Babies Part I: Am I Still Waiting for Daisy?

“I beg you, to have patience with everything unresolved in your heart and to try to love the questions themselves as if they were locked rooms or books written in a very foreign language. Don’t search for the answers, which could not be given to you now, because you would not be able to live them. And the point is to live everything. Live the questions now. Perhaps then, someday far in the future, you will gradually, without even noticing it, live your way into the answer.”

― Rainer Maria Rilke, Letters to a Young Poet

Shell on the Beach

Until now, I have not been ready to write about what has transpired in terms of the possibility (or not) of becoming a mother.

This will be the beginning of a series of posts that attempt to 'live the questions' that have been part of my life for many many years, but that have changed in nature recently.

Beach Day, February 20th, 2016

Over the years, I have written extensively about my aching desire to be a mother and the loss of this dream.

In 2008, I wrote the post Waiting for Daisy.

In it, I wrote:

Waiting for Daisy is a book written by a woman who endured six years of fertility treatments before becoming pregnant. Later, she wished that she had been able to enjoy her life as it was rather than waiting for her happiness. She wished, as my friend Tess wrote, that she could have told herself,"This is your life, whatever happens." Not "This is your life, but only if you have a baby."

I'm also trying to figure out how one finds the balance between holding onto dreams and letting them go. How do we decide when it's time to let a dream go? How do we, while holding onto a dream, still live our lives to the fullest? If we can't have the dream we want the very most in the whole world, how do we re-frame our life? How do we live a meaningful life in spite of whatever happens? How do we let go enough to just 'wait and see' if the dream unfolds or not?And accept whatever happens?

'

Almost eight years later, I am still struggling with many of the same questions.

Except that my health is different now. And I'm in a committed relationship.

This opens the door to ask if "Daisy" (a child) is still a possibility.

Just last year, on my anniversary of getting sick, I wrote:

I Feel Sad About Babies.  I still feel sad about not being a mom. Some days it feels like a cruel joke that so much healing is occurring at the end of my childbearing years.  This is made even harder when I look into the eyes of the man I love and think about how I had always dreamed of having a child together with my life partner. I am keeping my heart open to what life has to offer in the way of children. Adoption. Or maybe no children at all. How far can my healing go? Can I reach a point of being well enough to care for a child (with the help of a village)? How much can I ask of a partner? Of family and friends? I don't know. I'm still not at peace about this part of my life. Just today, I read David Brooks's editorial piece Hearts Broken Open, in which he discusses finding life's meaning. "I was struck by how elemental life is," he writes. "Most people found their purpose either through raising children or confronting illness and death." Even my Ph.D. pioneer of a mom would say her greatest accomplishment is having me.

Oh, the questions. The aching, raw, emotional, overwhelming, terrifying, exhilarating questions.

Am I still waiting for Daisy? What does a meaningful life look like without Daisy? Have I already found my meaning through illness, as David Brooks mentions? Is Daisy a possibility now? How do I live in the present and enjoy it for what it is? If Daisy is a real possibility, is it still what I really want?  Will it ever not hurt to miss out on motherhood? Will the ache ever go away? Would a life without Daisy actually be a better choice?

This is my life, no matter what happens. I want to be at peace with that.

Blessings,

Emily