Temporarily Stuck in Childlessness

The emphasis is on the first word.

Hopefully the other two describe only a passing condition — even if it has already lasted for years.

I want to believe again that the first breeze of spring will finally blow those two words out of my life.

There are still countless questions inside me.

I have turned each one over six hundred times and still think about them differently depending on where I happen to be on the emotional roller coaster that comes with this situation.

Why do I have to sit here again?

Why am I still sitting here?

Whether it is a doctor's waiting room, a blood test or some alternative treatment centre.

If I stop sitting in these places, does that mean I have given up and accepted the situation?

Or am I simply taking a break because I want to forget about it for a while and no longer allow it to colour every single day?

I know I cannot keep postponing things.

I never really have.

The Right One arrived late too.

Life does not always give us things when and how we would choose.

Now I will have to tell my story again to the doctor behind the door.

Perhaps I will hear another verdict.

Or a new treatment plan.

We'll see.

There are no guarantees.

Either it works, or my body and soul do not respond well.

I will keep it short and factual.

If tears begin gathering in my eyes again, that would not be useful.

I save those for later, when I am alone.

Nobody here knows what to do with tears anyway.

It would only make both of us uncomfortable.

Deep breath.

Drink some water.

Bathroom.

I can handle that.

But first I still have to wait.

Wait and wait, despite booking the appointment one or two months ago.

I brought a book.

There are piles of magazines too.

But I cannot understand the meaning of a single line.

So I look at the fashion photographs.

Sometimes I search for signs.

On the way to or from the doctor, if the first person I see is a woman pushing a pram or visibly pregnant, perhaps that is an encouraging sign.

Once, while searching through clipped magazine recipes for Sunday lunch, a photograph of a baby fell out.

Another time I found twin cucumbers in a jar of pickles, and one where a tiny cucumber had grown together with a larger one.

It's a good game.

Or perhaps the edge of madness?

Students occasionally help in our office.

Oh, that girl is the same age I was when Mum was the age I am now.

Different times, I tell myself.

Women had children in their twenties then.

Push the thought away.

“I'm not going to visit you. Please try to understand.”

I end the call quickly.

I can feel my anger rising.

Do people genuinely have no empathy?

Apparently many do not.

Like some ridiculous obstacle course I have always hated, I avoid situations that touch me too deeply on the bad days.

I am no longer willing to act.

I was never particularly good at it anyway.

My feelings are usually written all over my face.

So for self-protection, I keep some distance from new mothers and people with very young children.

Someone hands me a leaflet.

There will be a charity concert to help pay for the medical treatment of a little girl with leukaemia.

Her mother gives it to me.

Looking into her eyes, I immediately feel her pain.

And it cuts through me that what she is going through is even harder than what I am.

Hope connects us.

I think about this often:

Waiting for a child is difficult.

But losing one must be far more terrible.

At least those parents have had beautiful moments and memories too.

People say we should try to create something good from our struggles.

I tried.

And it seems to work.

Volunteering with children feels good.

Unfortunately, I do not have enough time for it.

They are older children, of course.

I don't think I could manage with very small ones.

Then, unexpectedly, a request connected to a school assignment gave me a borrowed child once a week for several months.

Sadly, that has ended now because they moved away.

And that makes things difficult again.

The child has no idea how much that simple request gave me.

I told them they can visit me any time.

I hope we stay in touch.

After all, I still exchange letters with the neighbour lady from my childhood.

I would love to see what kind of adult this child becomes — and to watch the road leading there.

Our substitute child waits at the gate every evening, barking excitedly when we get home.

A velvet-eared little creature who is incredibly lovable and somehow retunes even the difficult moments.

Sometimes the dog curls up beside me, rests its head against me and lets out a deep sigh as if to say:

I understand everything.

---

I am waiting for that spring breeze.

Leaving our future to fate and whatever powers may be above us.

Perhaps one day, when we go for a walk, it will not be only the velvet-eared one coming with us.

(The cover image is only an illustration.)

Professional portrait photography works best when the real person remains recognisable behind the image.

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