Never Say Never

Don't judge a man until you walked two moons in his moccasins. I remember writing a paper on this Native American proverb in my freshman English class in college. At 18, I believed in the concept that you shouldn't judge people's actions as right or wrong unless you had experienced their life. While I believed in this concept, I didn't live by these words. Looking back, I was highly judgemental in my 20s, and I know the words "I would NEVER do that!" left my lips far too often.

In my mid-20s, I remember being on the phone with a friend of mine who had just gotten home after visiting her brother. She discovered vials of hormones all over the house, and came to learn that her sister-in-law was undergoing fertility treatments. I distinctly remember saying something like, "I would NEVER pump my body full of all those hormones!" Eleven fertility cycles and literally hundreds of injections later, I can only look back at my young, naive self and shake my head.

The first time I heard about open adoption was when I lived in California in the late 90s. I was still in my 20s, and a work colleague told me that her daugher's birthmother and grandmother had attended her daughter's recent birthday party. I don't remember what I said (do I want to?), but I do remember what I thought -- how AWKWARD. (We've celebrated both of Lily's birthdays with Fiona and Nate.)

My high school journalism teacher used to tell us that hardship was good for us - it built our character. And while I consider myself extremely lucky and blessed in my life, I've also had my fair share of hardship, some related to issues I don't write about on my blog. And she was right, it has built my character. G and I got married when we were 29, and started trying to have a baby about a year later. Everything seemed to be working fine, except that I wasn't getting pregnant. After a year and a half of no result, G was finally tested. (I had been tested earlier and everything came out fine. I even had two doctors tell me to "just relax.") Turns out that G only has a handful of sperm, and none of them are interested in moving. A urologist told me I had a better chance of getting struck by lightning than impregnated by my husband.

The news hit G very hard. We've known each other for more than 20 years, and I've never seem him as upset as the day we received this diagnosis. I, on the other hand, was happy to have a diagnosis because now we could make a plan, and I am all about THE PLAN. I knew then that it didn't matter to me if my child shared my biology, and I figured that one way or another, G and I would become parents. I was determined, so I decided to pursue both adoption and fertility treatment. I felt empowered for the first time in a long time - finally, I was back in control of my destiny. Or so I thought. My first real breakdown didn't happen until after our first failed IVF cycle. I had done everything right - and it was hard - but still, no baby.

It's hard to believe that was almost 10 years ago. Over these 10 years, I've had a lot of judgement leveled my way -- from lots of people who haven't walked two moons in my moccasins. Some judged our decision to pursue fertility treatment. "Why not adopt? There are so many kids out there who need a home." Some judged our decision to adopt. When we were pursuing an international adoption, people asked why we wouldn't want to adopt a baby from the United States. I've read forums where a-parents are referred to as kidnappers. Some people have written that God is sending those of us who are infertile a message -- "you weren't meant to be a parent." I recently read an article a woman wrote about her decision -- after many years of trying to conceive -- to live a childfree life. Some commenters called her a quitter and said it sounded like she had a sad life.

For me, the experience of becoming a parent through science and adoption has built my character. It's made me more compassionate. It's taught me not to judge. It's helped me to relate to people I know and people I don't know. It's made me cry for people I've never even met.

While we have finished building our family, I still find myself reading TTC forums. I guess it's just a hard habit to break. The other day, I read a thread about the dreaded pictures of cute kids in Halloween costumes. Women struggling with infertility were sharing how difficult it is to go on Facebook or even check their email and see lots of happy parents toting around their adorable bunny rabbit or Spiderman. That used to be me, and at that moment, I realized that I had almost forgotten what it felt like. Suddenly I wanted to remove all of my cute pictures from Facebook in a sign of solidarity.

I recently wrote a post pondering why some of us a-parents are so passionate about making sure we have open adoptions that stay open, while others remain fairly opposed to the idea. I really do try not to judge the latter group because of the whole moccasins thing. But I also wonder if pain and loss have the ability to propel us in one of two directions – in one direction, we become more compassionate and empathetic human beings who are unable and unwilling to turn a blind eye to another. And in the other direction, there are those who are desperate to move past the pain and loss and never look back.