorrow.
Hope was melancholy. It hung around us, clogging up the bookshelves with children’s books kept from our own childhoods, blocking pavements with protectively hooded prams, filing our ears as a small, flap-footed child ran, penguin-like, down the train platform squealing ‘daddydaddydaddydaddydaddy‘ and it made us smile because it was ok, we had hope. One day, that would be us, our journey was not over yet.
When we finally agreed the medical approach had come to an end, the sorrow lifted. We agreed to sell the bassinet, the complete travel cot set and the other baby stuff we had put in the attic after the last miscarriage. We agreed that a life without children has its positives. We agreed to move on.
On Sunday, we sat holding each other’s hands, soft, apologetic tears pooling at the bases of chin and throat, realising this grief, this flattened, grey hope for something we once thought was so inevitable, so guaranteed, had not gone away.
So we weep and think kindly of our friends who have a lifetime of giving ahead, of memories and photographs yet to be made that will chart the tale of a life as it grows from that small, swaddled bundle they cradle on their breast to the adult he will become.
And we weep for losing something we never had.