A year and a half later, I still haven?t unpacked my hospital bag from my three-day stay in the maternity ward. Filled with makeup, books, special shampoo and other things I didn?t end up using or even needing, the bag reminds me of the woman I used to be before I had my son: hopeful, unprepared, scared. Every time I open it, intending to put those unused items away, I?m reminded of how much I feared I?d never get to pack a bag like that at all. I haven?t been able to untangle all the grief, joy and anguish I went through to get pregnant, and I?m clearly still not ready to, so I leave the bag in the closet.
Even though I?m not overly private, my infertility is one subject I?ve kept to myself. Even the word ?infertility? is withholding?it suggests an inward fault that isn?t meant to be seen. When my first book was published in 2014, I was a few months pregnant after two years of trying and one miscarriage. I couldn?t shake the fear that, at any moment, I was about to lose my baby. A failing uterine artery and a family history of pre-eclampsia sent me to weekly doctor?s visits, more ultrasounds than I could count and multiple blood draws. When I was six months along, I risked a long car ride to attend a friend?s birthday party. A mutual acquaintance sat down beside me and pointed at my belly. ?I knew it,? she said. ?I knew as soon as you published your book, you?d be ready to have a baby.?
I wanted to leave her mid-epiphany and walk away, even though she wasn?t completely wro...