Holidays suck for infertile women!

I still recoil when I spot holiday decorations and remember how I circumvented shopping altogether after I became a bona fide member of the infertility club.

Christmas festivities felt caustic and I felt invisible.

Chapter IV – January 1994 to May 1995

“By early December, as promised, I called a longtime friend from Santa Cruz that now lived in Cuernavaca, an hour or so away from México City, and who found us an apartment in her neighborhood. Marty played with her young son, as her husband was away on business a lot of the time, and Evy and I talked for hours on end. Watching my man inventing games and rough housing with her little guy was painful at times, but he seemed more at peace at the end of the day.

We explored the labyrinth of a city and walked everywhere until exhaustion led us back to the tranquil garden surrounding our temporary home and the company of good friends.

The festivities leading up to Christmas were mercifully low-key: no Frosty the Snowman or Silent Night on the radio or in stores, no Christmas tree farms or decorations, no holiday list or gift buying. Instead neighbors opened their homes for evenings of conversation, games, and served a hot fruit punch and crescent-shaped cookies. Some folks gave out small paper bags filled with oranges, nuts, and hard candy shared by all.

While we cooked Christmas dinner, I stood over my dear friend while she disinfected and picked out miniscule slugs from a head of romaine lettuce, a leaf at a time.

She leaned in and said, “You were meant to be a mother, you know. Marty and you are so good with kids.” I rested my head on her shoulder while tears streamed down my dress.

Was I? Meant to be a mother? I no longer believed that.”

One thought on “Holidays suck for infertile women!

  1. Pingback: Writing memoir requires incentives and rewards | Stretch Marks

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