The following is shared from the perspective of someone in a season of secondary infertility. The first few chapters of the Protoevangelium of St. James is something I think every woman experiencing infertility should read and pray on, something I wish I had known about during our first season of waiting. But if reading about someone else’s longing for another child while you are waiting for your first to be with you here on earth would be upsetting, this might not be a post for you. Still, I beg you to spend some time with this gospel and recognize the friend and heavenly advocate we have in St. Anne. “The next one will just happen. It always does.” “So many of my clients have a hard time with the first and then the other ones just come. The body just figures it out.” According to all the experts, my body had finally figured it out with our first pregnancy in 2015 and I was (stupidly) relieved that I would finally be able to start popping out more children like all my Good Catholic Open-to-Life Friends…. Well, despite being open-to-life/trying to conceive for nearly 6 years, the next one hasn’t just happened. And again, I feel like a broken failure. Secondary Infertility is similar to Primary Infertility in many ways. There’s the monthly roller coaster of emotions. There’s that cyclical grieving process to pass through when each potential (liturgically *perfect*) due date doesn’t become The One. There’s the same temptation to control things as much as possible to improve the odds and frustratingly, the realization that I actually have no control over this at all. It’s all the same as it was years ago, before he came to be, but now there’s this additional ingredient to the messy brew of infertility: Mom Guilt. I have this little audience of one who watches my every move, every day. And I worry about the effects my grief has on him. Does he know how loved he is? Am I sharing too much with him? Is it wrong to encourage him to pray for a sibling? Is it fair to drag him to another appointment for blood work or an ultrasound? Should we just stop trying? Will he be OK as an only? Can I be okay with it? I grew up in a family of 5. I remember asking my mom why she had so many of us, she always responded, “I was really lonely as an only child. I wanted my children to have someone to play with.” Only children carry a stigma. They’re either lonely or they’re spoiled or maybe they become spoiled because of the guilt their parents feel over them being lonely. It’s a stigma I’ve been battling with since my son hit 2 years old and we still weren’t pregnant with his sibling. I don’t want my son to be lonely. I don’t want my son to be spoiled. Fortunately, we don’t have to dig too deep to find holy examples of Only Children in our Faith tradition. Mary, John the Baptist, and, of course, Jesus were Only Children. Two out of the three of these holy people were long awaited gifts from God to couples who had suffered loooong (like decades long) seasons of infertility. These three Only Children are the *only* birthdays commemorated on our Liturgical Calendar… They’re kind of a Big Deal. We all know St. Elizabeth’s story of the conception and birth of John the Baptist, but did you know that there is a scriptural account of Sts. Anne and Joachim’s story? I didn’t. I was talking with my dad about this guilt and sadness and worry I feel over the ever increasing space there will be between my son and other children (if we’re ever blessed again) and he suggested I read the Protoevangelium of St. James. I had never heard of it. I found it HERE. The first few chapters focus on the story of Sts. Anne and Joachim, Jesus’ grandparents, our Blessed Mother’s mom and dad. In my reading, I was struck by two 'canticles' spoken by St. Anne, and how as someone experiencing secondary infertility, I could relate to both. In chapter 3, as St. Anne sits under the laurel tree in her garden, she looks around her and sees the fruitfulness of nature and cries out: “Alas! Who begot me? And what womb produced me? Because I have become a curse in the presence of the sons of Israel, and I have been reproached, and they have driven me in derision out of the temple of the Lord. Alas! To what have I been likened? I am not like the fowls of the heaven, because even the fowls of the heaven are productive before You, O Lord. Alas! To what have I been likened? I am not like the beasts of the earth, because even the beasts of the earth are productive before You, O Lord. Alas! To what have I been likened? I am not like these waters, because even these waters are productive before You, O Lord. Alas! To what have I been likened? I am not like this earth, because even the earth brings forth its fruits in season, and blesses You, O Lord.” Every spring since my son was born, we’ve had birds make a nest and have babies somewhere super conspicuous on our property. One year, it was a hanging pot by our front door. Another year, they found a way into the corner of our attic. And I’ve sat in my home, year after year, hearing those baby birds calling out and felt a sting. And I felt crazy for letting such a beautiful (and cute!) little thing become a trigger for me, but St. Anne knew that same pain. All around us, we look and see fruitfulness and yet our wombs are empty. But then, I have also felt the deliverance and victory St. Anne declares in chapter 6: “I will sing a song to the Lord my God, for He has looked upon me, and has taken away the reproach of mine enemies; and the Lord has given the fruit of His righteousness, singular in its kind, and richly endowed before Him. Who will tell the sons of Rubim that Anna gives suck? Hear, hear, you twelve tribes of Israel, that Anna gives suck.” I read that and I flash back to the beautifully difficult birth experience we had, the 2 and half years I was blessed to be able to provide nourishment to my son from my body. I am so SO grateful for this gift. So where do I belong? I am hesitant to go back and sit with other aching and hurting women "under the laurel tree" because most likely, my son will be tagging along with me. But I don’t feel I fit in with the "Catholic Mom’s group" circles as I have no baby at breast or round growing tummy holding a child in my womb. I long to find belonging somewhere. Parched for friendship and connection. Someone who sees my struggle not with sympathy but maybe some recognition? I remember primary infertility. I am feeling many of the same emotions right now. Can I attend some sort of infertility support group without possibly ruining anyone’s week when I share I have a son? My son needs socialization and I ache for adult conversation. Can I take him to MOPS or other mom’s groups and face the questions of ‘do you have any others?’ Can I hold back the tears and jealousy when I see the cute newborns or watch the adorable lines of siblings holding hands as they walk through the parking lot to a mini van? Will I be able to bite my tongue when I hear the inevitable complaining about the difficulty of raising and caring for So Many Littles? St. Anne, help me to find my place. St, John the Baptist, watch over my son and help him to grow into a Strong and Confident Witness to our beautiful Faith. Mother Mary, please comfort my grieving heart. Jesus, I trust in you.
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