When I was twenty-one, rather by accident, I was told I would never have my own children. Having gone in for something completely different, learning this news was not something I was expecting to hear. It was hurtful, sad news – I knew I wanted children, not then, but one day. That possibility had just been stripped from me. My (former) boyfriend’s well-meaning mother offered helpful solutions like adoption. I didn’t know what to do with it. There were tears but I put it to bed and moved forward in life because what choice was there?

As a woman, it is surprising the number of times you get asked ‘when are you having children’, or ‘no kids yet?’. People mean well and they do not realize the cruelty behind the questions they ask. I produced evasive, clever answers. Ways to deflect and avoid. Not wanting to hurt feelings, I was kind and took on the responsibility of the questions. After more than 10 years of it, I got tired. I wanted children, and while it wasn’t exactly in the cards, I didn’t need to be reminded of it continually. In the end, when asked, I replied “I am barren, but thank you for reminding me.” Cruel yes, but my hope was that it made people stop and think. I always waited a moment and made a joke, but my point was made.

When my husband and I were dating, kids and marriage would come up occasionally, however, he had no interest in either. Being several older than me, he had long decided he didn’t want children and therefore, there was no reason to be married. This worked well enough for me for the time, and we went happily along for many years. Then one day, right around my 30th birthday, it stopped working. I needed to know, definitively, could I have kids or not.

My decision didn’t change his. This came to a parting of ways conversation between us. I couldn’t ask him to have children simply because I needed to know, nor could he have them just keep me happy. It was a hard conversation that led to a series of hard conversations. I don’t know if we really ever found the right answer but, in the end, we did decide to part ways. There were many tears.

In a strange turn of events, he changed his mind. It was the one thing I never thought he would do, but he did. There came a proposal, a wedding, and the settling into married life. It was good.

And then there were two blue lines. I was overwhelmed with excitement and joy. I went to the store and bought a cute onesie with puppies on it and gave it to my husband to announce the pregnancy. We were excited. For me, I was elated, cautious, but elated. I booked to see the doctor, just to confirm, and I started writing down my thoughts, and talking to the baby. A greater time had never come, as far as I could see. I was happy. I saw the doctor, sure, he said. I was pregnant. No real need to do a test. I was thirty-two, healthy, all things should be fine.

A few days later, after a particularly nasty winter storm, I helped push a stuck vehicle up a hill, I got home and noticed some twinging pains. The next day, I had some spotting. What had I done? Had I caused a problem? The books and the internet said what I was experiencing was normal and to not worry. My husband worked out of town, so I tried not to panic. I called the doctor the next day and back I went. He did blood work this time to check my hormone levels. By my dates and the numbers, something didn’t track. They were too low for the pregnancy to be viable.

I was miscarrying. My husband came home, and we spent some time together and waited. We didn’t know when. A day passed and nothing. He had to go back to work, I was still off. Emotionally, I was too upset to be any good. While it was something my husband didn’t seem to understand, even as I write this, 17 years later, I’m still incredibly emotional about it. It was my baby, and now, they were gone.

Late the next evening, my body began the motions of losing the baby. I had no idea what to expect. After calling the local telehealth service, who assured me what I was experiencing was normal, I let my body run through what it needed to do. Then I just cried, a lot. While I wasn’t far along in the pregnancy, I’m not sure that mattered to my heart.

It was something my husband did not understand. He did not understand the week I took off work. He did not understand the emotional toll it took. He did not understand the overwhelming sadness I felt every time I saw a pregnant woman in life or on television. He didn’t understand why, even after agreeing not to pursue it, why I asked for a referral to the fertility clinic, when, after six months, my body still had not straightened itself out after the miscarriage. While I was never to have my own kids, even getting pregnant was a coup of sorts, losing the pregnancy was devastating.

When we discovered we were pregnant seven months later, we were shocked, surprised, and terrified. I knew I could not handle another loss – I knew it would be the last pregnancy I put my body and mind through. Joyfully I can report that pregnancy, while not without its issues, resulted in a healthy, happy, full term baby. So, when I started spotting again, my heart sank. But until the nurse placed him in my arms (after an emergency c-section), I never truly believed I would hold my baby.

Much love, my chickens.