My thoughts started as a child

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This is part 1 of 3. The 2nd and 3rd parts deal with raising my two children where I will take you down the road of raising them in general and problems which were encountered along the way.

Had I known what an experience was in store for me, I would certainly have been very surprised!

At the young age of about 6 or 7 years, I had already decided that what I wanted to do in life was to become a mother. I wanted children, and I wanted three of them. Why three, I have no idea but it sounded like a good number. My best friend wanted no children, she did not like children even though she was a child herself. We often giggled about this.

Funnily enough, when I was 15, my friends and I decided to visit a fortune-teller whom we had heard about. “This woman was good”, we were told. And as our usual giggling teenage selves, off we went to have our future revealed. Certain things she said remained imbedded in my mind – perhaps as the future unfolded. In hind site, I do think this specific woman had some foresight.

She told me I would leave the country “But don’t worry, you will be back”. We did leave South Africa, twice in fact, and each time came back. “You will not marry very young – it will be in your late 20’s” – too true, I was 27. “You will have many children – but 3 of them will die”. That stunned me and I thought to myself, “This woman’s a total phony”. All the way home, we compared notes -she had not told any of us anything remotely similar – we all had different stories to tell afterwards. As certain events in our lives started unfolding, we always remembered the ‘wise woman’s’ words.

When I married, my husband and I decided right away that we would not wait to start a family. We both wanted children and we both wanted them ‘now’. We were old enough and stable enough and we were able to provide a good home.

My first pregnancy began with me being totally unaware that I was pregnant. I was feeling extremely healthy and strong and happy when one evening as I sat at the piano, practicing, with no absolutely no warning, there was an ‘explosion’ inside of me. A pain so profound that I doubled up and fell to the floor. I sat there hunched over and all I could think of was that something had ‘exploded’ inside of my lower abdomen. I called to my husband who was quite alarmed when he saw me. I told him I had a stomach ache and he helped me to my feet, and somehow I managed to walk hunched-over, to the bed where I crawled in and lay there the whole night, not moving. By morning the pain had subsided but I decided to see my doctor who examined me and said he thought I was having an ‘ectopic pregnancy’. I was sent to the clinic for scans which came back negative.

Being pain free for a few days, I continued with my life but knew that something was wrong as I was pale and feeling a bit drained. A dull, bloated ache commenced and stayed with me as I went to another doctor who examined me and sent me home saying it was nothing to worry about. All the while I felt depressed and tearful and unhealthy. The weeks went by and all the time I knew that something was wrong. My stomach was as bloated as ever and tender. A further visit to the GP and he recommended that a D&C be performed. This procedure was performed but with no improvement. A second ‘explosion’ occurred a month after the D&C and it was just as intense as the first one. It felt as if something had ripped inside of me and as before, I crawled into bed, waiting for the pain to subside.

When morning came, I booked an appointment with the doctor again, and this time, my husband was with. He waited in the reception area and I staggered into the doctor’s room where I burst into tears and told him I was ‘sick of being sick’ and could he please do something about it. I told him it was impossible to have such incredible pain for no medical reason. An appointment was booked for me at the specialist as a matter of urgency. He performed an emergency Laparoscopy and I was immediately admitted for surgery upon confirmation that it was indeed an ectopic pregnancy.

Three months pregnant, the foetus was fairly well developed and had done a lot of damage. My GP was present at the operation and he later told me I was a ‘real mess’ inside as the fallopian tube had ruptured a few times and it was a miracle that I was alive. The fallopian tube was removed and it was this loss that I felt more than the loss of a baby. Not knowing that I had been pregnant, I had not had time to ‘bond’ with a baby or the idea even. I had lost a ‘part of my body’ and that was my primary concern. It was an odd feeling. It was only as time went by that I slowly began to feel a sad ache for the ‘child that could have been’.

However, now my husband and I were even more determined to have a child. Isn’t it odd how when you suddenly become desperate, nothing happens! 18 months later, I knew I was pregnant and we were ecstatic. The pregnancy test was positive and everything felt right this time. I flourished and bloomed and all the correct things were happening. I had beetroot cravings and I’m sure I depleted the country’s beetroot supplies. The South African Minister of Health would have been exceptionally proud of me!

Two and a half months into the pregnancy, my heart was crushed as I felt a familiar ‘ripping’ inside of me. No warning, just ripping with immense pain. This time, with an aching heart, I called a specialist gynecologist to inform him that I was having an ectopic pregnancy and could he please make space for me on his ‘emergency’ list. A bit offended at this patient’s diagnosis, he asked me to come in for all the routine examinations before I was placed on any ‘list’. I trudged heavily and sadly through all the tests for his sake, but I needed none of this for my confirmation. I was already mourning my child, the child that was so wanted and already dearly loved with a very special place in my heart. The child who already had an image, a face, a personality. My husband and I went about our duties quietly as we prepared ourselves emotionally for our loss. A laparoscopy and surgery followed.

Surfacing from the anaesthetics, I was told that the doctor had managed to save my tube by removing the foetus (my little baby) neatly and tube temporarily clipped. (What do they do with the foetus, by the way? Did my baby go to the University to be cut up by students? I didn’t know then, and I still don’t want to know)

The next three months whilst waiting for micro-surgery, were spent in mourning. I didn’t know I could hurt so much. There was such a deep sadness inside of me. What had I done wrong? Did I do anything wrong? Was I being punished? I felt that this whole incident was purely aimed at me and not my husband. A bit of guilt crept in and I was convinced that deep down, my husband thought it was all my fault. Three months later, I returned for Micro Surgical Adnexal Reconstruction (repairing the tube), and I was ready for action again.

By now, I was feeling a bit drained and the operations were starting to take their toll. I lost weight –and started looking a bit drawn. The worst was dealing with people who had known that I was pregnant and chirpily asked me about my progress. I had to dig pretty deep to show an outward emotion of “didn’t work this time – it’s OK”. “Oh, sorry, didn’t know – don’t worry … next time.” They made themselves a cup of coffee, I dragged my legs back to my desk.

Nevertheless, 7 months later, I was pregnant again! But this time, bundled together with the joy of being pregnant, there was caution and fear. The weeks went by, tests were all positive and the scan revealed that the baby was in the right place at last. I began regaining my positiveness and we started making plans. All is well that ends well. Or so I thought.

Coming home early from work one day, I had cramps which got progressively worse and then of course, the bleeding started. I knew I was miscarrying and I called the doctor to tell him this. He told me to lie down and stay still for the rest of the day and he would see me the following day for a check up. But I bled quite profusely and I knew there was nothing anybody could do. This baby was not to be. I shoved towels under me and paid many visits to the bathroom but never once wanted to look down. I knew that if I did, and happened to see anything resembling a foetus, I would snap. I lay on the couch, alone, and my soul was so hurt that I felt the cramps no more. I had never felt so alone and afraid as I did that night, when I lay on the couch, when my husband did not come home, because he was mourning the loss just as much as I, and the only way he knew how to mourn was to visit my brother – to hug their two-year-old – and have a few drinks. They convinced him to stay over and sleep there rather than drive home. My sister-in-law called to tell me he was hurting like mad. I lay alone in the darkness that night – with silent tears running down my face – and mourned, alone. I remember praying to God then, but not to ask him to save my baby, but to make me strong enough to continue through it and after it and to give me the strength to manage everything that follows an incident like this. He did.

The following day I was booked in for a D&C and later told “You will be OK in a couple of days.” Leaving the hospital - I was empty, sad and broken once again. “Back to the drawing board” was one comment I received. How I hated that comment. But I did feel a strength from above and I knew I was not walking this road by myself any longer.

There was guilt though – it was my fault. I was useless. I could not give my husband a child. He deserved someone better and more able. I felt myself becoming bitter towards everyone who had children. Why should they have children and not me? Why should everyone around me be looking so happy and joyful when I’m feeling so terrible and torn to shreds?

We started discussing adoption and when we finally decided it might be a good idea we started the process (and boy … it’s a lengthy process!!!) of applying for adoption. The paperwork, the interviews, the scrutiny, the group sessions… (Hold onto your marriage!)

Four months later (boy, am I fertile!), I was pregnant again. But this time, I raised very little hope. I knew in my heart it was not going to be this time either. And as predicted, I miscarried. This pregnancy was only about 6 weeks old and no D&C was performed.

Six months after that miscarriage I experienced some pain again but not very intense, nevertheless, a Lapscope was performed and a cyst was drained. (I was loosing some credibility at work by now, I think – although most of my colleagues were totally unaware of what was happening as I kept quiet and kept my news to myself. I was quite chirpy on the outside and life continued.)

Nine months later – pregnant again (beetroot, do you think?). I cautiously continued with all my examinations – by now I was well known at the Clinic and I was about to score in their record books. And yes, Lapscope, ectopic pregnancy with reconstructive surgery all in the same operation. At this stage I was asked, “which is worse, miscarriage or ectopic?” Immediately I answered “ectopic”. This is because not only do you have to contend with the hormone changes in your body from the pregnancy and the loss of a baby, but also the pain of the operation and the damage of the anaesthetic, which does affect you for a while to come. Should you at any point manage to push your emotional pain aside, then the physical pain promptly brings you back to realization. An ectopic is an invasion to your body and it’s nasty!

At this point, my dear gynecologist suggested that I look at In-Vitro to avoid my nasty, vindictive fallopian tube. And I guess I don’t have to tell you how much work goes into this complicated, drawn out procedure. It’s time consuming, health consuming and money-consuming. This has got to be another of life’s huge test on your marriage – if you don’t have a reasonably sound partnership, you’re doomed! For the first time really, your partner is involved – and I don’t think men really take this infertility all that well. I think women are used to being regarded as a specimen on the table, but for men … their egos are dealt a heavy blow. Giving specimens and being placed under the microscope is not their cup of tea. And of course, if your medical aid is not a good one, and even if it is a good one, be prepared to part with a lot of money. The success rate is quite slim as well, and you usually have to attempt a few times before (if ever) it works.

First time round, I managed to produce 3 healthy embryos and a few weeks later, I was on the road again. I was pregnant, I was healthy, I was happy, my marriage was still alive, and we had a heartbeat!! The nursery was ready and celebrations were in order.

I was 4 months pregnant when I happily glided into the gynecologist’s sonar room for my routine scan. The gynecologist was also smiling from ear to ear as he felt he had achieved something that none other could achieve. Gel was applied and I had a very happy husband sitting next to me. The next few minutes cannot even be described properly. I glanced from the screen, to the doctor’s face, to the screen, and the scanning continued in silence. A ‘knowing’ washed over me before he even spoke. It was like an ice-cold hand that reached into my chest and tore my heart out, and when he said “There’s no heartbeat,” I hated him. I hated his profession. I hated this hospital. I hated all hospitals. I hated God.

A D&C was performed the following day.

I had now had 3 ectopic pregnancies and 3 normal pregnancies and I was drained. I had a very strong feeling that someone was trying to tell me something but I just wasn’t listening.

At this point my husband said he thought I had had enough and he did not wish me to continue with any of this as he was afraid when he looked into my eyes and felt my health could not take it any longer and he would even possibly lose me, which is not worth it, he felt. I knew he was right and we started discussing adoption in earnest.

We continued going through the adoption process. I propose that if a marriage hasn’t folded after something like this, you have a marriage. Couples who have children without having to go through infertility problems have ABSOLUTELY NO IDEA how fortunate they are. But having said that, it is couples who manage to survive the ‘infertility saga’ that can indeed praise their marriage and pat themselves on the back.

In the meantime, we decided that we would give in-vitro one more chance. But by this stage I knew we were wasting our time, money and energy. I knew now that there were other plans for me and a biological child was not written into our story. We did attempt in-vitro again, produced one embryo but of course, it was not successful.

Round about this time, my doctor informed me (after a test) that my remaining tube was completely blocked and that was the end of that. I had lost 6 babies but deep, deep down inside of me, without voicing this, I knew there would be a number 7.

We went through all the paperwork, interviews, training and group sessions involved with adoption and I started getting very excited about this prospect. I knew it was the right thing to do. My husband on the other hand was getting a bit annoyed at the interference of the social workers into the details of our lives. When you have a biological child, no one scans your life down to the finest detail, you could be totally inadequate in many ways – yet when you adopt, you get turned inside out. Complete strangers get to have a good look inside your life, your emotions, your day-to-day comings and goings, your home, your family, your finance, and you cannot help feeling that perhaps you ARE inadequate to be a parent.

Two years after our name was successfully placed on the ‘waiting list’, we received a call to say we would be receiving a baby. The young girl was still pregnant and she wanted to meet us. It was the same as finding out that I was pregnant. I was ecstatic and I could not sleep or eat or think – I just wanted my baby! We had a successful meeting with the biological parents of ‘our’ child. A young couple, both still at school. The young man (from a very well-to-do family) was determined that he had made a decision to give the child up as he had his entire future mapped out and his parents were adamant that a child was not going to stop his progress. The young girl (she too, from a well-to-do family) was lovely, a bit more reserved but seemed certain that she too, had made up her mind.

We discussed the birth and the possibility of us being there but no plans were made.

The baby was due to be born about 4 weeks from that date and we waited patiently at home, making plans and informing everybody about our baby. Excitement grew in the family and feelings were good. Everyone was positive about the choice and for the first time, my family seemed to be really happy that we were going to have a baby! My place of work was told to find a replacement – I was going to become a mother and I was going to dedicate my time to the child. The child I had waited for, for so long.

Four weeks came and went and I called the agency to find out if our child was not nearing its birth. At this point the social workers asked if they could come and see us at home.

Isn’t it amazing how your sixth sense kicks in and you know the outcome. I said nothing and waited for the social workers. Two lovely ladies (who by now were our friends) came and sat down in the lounge and chit-chatted for a while. I wearily looked at them and said “OK, so who’s going to be the bearer of the bad news”. I don’t think they expected to broach the subject so quickly but I think they were grateful that they had an ice-breaker. The biological mother had given birth, changed her mind and had been convinced by her mother to keep the child whom they would raise as a sibling.

Again, I was so broken that I seriously started doubting that I could take much more of this heartache. My soul was so shattered that I thought it could never be repaired again. My family and friends were devastated. By now they were speechless. You do get some ignorant people that make ignorant statements though and we have to learn how to deal with these people, or more accurately, how not to deal with them. One of my friends’ mother-in-law told her that “there must be something wrong with them, and the social worker must have seen this. That’s why they won’t give them a child!” Luckily I didn’t have to deal with her – my friend did that on my behalf. Thank you friend!

But a few months later, looking back on that one, I realized it was not meant to be and that specific baby was meant to remain with his birth mother and I was rearing to go again and contacted the social workers in earnest and asked them to get onto my case again. They were hesitant and said I had to first mourn my loss. I told them it was done, over, and I did not need any more time. I began sending the Child Welfare a humorous “Ingrid’s Agony Column” on a regular basis. I was not going to let them forget or overlook me easily and these Agony Columns were taken into their board meetings and mused over. I’m sure everyone knew me very well by now. They probably had “Ingrid’s Agony Column” listed on their Agenda!

Two years later, I received a call from my social worker who sounded very cheeky (nice cheeky) and sly, and said she had a little boy for us. “He is here, he has been born, and he is waiting for you.” No warning, no mess, no fuss. “What does he look like?” I asked. “He is the most adorable baby you have set eyes upon in your entire life,” she replied.

We collected our little 10-day-old adorable the following day. I looked into the eyes of adorable and he looked into mine and we said to each other “I love you”.

Check out "My Son - The Nomad" (part 2 of My Story) and "My Daughter - My Teacher" (part 3 of My Story)- these parts will also demonstrate how two children will view adoption differently.

The story of my son

The story of my daughter