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In her book, "The Long Awaited Stork," author Ellen Sarasohn Glazer talks about a "continuing vulnerability to separation and loss" experienced by people who find resolution from their infertility struggle.
About the period of pregnancy, she writes:
"The magical thinking that you developed in the midst of infertility treatment is likely to remain with you as you guard against pregnancy loss. You may find that you are dwelling on past wrongdoings -- especially an abortion -- fearful that you will now be punished.... You may be disappointed to find that your efforts to ward off danger offer you only temporary relief and that all too often, fears return."
Who among us hasn't thought or heard others say that a safe delivery of a healthy child will be the end of these fears? Rather, Glazer continues:
"Parents after infertility can feel even more vulnerable than do other new parents. In addition to feeling inexperienced, you may feel like a fake. If you turned to a new reproductive technology in order to become pregnant or if you adopted your child, you may retain some feeling of having tempted fate. Perhaps you were not meant to be a mother or a father after all."
"Waiting for the other shoe" is an old phrase that popped into my own head at one point after my son's birth, and one that I've been hard-pressed to shake loose ever since.
I think it was during one of my earliest outings with Tobias at a park. There, I was surrounded by other moms, most of whom had more than one child and, chances are, most of whom had no troubles conceiving those children. Feeling the usual amount of new-parent nerves, I listened closely to their conversations and observed how they interacted with their little ones. Everyone seemed so casual and comfortable, even as their kids stumbled and tumbled among the playground equipment, while I felt nothing but anxiety.
Anyone who has ever actually seen me would beg to differ, because I present quite a different facade. It's not that I appear to be a nervous ninny, or that these fears are paralyzing, in the least. But a quiet, subtle voice whispers... I worried about the sun on Toby. I worried about the mosquitos on Toby. I worried that his diaper may be wet. I worried that he may get cranky and need to get home faster than we could walk.
© Tracy Morris
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