Watching the Window Close
It’s Mother’s Day. Mother’s Day used to be all about celebrating my mom, and I never conceived of it as anything else. I can’t say when it occurred to me that it was something more than that. My evolving conception of it has been a few years in the making. As I’ve watched my peers get pregnant and have children, I realized the daughter age bracket had expanded into the mom age bracket, and I started to feel oddly out of place. It wasn’t until last Mother’s Day that it really hit me that most women my age don’t just honor their own moms, but also get to be honored as moms. Last year, Mother’s Day made me sad… really sad.
Unfortunately, not having kids hasn’t saved me from ever-increasing gray hair, so two weeks ago, I was at the salon to get my hair colored. As I stood at the counter to check in, I noticed a promotional sign they had posted for Mother’s Day spa specials, and I felt my stomach sink. The day was coming. Like plenty of grown women, my mom doesn’t live nearby, so other than a short phone call, there would be no brunch or other time spent celebrating my mom. Without that, Mother’s Day has become an uncomfortable reminder that I’m never going to be a full-fledged member of womanhood.
To put this into context, I know Mother’s Day isn’t hard for me like it is for women who have lost their moms, or those who have struggled with infertility and miscarriages. I would never pretend to know the pain those women experience on this day. I can only imagine how difficult it is for them, and my heart aches for them all. However, for reasons that are less clear than might be for those women, I am sad, and I feel alone.
When I was about 20, I started to think having children might not be a good idea for me. The notion stuck, and while I had lingering ambivalence about it, I figured it was the best decision for me, so I got a tubal ligation just shy of my 32nd birthday. A big part of my reasoning was related to diabetes. Having already needed surgery for retinopathy at age 25, and having ever-increasing levels of protein in my urine from kidney damage that was being treated with medication and regular check-ups with a nephrologist, I was fearful that pregnancy would be more than my body could handle. I was afraid of losing my vision, having kidney failure, and most of all, I was afraid of dying.
I was concerned about miscarriages or a complicated pregnancy. I was concerned about having a baby that wasn’t normal and healthy in all conceivable ways that babies are supposed to be normal and healthy, and of course, I was concerned about having a child who could develop type 1. I feel like the guilt of having a child with type 1 would kill me.
There were other non-diabetes reasons that I chose not to have kids. More personally, I don’t have a great deal of confidence that I’d be a good parent because there are aspects of my personality that don’t seem like quality ingredients in the recipe to make a great mom. I was concerned about my depression, how and if it could be managed during a pregnancy, and the likelihood that my child would eventually develop depression, a concern only confirmed after my father committed suicide in 2010, and I subsequently learned more about the mental health issues on that side of my family.
Less personally, I’m concerned about over-population and the environment, because, with all due respect to those who have chosen to have children, having a child is about the worst thing the average person can do to the planet. I’m constantly worried about the state of the country and the world with religious extremism, bigotry, and a long list of societal ills that make me cross my fingers that the world doesn’t self-destruct before my time is up. Not to completely devalue the things that make life and the world beautiful, but when I catch the news, I’m grateful to not be leaving a child in what seems like a perpetual socio-political shit storm.
I’ve given an incredible amount of thought to my decision. I set the choice in stone by getting my tubes tied, and I’m committed to following through despite ongoing ambivalence and doubt. I have very rationally weighed the pros and cons, and when the doubt surfaces, I weigh them again. I always, inevitably, without fail arrive at the same conclusion. Even when I consider the option to adopt, I still can’t reconcile the fact that I don’t think I’m really cut out to be a parent, at least not a parent to human babies – with all my heart, I love and am absolutely devoted to my animal children.
But I wonder. What would it be like to be pregnant? What would it be like to have a pint-sized version of me and Jason? Would the joy be worth the heartache and headache? Would I love it and think it was the greatest thing I ever did? Would I regret it, and wish I had stuck with the better safe than sorry approach I’ve ultimately chosen? Not knowing the answers is really hard.
Because having a child is not something one can take back or do over, my decision to not have a child has been the most careful, thoroughly-considered decision I have ever made. It was not necessarily a hard decision to make, but I’m finding it’s the most difficult decision to live with despite all my perfectly valid reasons for choosing as I have. I think I’ve made the responsible choice. I think it would have been an irresponsible risk to choose otherwise, a risk I wasn’t willing to take, but I’m struggling to be OK with it nonetheless. On Mother’s Day, when it feels like every woman my age and older is being celebrated, I wish I knew what I was missing, and I wish I didn’t feel so alone in my uncertainty.
I’m 39, and this is it. Jason has unequivocally said he doesn’t want children, and my mixed feelings persist – hardly a compelling case to apply for adoption, or get my tubal reversed. There was a time when we could have potentially changed our minds, but the window is closing, and I don’t think anything is going to stop it. Mother’s Day makes me afraid that once it’s closed, I’m going to regret our choice, that on Mother’s Day 5 or 10 years from now, I’ll be crushed that there isn’t a munchkin making burnt toast for me, and giving a handmade Mother’s Day card to me. I’m sad because the opportunity to have children is slipping through my fingers as I maneuver closer to 40. I’m sad because despite all the unwavering evidence to the contrary, I’m scared I’ve made a terrible mistake, and today, and every Mother’s Day for the rest of my life will remind me of that.
This is the first mother’s day that is kind of hitting me that way. i always wanted to get married and have kids…I think I’d be an awesome mother…but I got diabetes 4 years ago and I’m still single and it’s just not looking like it’s in the cards. Maybe not even the marriage part. It’s very hard. I really appreciate you writing this post and sharing so much.
Thank you for your blog. When I was diagnosed at the age of 12 with Type 1 Diabetes in 1976 due to a bad strain of flu that was going around at that point in time I was flat out told do not even think about becoming a mother. Almost 36 years later those spoken words still ring loud and clear in the back of my mind. And now I find myself in a situation where I do wish I had more family even a brother or a sister. My mom has short term memory loss and my father is in a nursing home with Alzheimer’s and I am the only child. We may butt heads with our Mom’s but please remember she is the only Mom we have. My mom used to be a strong woman and now I have a mother who is old and frail. It’s like trying to take care of an egg and not break it. It breaks my heart to know that after she passes that’s it. No family and I find myself scared to be all alone. I do not think we can tell our Mom’s enough how much we love them. It’s not worth getting angry or upset about things as we get older. No matter how you communicate with your mom today make it a habit to tell her more how much you love her. : )
I think EVERYONE should give as much thought to having children as you clearly always have, I applaud you for that. I understand entirely everything you mentioned, and I hope you find true peace in your heart and closure to the decisions you’ve made….
Thank you for sharing. Your honesty pushes back some of the feelings of being all alone.
Thank you for writing this post. It means a great deal to me. You most definitely aren’t alone. You are so incredibly brave and loving and you speak–and create–more truth than just about anyone else I know. I’m celebrating you today, for your choices and your uncertainty and for being true to yourself, even when you wonder “what if.” Those wonderings will probably never disappear, but at the same time, you did (and are doing) what you thought and felt was right. That’s all you can do. Be gentle with yourself. I”m sending you lots and lots of love today.
I’ve kinda made the same decision. I’ve always wanted children. Always. I have names picked out and everything. For me, diabetes has only been a small part of the decision. Life’s partners has played the major role. I get a little sad on Father’s Day. Luckily, I’ve got a bucket load of younger siblings, nieces and nephews. Mother’s Day for me is sad because of the poor relationship I have with my mother. I used to worship her. Now, I can’t stand to be in the same state as her. I’m kind of rambling because you’re blog has made me sad….for you and personally. My point is, logic and reason rarely follow the same path. And you’re not alone. Not even with your own gender. Go forward and celebrate the day for what it is. Not for what it could’ve been. Big eHug to you.
this post was brutally and beautifully honest and at times painful to read. the comments show that you are not alone and there is comfort in community. i thank you for sharing your heart here.
Sister – When I was about your age (yikes, almost 20 years ago), I grieved so deeply about not having children that I was sucked into a major depression. Extraordinary pain. I was tired of knitting sweaters for other people’s babies. But, I got over it.
Earlier this evening, I was at the grocery store and they were giving out carnations to mothers. The clerk handed me one and I said, “but I’m not a mother”. I’ve shopped there for a couple of decades and he said, “yeah, but you’re a kind and loving person, so take it”.
So, I did. And spent a lot of time this evening contemplating how we nurture each other, whether with other family members, friends, or the DOC.
Don’t ever feel alone. Because I will always be right here, feeling all of the same things you are. It’s incredibly hard, and I understand completely.
You are very loved, Lee Ann. Thank you for baring your soul with this one.
Thank you Lee Ann. You have expressed so succinctly the pain and uncertainty many of us have faced as diabetics in considering whether to have children. Not meeting my husband until my mid thirties and marrying at 39 we spoke about children and made our decision before our marriage. My husband wasn’t that keen on children, I was but felt my ship had well and truely sailed as I was approaching my 40′s, had diabetes with emerging complications and a long history of depression. I’ve recently had co-workers saying they thought that I would have had children by now, explaining to them that due to my age and my health that I would not be having children has been a difficult experience. To voluntarily offer up your choice to remain cildless and have people question your decision is truely invasive, and I’m not about to sit them down and talk through my decision making process with them. It was heartening to read your blog and the subsequent comments and know that I’m not alone, either in my choice or my (occasional) regrets. XX
[...] to become or not become a parent is fraught with high emotions. Lee Ann Thill eloquently discusses how Mother’s Day reminds her of the choices she has made and how the right answer is not always the easy [...]
I feel that women who have made the decision to remain childless through careful consideration like you have deserve respect an celebration of some kind. Instead our society shuns them. I’m the only adult woman in my family without kids or plans for kids in the future. My husband and I have been married a year, but made the decision not to have children many years ago. There is a massive pressure to procreate, making those of us who can but don’t feel inadequate in some way. No matter what we say about not planning on having children, people with either completely ignore it and continue to say “when you have kids” or will say “You’re young, there’s plenty of time to change your mind.” The pressure is even there in my medical care, every doctor I’ve met wants to help get me in shape to have healthy children… but all I want is to be a healthy me. Isn’t that enough?
You honest and logical presentation of your choice makes me feel like I’m not the only one. Thanks.