Unlike other people on Facebook, I cannot share photos of my children and their children.
Because I could not have children.
I can only share my heart.
I write these words for the ONE PERSON who has felt my pain.
I want that ONE PERSON to know he or she is not alone.
I don’t care who I offend: my passion is for that ONE PERSON only.
That in the recognition of their pain in my expression of mine, our burdens are momentarily reduced. ❤️🔥
When I was a girl I wanted to play house.
I thought of the day I’d be mother and spouse.
I’d picked out the names of my children with care.
I had it all planned out and no detail was spared.
So I must admit it was a surprise
When I hit my 30s with no eligible guys.
Then I came across Jeff at aged thirty-three,
I was sure he was the one God had chosen for me.
He came as a package with three very young daughters
I loved them at once; I soon was besotted.
The reverse situation however was tough:
They liked me somewhat, they liked me enough
But their passion for their mom trumped any feeling
Towards me and always left my heart a’reeling.
The only situation that I could see
Was to add my own baby to this family.
So this became our Priority Number One,
And oh, how I wanted to give Jeff a son!
Learning each time that I was with child
Gave me great joy and an indelible smile.
But even though God said to multiply
Each baby in Me was unable to survive.
I lost my three babies before they developed.
The grief of their leaving completely enveloped
Me, so broken, so full of despair:
I carried a burden that Jeff didn’t share.
We moved to high-tech, it was fully insured.
Needles, injections, and hormones to endure.
And “beautiful embryos” all said that we made.
The problem, again, they weren’t able to stay.
My womb I was sure was completely defective,
We then found ourselves a conception detective.
Four surgeries I underwent to improve
Our chances of adding to the Wilson Brood.
At this point in time I thought of all options.
I seriously thought our hopes lay in adoption.
With sadness I learned Jeff rejected this way:
“It costs too much money,” is all he would say.
This final misfortune - it caused me to break;
Deep down inside me lived constant heartache.
Then cancer thrust nail through the motherhood coffin,
Forcing me to give up what I’d wished for so often.
The dream I had nurtured above any other:
The dream that one day I’d be somebody’s mother.
Where were you when Death was standing over me, holding my life in His hands?
Where were you when I pulled the car I was driving over to vomit up the chemotherapy I had just been infused with through a device inserted under the skin into a vein leading directly to my heart?
All thirteen times?
Where were you when cold hands directed my torso into precise locations underneath terrifyingly large machines that emitted radioactive beams into my body?
All thirty-three times?
Where were you when I was so crippled by pain, I actually lost consciousness?
Where were you when I had all of my reproductive organs removed the week I turned 40, plunging me into overnight menopause?
Where were you when I had to measure the hourly output of three drains sewn into my body after an 8-hour surgery to remove both of my breasts because of a second occurrence of breast cancer when I was a 45 year-old divorcee?
Where were you when I miscarried a perfectly beautiful baby, not a piece of tissue, onto the tile of my bathroom floor; with no alternative but to flush it down the toilet?
Where were you when I spent 4 days in the cardiac ICU because my organs were shutting down; Death showing up again just to toy with me?
Where were you when I was betrayed; abandoned and alone; heartbroken; lost; torn to shreds by the ruthlessness and relentlessness of grief?
Were you by my side?
Did you SEE how I suffered?
I didn’t think so.
Yet somehow you feel qualified to judge how I survived.
The “How” is none of your business.
You should be happy “That” I survived at all.
Many far better than I did not.
You may see me as Damaged Goods.
But let me tell you something:
I’m a SURVIVOR and I will never be ashamed of my scars or my wounds or my choices.
They are mine and no one else’s, and if you do not like them, please see yourself out.
For those of you who were present AND supportive for ANY of the above, thank you from the absolute core of my heart. I love you dearly. ❤️🩹