The Division Between Bitterness and Hope

“We’re going to adopt.”

The words felt foreign coming out of my mouth and were mixed with tears. I was bitter, not that we were adopting, but that starting a family was so hard. Declaring our choice out loud seemed to be an admission that my body failed.

We had been at a precipice for some time: continue infertility treatments with unknown results or take a different path. Infertility wreaked havoc on our emotions and gradually strained our marriage. Words like endometriosis and laparoscopy were part of everyday conversations and I broke out into tears in run-of-the-mill staff meetings at school. Spontaneity was nonexistent and our lives were ruled by squares on a calendar indicating supposed fertility.

It was time to stop willing my body to do something it clearly didn’t want to do.

As we filled out paperwork at our agency, we felt hope push past the bitterness for the first time in ages. It sprouted when our home study was completed. Hope grew when we finally allowed ourselves to paint the upstairs room we had always envisioned our children in. It blossomed when we indicated we were open to adopting a single child or a sibling group.

Adoption felt right to us because we believed there were more ways to start a family than just conceiving a child. But it was still a decision plagued with unknowns. What age child or children would we be matched with? How long would the process take? What if we were matched with an infant and the birth mother changed her mind?

Hope mingled with excitement the first time a social worker let us know we were one of three couples in the running for a sibling group. We immediately envisioned ourselves as parents of these children and began talking about where the kids would sleep, what type of car seats we would need, and what their interests might be.

The problem with allowing hope in is that it can get dashed in a simple phone call. Learning that another couple was chosen for children we pictured as ours brought back the bitter feelings from infertility. Selfishly, we questioned what made the other couple a better fit. We questioned our decision to adopt and wondered how many times we could open ourselves to the possibility of the unknown.

A few weeks before Christmas that year we started the inquiry process all over again, confirming with our agency we were still on board. It was hard to sit in church surrounded by families with children ready for Santa while wondering where our children even were.

Were they loved?

Warm?

Safe?

What I would have given that year for a crystal ball and to be able to see five years into the future. A slightly older version of myself would be standing in the glow of the multi-colored lights from the Christmas tree in our living room. The rest of the house is dark; my husband and both children are asleep. I see myself gazing at the photo ornaments that display the way our family has grown over the years.

The crystal ball would show that even though the people in the photo ornaments bear little resemblance to each other, the love that surrounds them is clear. Our daughter will never have ‘my eyes,’ and that’s wonderful because she gets to gaze at the world through vibrant blueberry ones. My son’s skin will always be a few shades darker but his hand will always fit when it clasps mine. It’s not outward appearance that defines a family anyway. It’s love.

It sounds cliché, but what I didn’t realize with that first failed match was that it just wasn’t meant to be. The children intended for us all along hadn’t even been born yet. The Christmas we were grieving our failed match, our daughter was safe and warm inside her birth mother’s belly the whole time. Our son, who was born to another birth momma several years later; not even conceived yet.

I am proud to call these children ours and will always, always be thankful for the ones who chose us to be their parents. Both of my children’s birth moms made a selfless decision out of love for their babies and showed us just how powerful a mother’s love can be.

The family that we envisioned when we got married is smaller and formed differently than we expected, but it is complete. Infertility brought bitterness that transformed into hope and blossomed into a family; I wouldn’t change for the world. I’m thankful for those years we tried to conceive, not that I ever want to go back, but because they taught me how to wait. How to trust. And most importantly, how to hope.