My mother never had any trouble getting pregnant. She conceived her oldest (me) during a night of vacation carelessness, six years into marriage. As I neared two-year birthday, my parents decided to start trying for a second child. After all, they didn't know how long it might take. I'm sure you see the end of the story--she was pregnant not a month later.
She was the rare woman who enjoyed almost every day of her pregnancies. Her labor for me totalled six hours, all natural; for my brother it was even shorter. She says she would have seriously considered acting as a gestational surrogate for infertile couples, had she been young enough when the technology emerged. Her story is one of joy.
She has trouble understanding why T. and I haven't yet moved heaven and earth to try to have a biological child, why we adopted before we "tried." I struggle to help her understand, because I don't know the answers myself. I am not technically infertile, but I can't conceive without intervention. I celebrate the ART successes of friends (and even internet strangers), but shrink away from it myself.
As T. and I went through the adoption process, time and again we heard a similar story from the other waiting parents, "We hoped, we tried, we're infertile, we're adopting." For them, adopting was a resolution of sorts, though often a hard-earned, painful one. For us, it raised more questions than it settled. Adoption is how we started our family, but will it be how we finish it? Am I courageous enough to risk the heartache of ART? If I choose not to, will I regret never "trying"?
What is the ending to my story?