bittersweet

Well, besides driving the senior citizens group to the Center of a Different Faith (see post below), it turns out there's something else you probably shouldn't do while hopped up on fertility drugs.

When your amazing sister-in-law gives birth to your very first niece after 47 hours of labor without any pain medication (no shit, people; that is a superhuman effort as far as I'm concerned), you might not want to think that you're fine and walk into the room 15 minutes after the baby is born. Because when you see your brother and his wife, a woman who is still trembling and sweating with the effort of having given birth - and you see your beautiful niece laying on her mother's chest, still squinting even at the little bit of light in the room, still adjusting to her first few minutes of life in the outside world - when you see all this, your first reaction might surprise you. You thought you were fine. You've been fine for nine whole months. Even the little twinge of jealousy that cropped up like a weed when they announced her pregnancy disappeared as quickly as it came. And the little moments of longing every once in awhile when you've seen her were nothing unusual, nothing overwhelming.

So this moment was going to be fine too. The woman was in labor for two freaking days. How can you not want that to come to an end, and for the baby to finally arrive? How can you not be delighted for her, and for them, and for your parents, who will meet their first grandchild?

How can it be, that when you walk into the birthing center and the midwife says, "She'd like all the mothers to come in now" - how can it be that you know, right then, that you are not going to be okay, but you ignore that warning and tell yourself to suck it up. Because your stupid drug-addled, infertility-warped mind thinks, right off the bat, I can't go in then, because I'm not a mother, and maybe I never will be.

But you will ignore this, because you are a grown-up and you know perfectly well that these drugs are effing you up, and this is a big important moment for your family, so you need to get over it already and deal with it. So when the midwife comes back out and says, "oh, actually, all the women can come in," and you walk in and you see that new mom and dad, you really thought it would be okay, it's been fine for nine damn months now, and instead, the only thing you can think is this:

That might never be me. Never. Never. Never.

And, no matter how hard you try, you can't get that out of your mind, and your sister-in-law's sister (possibly the most self-centered woman in the world) keeps going on and on about the miracle of motherhood and how amazing it is and isn't this wonderful and wow, you're so amazing, and you think, "I am going to kick her ass if she doesn't shut up right now," which is not really the thought you want to have in a room where someone has just been born.

And it feels almost profane to be there, in that room, because there are too many people there, too many women jostling to see the baby, and you wish there could just be time for one person at a time, one little moment for each visit. You want your parents to see their granddaughter without all the effusive commenting from That One, who won't shut up. And you know you would probably be okay with seeing her for a few moments on your own, but all of a sudden it's just too much, and your sister-in-law looks like a combination of the mother of Jesus and a women who just got the shit kicked out of her - holy and beat up at the same time - and you know, right then, that you have to leave. RIGHT NOW.

So you duck out, hoping that the guys hanging around the door will mistake your tears for tears of joy, and you go find your husband in the waiting room, and you fall completely apart, at which point your parents come in and find you crying, and then you feel really horrible because you ruined their first night with their first grandchild. (Well, you didn't ruin it. You know this. But the drugs will tell you that anyway. They're powerful little suckers.)

So you leave, and cry all the way home, and even when your dear Beloved tells you, "of course you're upset, how could you not be? It's perfectly normal," and you know he is right, the drugs still tell you you're a freak, you're an idiot and a jerk for being this way, how could you be so unbelievably self-centered, why is it all about you?

You know the drugs are wrong. You know that three years of wishing, trying, hoping, and praying to be that holy, beat-up woman in the bed are bound to back up on you every once in awhile. You know that this is just normal, and very soon you will be back to yourself and eager to see your niece and delighted by every sound she makes. You know this will be true, but it's not true yet.

But the good news is that, when you get up in the morning, you feel a lot better. After all, you only have to take these drugs for two more days. You decide that it's better to stay away from the new niece for the weekend, not because you don't want to see her, but mostly because your sister-in-law's family is in town and they won't have as much time with her on a daily basis as you do, so they ought to have the weekend. And also, a little bit because you might need 48 hours to let everything settle down in your emotional self (and you'll be done with the drugs tomorrow, so that will help).

You look forward to Monday, when you'll be able to see the baby one-on-one. You drink a small cup of coffee with your breakfast. You get to work and sit down at the computer and look across at the bulletin board, where a few months you posted a prayer by Walter Brueggemann that ends like this:

we wait and receive and we thank...
because you are the only Lord of the Future,
you are the one who births at the eleventh hour,
you are the one who comes to barrenness and makes new,
you promise like the stars for number while we count according to the old math.

And you pray,

Damn, I hope so.