On Monday I was talking with a very beautiful woman about what it is to be a creator of creatures yet unable to create children. We spoke of the feelings that run alongside not sharing this fairytale part of life with ones own. It can be a very mixed bag the whole infertility journey but there are so many more ways to birth then what society recognises. Then serendipity stepped in and something magical happened...
Imagine my reaction today when my husband returned home with this little lost nest. You see he works on agricultural machinery, one of the tractors had broken down and been sent to the workshop for repair where it had sat in a sterile closed garage for three days alone and without care. Sadly whoever were the parents of these budding lives returned to find their hopes had disappeared in a cloud of dust and exhaust fumes.
He presented the nest to me and handed it across, his scuffed and bold working hands gifting me this delicately designed bowl. As I gazed at the intricacy the nest slipped into the crook of my arm and suddenly I was transported to an earlier conversation and a memory long locked away. The motion of passing this bundle took me to a bedside that will probably never be. I stood there with tears holding so much wasted potential encased in the disguise of perfectly smooth speckled shells. It brought back memories of ivf, the bizzare planning of pregnancy that would never happen naturally seemed reflected in the weave of feather, hay and wool; with just the tiniest piece of golden coloured twine running through it. Like the strange hope of fertility treatment that I tried so desperately to make as natural as I could but in the end it was manmade and exposed like the twine itself. Then came the implantation the excitement and terrified joy that you are not allowed to feel just in case.
One May evening I sat alone late making bluebells, they were so tiny I could barely feel them in my hand and I smiled at their gentleness. Within moments our dreams were dashed crudely with the flush of a toilet and I returned to my bluebells a changed person. I threw them into a shoebox and hid them in the attic where they remain to this day. An emptiness filled every space when it failed. A hollow awareness that has sent me on a path I am now comfortable with but one I still find hard to look back upon. Especially those times where the path seems scary and I look down for a kindred hand that is not there.
Knowing nature I am sure these determined winged parents did not give up and will continue to build their love into another nest. I will honour their faith and courage by returning their gift to the earth, along with some of my own loss. Some however I will keep so that I can continue to weave my story on my path.
I just wanted to share that I am with you if you too are struggling or have struggled, however that manifests itself in your story.