I must've written and rewritten this entry a dozen times.  I've come to the realization that there's simply no neat and tidy way of being fully honest, especially given the circumstances. Thus, I apologize for the mess you're all about to find yourselves in.

A lovely woman named Anne is a Catholic woman who is dating an Agnostic man.  She believes they are a perfect match in all things but religion.  He was born and raised Catholic but now views Catholicism as something akin to a fairytale while she obviously has deep reverence for her Catholic heritage.

She asked us for our advice on what to do given she's looking to marry this man.

I've been wrestling around a lot with this one.  She commented her plight at the end of August to my "I Married an Agnostic" post from 2011, and I'm half afraid she thinks I've forgotten all about her!

Anne, I promise that I haven't.  I just didn't know how to write this without upsetting you.  My advice, I fear, is not what you're hoping for.  

My advice, in fact, is to get out now.  

I realize you might be surprised to hear that from me, but I've walked in your shoes.  For miles. I'm STILL walking in them which is precisely why I'm telling you that unless you know for certain you are being called to convert this man through a lifetime of marriage (which, itself, carries the reality of conversion not happening and your struggle having an adverse effect on future children), cut your losses, give your heart a healthy time to heal, and ask God to put the right man in your midst.  

You might be wondering how I could say such a thing when my own marriage hasn't fallen apart and my son is a (mostly) willing participant in the Faith.  

This was not without toil, tears, a very real threat of divorce, and an intense overhaul of my entire relationship with John.  That's not even counting the amount of prayers and work that still go into it.

Am I saying I wish I hadn't married John?  Of course not.  I got two children out of the deal and undoubtedly grew closer to Christ.  However, I was significantly less spiritually mature than you currently are when I answered the call to marriage.  

You fully understand the importance of your faith and the necessity of a father to be a spiritual leader for his family.  I didn't understand that; worse, I didn't even think such a thing was necessary! As a result of my ignorance, my family started out with a distinct disadvantage.  We were not a cohesive unit in what would become a very large and important part of our lives. That friction reached its tentacles into everything, especially as I matured in my faith and realized the depth of my ignorance.  

John's refusal to accept my religious beliefs as valid directly - DIRECTLY - correlates to his refusal to be open to more children.  

So Anne, if you plan to have children, be prepared for a similar fate.  It is an excruciating, 
at-times-unbearable, cross to shoulder.

Readers who have been following me for a while might be incredibly unsettled by this.  

When I first learned that this was the driving reason behind my husband's reluctance to have more children, words couldn't possibly express the emotions that coursed through me.  In fact, it's been over a year since I learned that this was my reality and this is the first time I've voiced it beyond my two closest friends.  

It's also the prime reason why responding to you, Anne, has been so challenging.  I couldn't be honest with you without being honest about the depth of my own struggle.  This is a tragic, brutal and incredibly bigoted reality, and it's a reality I want so much to protect you from.  I wouldn't wish this sort of sacrifice on anyone.

It's a sacrifice that I willingly make, yes, but it's a willing sacrifice only because I've already made my vows.  You have not.  Please understand that this is what you'd be saying "I do" to... not just for yourself, but for your future children.

And before you think to yourself that your boyfriend would never do such a thing, again, I've walked in your shoes.  My husband said he accepted my Catholicism.  

Seeing Vincent's participation alongside me must've shifted that for him, because Catholicism was no longer some harmless fairy tale.  To John, it became a bitter irritant.  Prayers at bedtime are nails on chalkboard.  Sunday Mass can solicit anything from an eye-roll to not-so-secret vindication when Vince cries that he doesn't want to go.  

Catholicism has become such a hated thing to my husband that he does not want to see it replicated in his children.  Because he cannot love that part of me, he cannot love that part of our children.  Thus, the only way to stave off such irritation is to stop having children.  To poison one is enough... to poison more than one is unthinkable to him.  

And that is his mindset.  Through tears, I demanded to know how he could hold such a bigoted notion in his head.  He is not what I'd consider a bigot.  He's otherwise incredibly tolerant and accepting.  In fact, should any of his friends read this, they'd probably think I was somehow mistaken - that I'd misunderstood his motivation.

I assure you I have not.  I had him spell it out for me.  That was one of the most painful and damaging conversations I've ever had with anyone in my entire life.  It still stings when I think of it.  

I couldn't understand.  I still don't to a certain degree.  I asked him what part of Catholicism bothered him so much that he couldn't stand to see it played out in me... in Vincent.  He couldn't answer me.  He noted prayers at bedtime or his little sayings of "Jesus loves me" irritated him, but our son is wonderful.  Him being baptized Catholic has not somehow made him less wonderful, but for John, it was enough to make him resent and yes, even hate, Catholicism. Hate it to the point where he willingly allows me to suffer an enforced infertility so as not to bring forth any other children who would suffer the fate of *gasp* Baptism and a Catholic education.

It is not fear of finance... fear of time constraints... fear of love or capability that has condemned me to this cross of infertility.  It is my husband's hatred of Catholicism.  

He shared this in a moment of deep and unfiltered honesty just over one year ago.  I appreciated his honesty, because it showed a level of trust that we'd never come close to understanding.  However, I've lived with this knowledge, completely unsure how to proceed. When I thought his decision was based on finances and such, the cross was easier to bear.  At least his rationale made sense. This, however, was almost insurmountable.  It is still a daily struggle.  

It is a struggle I want to preserve you from, Anne.  It's a struggle I want to preserve your future children from.  

My husband and I have since discussed things.  We both agree that had we known then what we know now about the importance of faith to one another, we likely would not have gotten married. I had, after all, broken off the engagement at one point when he tried to get me to agree not to baptize our future children.  We should've known then that faith was more important than we were giving it credit for.  

But we didn't, and we publicly vowed to love one another every day for the rest of our lives. Love doesn't begin and end with tummy butterflies.  It is an active choice to respect, honor, protect, nurture and support your spouse - every day.  

So that is how I find myself in this situation.  I love my husband, Anne.  I love him, respect him, support him, and do my best to nurture him in ways that will ultimately make him a better person.  He obviously tries his best to do the same for me.  However, I'd be remiss if I didn't warn you of the heartache that comes with this sort of union.

Take my story to heart.  For as much as you love your boyfriend (and I have no doubt you do), you will also love those children you create, and you need to be thinking of them.  The best decision you can ever make for them is who their father will be.  

In all things, you have my prayers.  Other readers, please feel free to chime in with your advice for Anne.  

<3

Vincent and I spent the weekend down the shore with family and friends.  Usually we hang out as a group on the beach, but due to the rain, our neighbors ended up coming over to our house and my in-laws hosted an impromptu barbecue.  

It was a blast.  Our neighbors, Pete and Daisy, have two little girls named Jasmine and Lily. Jasmine is Alliya's age, so the two of them are best buddies.  Lily is only two, so she and Vincent are a little pair.  The four of them play well together, too, but they definitely tend to break up into two distinct groups.  

Anyhow, when my FIL brought Jasmine over in the morning to give Pete and Daisy a break, Vincent was angry that Lily hadn't come, too.  He didn't understand why she needed to nap when she should've been having fun with him.  Later, when Pete showed up (also without Lily), Vincent didn't even bother greeting him.  He demanded to know why he dared to come over without bringing his "best friend in the whole wide world."  

Finally, Lily woke up from her nap and Daisy brought her over to join the rest of us.  Vincent was in his glories.  He jumped off the couch, rushed over to her and gave her a giant hug.  "LILY!" he cried.  "We gotta play!"

This is what the two of them look like for the rest of the time they're together:

Vincent leading her by the hand everywhere, checking to make sure she's got everything she needs (or does everything she's supposed to do before she gets a snack - ha).  They also both tend to scramble if you try to sneak a picture of them being cute together. Rascals.  

Later on in the day, Lily settled into my FIL's lap.  She calls him "Uncle John" and she knows she's got him wrapped around her adorable little finger!  Anyway, it was so sweet to see how they were interacting together.  I snapped this picture of her giving me a toothy grin:

Vince is right behind her with his back turned, but Lord, that kid won't let Lily out of his sight for very long.  It's so cute!  

I admit, however, that I got a bit wallow-y when I wondered what it'd be like for Myla to be sitting in his lap.  Vince is such a good big brother to Lily (and his other little cousins), I feel sad that he didn't get the chance to interact with Myla the same way.  

I pushed those thoughts out of my mind until later that evening when we took the kids out for ice cream.  Again Lily was sitting on my FIL's lap while I had Jasmine, Alliya and Vince huddled up in front of me.  Lily was successfully convincing my FIL to hand over all of his ice cream to her, and he was happily obliging, looking like the proudest, happiest person in the universe.

It made me sad to think that we'd never provide him with the grandchildren he takes such delight in.  I felt guilty... like I'd failed something on an intrinsic level.  He wasn't doing anything to accuse me or even make me feel badly.  He likely didn't even notice I was there watching him enjoy Lily's manipulations for ice cream.  It was my own brokenness projected and magnified by my intense longing for not only Myla, but all the children I've envisioned and subsequently been denied.  I understood that, but it didn't lessen my feelings of inadequacy, failure and sadness.

I didn't want to further my upset, so I turned away and imagined myself making a fist and physically punching back the knot in my throat until I could breathe without crying.  

*Sigh*

Sorry if I sound miserable or depressed.  I'm not.  I'm certainly sad now and again when this sort of situation arises, but I'm trying to be honest with how this sort of thing affects my daily life.  Myla is always in my thoughts, so my imagination sometimes puts her into situations like this.  Is it logical?  Probably not.  Then again, I think it's human to always wonder "What if?"  

In this situation, it's obviously a moot point, but I guess we're so used to exercising our God-given gift of creativity that we can't help ourselves sometimes.  

Losing a child (or even the opportunity for children) is a terrible cross.  It's hard for folks who haven't been in this situation to understand how all-encompassing it is.  I don't write these things to remind people of my struggle, but I do write to remind folks that this struggle is real and it's daily (not just for me, but for the many, MANY other men and women who struggle with this sort of cross).  

Tread softly and with much, much compassion, because even when we're trying our best to look past our sorrow to count our blessings, we can't help but hear echos of our indignant humanity insisting "What if?"

I attended the baby shower of a friend of mine today.  He became a dad several weeks early.  He and my sister were gunning for preemie bragging rights, I think, because his daughter was born in similar circumstances as Maria's son. Thankfully, both of them are fighters and are well on their way to fattening up enough to come home.  

God is good!

Today was my friend's shower.  He and his wife came with photos of their daughter in the NICU.  Of course she's beautiful!  :)  Please keep them in your prayers. We'll all be very relieved when they're ALL home safe and sound.

As for the shower, it was a surprising experience for me.

The entire way there, I was nervous.  I was afraid of facing a baby shower for a little girl.  I didn't know if I was "there" yet.  I was super happy for Jen and Leo, but I can admit that I am painfully aware that Myla never had a shower and will never have family and friends gathered to celebrate her.

Before you chide me for my selfishness, I already get it.  I felt guilty enough for even allowing myself to go down that road.  I'm being honest, though.  I was nervous because I wasn't sure if seeing all the pink balloons, baby clothes and baby things would overload me. 

I was one of the very first people there.  The place was adorably decked out in pink and purple balloons.  "It's a Girl" posters were everywhere, and the tables had cute little bookmarks made with their daughter's birthday and stats.  Immediately I realized none of my friends had yet made their entrance.

I sent out a text.  Dear God, let them be two seconds away!  I can't do this by myself!

To my horror, none of my friends were actually attending.  They sent me messages back with varying degrees of "I have other plans."

GAH.  

My heart actually sank and I contemplated turning around and leaving right then and there. I couldn't face this all by myself - not without a friend or two to talk about anything and everything to keep me from the pity-party brewing in my heart.

But no.  I quietly took a seat at an empty table.  Especially knowing that our other friends weren't coming, I couldn't leave Leo to think that none of us was there to celebrate with him.  So I sucked it up as best I could and braced for impact.  I begged God to take away my selfish grief and replace it with a magnification of the true joy I had for Leo, Jen and their little Maggie.  

I stayed in my secluded little spot for about 10 minutes as other people trickled in.  God was kind, because He sent my cousin's girlfriend as one of the attendees.  She and I aren't close (mostly because we never see one another), so she was the perfect person to snap me into "Happy Gina" mode.  Since I'm not comfortable enough to share personal details, my "auto-wall" went up and I slid into my "Everything is great, how are you?" game.  She's an actress, so my guess is that happens frequently with her, too.  Regardless, it was exactly the situation I needed to survive that moment.

Pretty soon, most guests had arrived.  My originally silent table had grown to encompass all of Jen's friends.  My cousin's girlfriend knew many of them from theater, so by the time Jen and Leo finally arrived, the table was so full that I was able to quietly excuse myself and sit with Leo, his best friend, Adam, and Adam's girlfriend.  Adam is an old friend of mine through my husband, so again God afforded me a great person to focus on so I didn't have time to dwell on any vestige of a pity party.  I really enjoyed spending the next two hours catching up with Adam and getting to know his girlfriend a bit better.  

When it was time to leave, I was able to go with with a sense of gratefulness and pride. Grateful, of course, that I'd been able to stay to celebrate with Leo and Jen.  Grateful, also, that God had sent me two key people to help me cope with what could have been a really difficult experience.  Pride, finally, that I'd made the decision to stick it out.  I really am proud that I was somehow able to make it through that shower intact and truly happy.  I felt no bitterness or envy, no jealousy or anger regarding the gift of their child.  On the contrary, God gave me what I requested - a magnified joy and a deep appreciation since I knew that Maggie wasn't just a gift for them... she was a gift for the world.

<3

Me: “I’m just not feeling very well.”

John:  “Why do you think you’re sick?  Did you catch Vincent’s stomach bug?”

I stopped myself from angrily retorting, No, John, I did not catch a stomach bug.  This is not a cold, this is not the flu, and it’s NOT my imagination.  This is our CHILD, and she is being unceremoniously taken away from me… from US.

Instead, I just shot him a look that shouted, C’mon, you’re not this dense, John.  To hit home the point, I said, “It’s only been a couple days, John.  I’m still bleeding, and I just don’t feel well.”

Immediately he took his hand from mine and recoiled into himself.  Here he was trying to have a fun, cute time talking about our upcoming “honeymoon” to the Bahamas, and there I go bringing up things he’d rather pretend didn’t exist. 

This is going to be a long, long road.  I just don’t know how to handle things right now.  I don’t know what to say or do, so I mostly remain silent.  For the most part, I think I’m okay.  I’m certainly sad when I think on my child, but I’m also buoyed by my faith that this child is happy and praying for us. 

That being said, I want to talk about this.  Problem is, I don’t want to talk about it with just anyone.  I want to talk to John, but John absolutely bristles at the thought.  The last time we spoke about this was Sunday night, and he was itching to be done with it throughout the brief moments we discussed things. 

In his mind, I am just wrong.  I’ve been so desperate for a child that I tricked myself into believing I was pregnant and got my period early.  All the other signs were just coping mechanisms.  In a nutshell, he closed himself off to the possibility that I was pregnant.

I’m not sure if he fully believes that or if it’s his way of coping with the possibility of a miscarriage.  He said the idea of a miss is upsetting, but he also says that since there’s no way to prove a child existed, I was probably just wrong.

I admit… I almost want to believe that because the thought is comforting.  I’m now going back and forth on whether or not I want to believe it was all in my head.  But I don’t believe it.  In the deepest part of my soul, I know I held a child. 

I’ve been yearning for children for YEARS.  Why, all of the sudden, would I start developing symptoms now?  What would have changed in the last month that would have suddenly set my psyche off balance enough to delude myself (and the physiology of my body) into believing I was pregnant… only to then suffer the heartache of losing that pregnancy within the month?

I just… no.  I don’t accept it.  I want to.  I really, REALLY want to, but the more I try to rationalize that as my situation, the more my heart revolts and says, “No.  You shall NOT ignore this gift you’ve been given.  You shall NOT forget the life you briefly held that now beckons you, through prayer, to Heaven.  This child was made through love in the Image of God.  You shall not write her off as some mistaken illusion.”

Chided by love, I’m back to square one.  I’m struggling to handle these feelings but I don’t know what to do with them.  At times, I’m perfectly calm.  I’m able to move about my day as if nothing has happened.  Other times, I need a moment to recollect myself in private… a tiny moment to remember what it is to breathe.

Roller coaster implies highs.  I don’t feel as though I have any highs.  Plateaus of “okay” might be more appropriate.  Plateaus of “okay” interspersed with dips in the road.  I don’t believe I’ve spiked down into depression, but the hurt and the sadness and the utter hopelessness of my situation does drag me down some dark alleys sometimes. 

I just keep chugging along, though.  I keep telling myself it’s normal to feel this way.  It’s normal to have bouts with these emotions throughout the day, especially given I’m still at ground zero. 

But sigh.  I just don’t know what or how to say things right now.  So I keep silent because I’d rather stay silent than cry.  I’d rather stay silent then go off on an angry tangent that only masks the guilt and feelings of failure that I have. 

Really, that’s all the anger is there for.  I’m not really angry.  I’m hurt.  Dear God, I am so, so hurt.  Sometimes I hate my heart for its ability to keep beating.  At least my lungs forget to breathe sometimes, but my heart...  What a nasty little contraption to keep on beating – thump after painful thump – when everything else within me wants to crawl into a corner and die. 

No… maybe that’s a touch dramatic.  I don’t want to die so much as leave this world to see my child.  To tell her that I love her and to let her, for even a moment, feel my fingers on her cheek. 

Cruel, cruel heart with your rhythmic taunting.  I’m grudgingly grateful that you are deaf to my soul’s plea for solace.  Keep marching, for though you don’t march for me, you march for Vincent.  Maybe that’s enough right now.  

Our Lady of Sorrows, pray for us.

And as I had the “Way to screw that up” thought flash through my mind, my MIL realized the pregnant pause wasn’t so pregnant as infertile and immediately wished she could swallow the words that had already sliced through my soul.

She hadn’t even uttered her realization of “Oh Gina… I’m so sorry” as I felt the first tears start to fall.  I was trying vainly to quell my tidal wave of grief so I could tell her not to feel guilty… that it wasn’t her fault I was reacting so strongly.  I could only muster a shake of my head and a faltering, “No, Ma, it’s okay.  It’s really okay.  Vincent isn’t too much.  John just doesn’t want anymore.”

My MIL is a wonderful woman.  She truly is.  She’s probably one of the most genuinely caring people in the world.  She really is happiest when she’s making other people feel at ease or cared for.  That part of her personality is so attractive… so magnetic… people tend to relish being in her company.  So as soon as she realized she’d caught me off guard, she felt bad.  So she said, “I’ll talk to my son.  That’s just not right.”

I started to protest, but I was still too overcome with emotion to do more than bite my lip to prevent all out sobbing.  So I just shook my head and she understood we’d talk later.  She said, “It’s okay.  We’ll talk later.  Back at the house.”

About 45 minutes later, we were alone on the beach with my neice.  She was playing with some friends, so I took that opportunity to have the conversation John should have had months ago.  

Continued in Part III:  The Talk

Ever have your husband say to you, “Oh honey, I’ve taken care of it.  X-issue will never come up again.  Don’t even worry about it!”

Ever think, immediately upon hearing those words, that X-issue will most CERTAINLY come up again because your husband doesn’t “take care of things” as well as he thinks he does?

Oh John… *shakes head with playful reproach*  I fell victim to his version of “taking care of things” this weekend. 

Several months ago, John’s mother had been hinting at the prospect of John and I having more children.  Obviously her intention was not to shove a sword through my heart, but given the nature of my current fertility predicament, that’s exactly what ended up happening. 

And really, that’s partly my fault.  Never wanting to make her feel bad for desiring more grandchildren from us, I did my best to keep my emotions under control.  I never let her see anything more than the carefully concocted façade that masked my deepest, most crushing grief. 

After this happened in December (and it was December, I just couldn’t bring myself to post about it until February), John took the initiative and assured me he had spoken to his mother in an attempt to head-off similar situations.  When I pressed him to find out how, exactly, he’d handled the conversation, I could tell that he wasn't very thorough because he didn’t want to have a heart-to-heart with his mother about why he, himself, didn’t want any more children.  He didn’t want to admit that to his mom because he knew she wouldn’t let the conversation end there.

But I didn’t press the issue further because I figured I’d find out, myself, through future interactions with my MIL. 

This weekend was my reckoning.  

Later that afternoon, my niece saw me with the baby again.  As she and Vincent were dancing around the living room, she said,

"Aunt Gina, do you want another baby?"

I smiled at her and said, "Alliya, I'd like 100 more babies."

She laughed (as did my mother-in-law) and replied, "Why did you have Vincent?"

I said, "Because I loved him so very much."

My mother-in-law was trying to answer her as well, but Alliya was pretty intent on my response.  She's a smart one!  She didn't accept my answer as good enough, so she pressed me further with:

"Then why don't you have more?"

Her innocent question was more loaded than she realized, and I fault her none for the immediate torrent of grief that coursed through me.  I pulled the newborn against me and kissed her head, once again taken hostage by my pained knowledge that the baby I held wasn't mine and likely never would be.

I soon handed the baby back to her mother so I could recollect myself in private.  I could see John sitting on the porch talking to the men and it made me slightly irritated that he never got these kinds of questions.  These were conversations for women, not men.  Besides, even if someone did ask him about children, he'd nonchalantly express his contentment with Vincent (which is fine). 

Then this weekend, we spent some time with my best friend's family.  She and her brothers have exactly the kind of relationship I always knew my kids would have with one another.  Watching Mary and her siblings play ball in the yard together was both wonderful and painful.  When I think of the children I'll never have, I can't help but feel like I'm cheating Vincent out of his siblings.  I mean, I even asked John about that - he and his siblings have a good relationship.  Didn't he think that Vincent deserved the same?

And then I worry about when we get older - will Vince be forced to care for us by himself?  Will he have no support system with which to rely when John and I die?  It's one thing to share this sorta pain with your friends - it's entirely different to share it with those who know EXACTLY the loss you feel.  Who but a sibling can share that sort of grief with you?

And then what if Vincent does grow up and decide to become a priest (I can only pray - ha!).  In addition to me not having children, I would then also be denied grandchildren.  These things are painful to me alone.  John doesn't really desire these things, so there isn't any loss for him in that regard.  And that's fair.  I can't (and wouldn't) force him into caring for something that is a non-issue.  He can't be faulted for his feelings on this subject.  Considering how bombarded we are anymore regarding children being nothing more than a hinderance to personal gratification and success, I really am unsurprised. 

He was afraid I'd resent him for his feelings, but I can't.  I understand his feelings and they are valid.  So please don't attack him for that which he has no real control over.  His feelings are just as strong (and valid) as mine.

Hiding this flood of emotion has become extremely taxing.  I don't like to bombard John with it, and I certainly never want to "out" him to his family (because no doubt there would be some head-wagging from certain corners).  I also never want to make others feel bad for sharing their joy - or even making comments that imply the children I'd bear are wanted. 

But the pain is there.  It is palpable, and I honestly think this must be what couples struggling with infertility face.  It has made me much more sensitive to my own comments regarding children and time-frames that revolve around them.  After all, I'm kind of dealing with a forced sterility. 

No, that's not fair.  It's not forced.  It took me a while, but I've recently come to understand that this is something I have willingly accepted for the benefit of my husband.