It was Mother's Day in 2010. I took my Mom out to lunch after church and looked around in the restaurant. Everyone was out with their families. I called friends who were mothers and wished them happiness on their special day. I came home to take a lazy Sunday afternoon nap and sitting on the edge of my bed, I decided that it was time. For whatever reason, I was ready to find out why we'd not been able to have a child after three years of trying. There had to be something going on and rather than avoiding it and continuing to put myself through the monthly disappointment, I was ready to figure out what the problem was and fix it. I don't think I was prepared for the news that would eventually come, but I acknowledged that there was likely a problem. I had come to terms with that much. The next morning, I made an appointment with the doctor. I'd go to see her in April and start this process. I had no idea it would be such a long process.
I also told my Mom, who, up to this point had been optimistic about the prospects of being a grandma. She wasn't sure I needed to go to the doctor about it, but was supportive nonetheless. I told her that I was sad that I was not able to have a child while my father had been alive. (He passed away in 2006.) My parents had been a little older in life when they had me and their parents had been older when they had them. As a result, I never met one set of my grandparents and the other set had passed away by the time I was in 2nd grade. I grew up not knowing what it was like to have grandparents and I didn't like it. I swore that I'd not do the same thing to my children. But here I was, 31 years old (at the time) with no children. My Dad was already gone and my Mom was close to 70. That part of this whole process hurts quite a bit. I mentioned that to Mom and she said that just the week before Dad had passed away, he asked her if I was ever going to have any little babies. I tried, Dad. Doesn't that count for something?