Teresa's Story: Endo, a Parade of Santas, Sadness and Success

You know those women that say they have always known they wanted kids? Always babysat as teenagers and just adored children? Spoke in that annoying sing-songy voice to even stranger’s kids? Well that wasn’t me. I really didn’t like kids very much. I am the oldest of about a million cousins, and I was surrounded by loud, crying kids all the time. You know, made responsible for them when we were playing, trying to make sure no one got hurt or killed one another. More of a referee than a playmate. Didn’t really sound like a gig I wanted to sign myself up for, really. Now I never said I didn’t want kids, but it seemed more like something I would do because that’s just what you did. You go to college, get married and have kids. I come from a large Hispanic Catholic family - seriously, who says they don’t want kids? I never had this strong maternal desire to become a mother. I was very indifferent to the whole matter in all honesty. Of course that all changed when I met my husband.

I met my husband right after college. We were engaged a year later and married six months after that. My first and only love. I loved this man so much; I could not imagine NOT having babies with him. Some sort of proof of our love, a little life that was part of both of us. It was amazing how wonderful and natural it felt, to take this next step in our relationship. Motherhood was no longer something I was expected to do, but something I truly desired more than ever. I remember lying in bed one night, nervous to approach the subject of starting a family with him. We were young, had just bought a home and though we both had good jobs, we were far from financially secure. To my surprise he agreed with me; and so late one night at the age of 25 my husband and I made a secret pact to start a family.

I’m sure everyone’s experiences are the same in the beginning. You talk afterwards, stupidly giggling, imagining THIS was the time that you would get pregnant. And though you know it could take a while, you still buy a box of home pregnancy tests and anxiously take one, or 2 or 10 before your first period is even due. And so it went. By month six and God knows how many HPTs, I was going insane. I was very young and naïve about the whole subject of fertility, but I had read that you really didn’t need to be concerned until after a year. As one year approached I had become obsessed. So familiar with my cycle and my bodily functions, I began to despise it. What was that cramp? Was I ovulating? Getting my period? If I felt the slightest bit ill, I would convince myself that it was definitely morning sickness. I couldn’t go the bathroom with out studying each swipe of the toilet paper. Anxious each time, dreading the familiar tinges of pink signaling yet another period; crying in the stall afterwards and then trying to pull myself back together and finish the work day as if everything were fine.

At one year, I excitedly made my gynecologist appointment, certain we would get to the bottom of this at last. Instead, she sent me home to try for another six months. No tests, nothing. And so I did. The obsession grew, the anxiety heightened, and I started to sink into a deep depression. Christmas came and went, officially marking my failure. I had imagined this would be our first Christmas with a bundle of joy. Certainly, by next Christmas there would be something to celebrate. I clung to that hope.

Month after month continued to pass. I became a shell of a person. I lived according to my menstrual cycle, crying each time I got my period. Two weeks later getting hopeful again that I would get pregnant that month, only to have the cycle repeat itself. Each period was a reminder of how my body was failing me. Night after night, month after month, my husband held me as I cried, trying desperately to console me, powerless to help. That poor man - I don’t know how he stayed so strong. To say I was a mess would be an understatement. He never got angry at me for my feelings, never rolled his eyes when I started crying again. He just held me and listened, sometimes crying with me when it was too much to bear. I had started to hit rock bottom, at this point I was barely functional. It took every ounce of energy to live the charade that I was a “normal” person. I despised myself. I felt like a failure. What kind of woman couldn’t have a baby? It’s the most basic of all abilities – the most primitive of life forms can reproduce. Isn’t that why “God created woman?” Crack whores, alcoholics and child abusers have babies. I couldn’t understand what I had done to deserve this.

I withdrew more and more. When you are young and newly married, people expect you to start popping out kids. I couldn’t escape the innocent questions people repeatedly asked. It was becoming harder and harder to answer nonchalantly, “someday…but we aren’t ready for kids now.” Everywhere I went I was surrounded by news of pregnancy and newborn babies. The plastered smile on my face became harder and harder to force. I couldn’t stand to be around babies, I was terrified to hold one certain I would break down in uncontrollable tears. I would panic, trying to remember what a “normal” person looked like when they held one, trying desperately to imitate the appropriate amount of joy other people seemed to express. I remember the feeling of holding my cousin’s newborn. It hurt so much, and yet it felt so good at the same time. I remember cradling her, thinking – If I could take her, I would. I would take her and keep her and she would be mine. I had held her with that stupid smile plastered on my face, feeling both warm and cold all over, screaming – sobbing - on the inside. I never wanted something so badly in my life as I wanted that little girl…