I find myself crying a lot lately.
It's strange, really. I'm driving or cooking or working and suddenly, I'm sobbing. Not sniffling. Not discovering tears on my face. Sobbing.
My son's girlfriend, my goddaughter and my niece are pregnant right now. None of them planned her pregnancy. None is married. None is prepared. All are both excited and terrified. I am both excited and terrified for them.
But that's not why I'm crying.
When I struggled with infertility, my doctor suggested joining a support group at an organization known as Resolve. My then-husband would not hear of it. Not only would he not go, he refused to let me go.
Yes, I know. Now, I know. He didn't have to let me. He had no right to dictate my path. But then, I was afraid to make him mad, unwilling to hurt his feelings with my grief. (We could not have children born to us mostly because he had radiation therapy for cancer. He took any sign of sadness as disloyalty--his survival was the only thing that should matter.)
That's an old, old story. The more interesting thing is that grief buried itself somewhere in my body. It lurked, waiting its turn. Now, these young women have accidentally achieved what I never could despite thousands of dollars and untold hours of painful treatments, and the pain finds its way to the surface.
I love my children. I wouldn't trade them for anything in the world--that is not and never has been in question. I lost something elemental and primal, something I wanted desperately. The issue is that I never really grieved that loss.
The crying doesn't bother me. I sob as long as it takes then wash my face and get back to work.