Editor’s Notes: 

The following is shared from the perspective of someone in a season of secondary infertility. 

The Protoevangelium (“first Gospel”) of St. James is an apocryphal text. The Church doesn’t recognize it to be inspired in the way the Gospels, Epistles and other books are, so it’s not included in the canon of Scripture. It is, however, part of the Tradition, and readers will recognize many of its stories and the feasts we celebrate (like the Presentation of Mary in the Temple) that aren’t found in the Gospels.

 

“The next one will just happen. It always does.”  

 

“So many of my clients have a hard time with the first and then the other ones just come. The body just figures it out.”

 

According to all the experts, my body had finally figured it out with our first pregnancy in 2015 and I was relieved that I would finally be able to start having children like all my Good Catholic Open-to-Life Friends…. 

Well, despite being open-to-life/trying to conceive for three plus years, the next one hasn’t just happened. And again, I am tempted to feel like a broken failure. 

Secondary infertility is similar to primary infertility in many ways. There’s the monthly roller coaster of emotions. There’s that cyclical grieving process to pass through when each potential due date doesn’t become The One. There’s the same temptation to control things as much as possible to improve the odds and frustratingly, the realization that I actually have no control over this at all.

It’s all the same as it was years ago, before he came to be, but now there’s this additional ingredient to the messy brew of infertility: Mom Guilt. I have this little audience of one who watches my every move, every day. And I worry about the effects my grief has on him. Does he know he is loved and enough? Am I sharing too much with him? Is it wrong to encourage him to pray for a sibling? Is it fair to drag him to another appointment for blood work or an ultrasound? Should we just stop trying? Will he be okay as an only? Can I be okay with it?

I grew up in a family of five.  I remember asking my mom why she had so many of us; she always responded, “I was really lonely as an only child. I wanted my children to have someone to play with.” 

Only children carry a stigma. They’re either lonely or they’re spoiled – or maybe they become spoiled because of the guilt their parents feel over them being lonely. It’s a stigma I’ve been battling with since my son hit two years old and we still weren’t pregnant with his sibling. I don’t want my son to be lonely. I don’t want my son to be spoiled.

Fortunately, we don’t have to dig too deep to find holy examples of only children in our Faith tradition. Mary, John the Baptist, and, of course, Jesus were only children. Two out of the three of these holy people were long awaited gifts from God to couples who had suffered long seasons of infertility. These three only children are the only birthdays commemorated on our Liturgical Calendar… They’re kind of a Big Deal.

We all know St. Elizabeth’s story of the conception and birth of John the Baptist, but did you know that there is an account of Sts. Anne and Joachim’s story? I didn’t. I was talking with my dad about this guilt and sadness and worry I feel over the ever increasing space there will be between my son and other children (if we’re ever blessed again) and he suggested I read the Protoevangelium of St. James. I had never heard of it. You can read it here.  

The first few chapters focus on the story of Sts. Anne and Joachim, Jesus’ grandparents. In my reading, I was struck by two canticles of sorts spoken by St. Anne. 

In Chapter Three as she sits under the laurel tree in her garden, she looks around her and sees the fruitfulness of nature and cries out: “Alas! Who begot me? And what womb produced me? Because I have become a curse in the presence of the sons of Israel, and I have been reproached, and they have driven me in derision out of the temple of the Lord. Alas! To what have I been likened? I am not like the fowls of the heaven, because even the fowls of the heaven are productive before You, O Lord. Alas! To what have I been likened? I am not like the beasts of the earth, because even the beasts of the earth are productive before You, O Lord. Alas! To what have I been likened? I am not like these waters, because even these waters are productive before You, O Lord. Alas! To what have I been likened? I am not like this earth, because even the earth brings forth its fruits in season, and blesses You, O Lord.”

Every spring since my son was born, we’ve had birds make a nest and have babies somewhere conspicuous on our property. One year, it was a hanging pot by our front door. Another year, they found a way into the corner of our attic. And I’ve sat in my home, year after year, hearing those baby birds calling out and feeling a sting. I feel crazy for letting such a beautiful (and cute!) thing become a trigger for me, but St. Anne knew that same pain. All around us, we look and see fruitfulness and yet our wombs are empty.  

But then, I have also felt the deliverance St. Anne declares in Chapter Six: “I will sing a song to the Lord my God, for He has looked upon me, and has taken away the reproach of mine enemies; and the Lord has given the fruit of His righteousness, singular in its kind, and richly endowed before Him. Who will tell the sons of Rubim that Anna gives suck? Hear, hear, you twelve tribes of Israel, that Anna gives suck.”

Reading this passage I flash back to the beautifully difficult birth experience we had and the two and half years I was blessed to be able to provide nourishment to my son from my body. I am so grateful for this gift. 

So where do I belong? I am afraid to go back and sit with other aching and hurting women under the laurel tree because most likely, my son will be tagging along with me.  But I don’t feel I fit in with the Catholic Mom’s group circles as I have no baby at breast or round growing tummy. I long to find belonging somewhere. Someone who sees my struggle not with sympathy but maybe some recognition?

My son needs socialization and I ache for adult conversation. Can I take him to mom’s groups and face the questions of ‘do you have any others?’ Can I hold back the tears and jealousy when I see the cute newborns or watch the adorable lines of siblings holding hands as they walk through the parking lot to a mini van? Will I be able to bite my tongue when I hear the inevitable complaining about the difficulty of raising and caring for So Many Littles?

Katie Wood lives in Virginia with her husband, son, and dog. She holds a Master of Special Education and works as a virtual assistant for various Catholic ministries. In her free time, she enjoys being out in nature, baking yummy things for people she loves, and knitting.