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Book Review: Maybe Baby: An Infertile Love Story

By: Dana
Date: 09/08/08 9:10am
Categories: Books, Infertility, Parent Bloggers Network

Several years ago, four years and nine months to be exact, I discovered I was pregnant with my beautiful baby boy. But only a year before that, I was diagnosed with Poly-cystic ovarian syndrome, and told that my chances of conceiving a child were slim — or that it would be very difficult for my body to ovulate, thus making my journey to motherhood a long and windy road of uncertainty.

I can’t count the number of times I cried and cursed, confessed and denied my anger, and prayed to God; please Dear Lord, grant me a child. All I wanted was to be a mother. From the moment Doug and I spoke our vows in front of hundreds of relatives and friends at beautiful St. Bronislava church, visions of babies danced in my head.

As a Polish Catholic, I was raised with the notion that a woman’s purpose was to have lots of babies, cook too much food and feed everyone. After all, the women in my family are baby factories. Most have four or more children. When I realized my body may never house a child, I panicked.

Thanks be to God, I did get pregnant and delivered a healthy baby boy, but those early trials still haunt me. As if they happened only yesterday, I still remember the frustration, sadness and anger. The questions from family as to when we’d have children and why….why wasn’t it happening already?

Four years and 9 months later, I’m suffering infertility once again. My husband and I have been trying to have a second child for over a year without success. It’s a battle that I often feel like I’m losing. How can two people who love each other so much survive the battle of infertility?

The Parent Bloggers Network asked me if I’d like to read the book Maybe Baby by Matthew M.F. Miller and I jumped at the chance. I was excited to read a man’s point of view on infertility issues. Then the book arrived and I read the back cover and began to cry.

“Constance got her period for the tenth month in a row, and I stood in the bathroom having never felt like less of a man in my entire life.”

I cried because when it comes to infertility, it’s usually the woman with the “problem”. In Matthew’s case, he discovered he had a low sperm count. It doesn’t matter if you’re male or female, if you’re “the one,” the infertile, the feelings of inadequacy are devastatingly real.

Matthew’s story begins with memories of his youth, from the house he grew up in, to his struggles as an overweight teen. He describes his emotions with vivid recollection of how he avoided “full-on sex” until he “was no longer fat”, to meeting the woman of his dreams, Constance, and the passionate love they share.

Their desire for children began with beautiful green nursery bedding from Pottery Barn, which they ordered before becoming pregnant (after crawling out of $18,000 in credit card debt — due to their love of the stylish, and shopaholic tendencies).

As I read about the excitement Matthew and Constance shared when opening the box of green frill and softness, I remembered my own excitement when I bought that first baby sleeper after discovering I was indeed having a baby.

But years before, whenever I shopped for gifts for friends’ baby showers, my anticipation of my own pregnancies caused waves of excitement and to wash over me. But I have never experienced the pain of knowing that a $300 dollar nursery set is tucked in a closet, unused, because of infertility.

I must confess: reading Matthew’s book was difficult for me. Tears stained every other page as I read about the four moments he knew he wanted to be a father, to his anxiety over “masturbating in public” at the clinic.

Reading about Matthew and Constance’s struggles with Clomid refreshed my memory of my own use of the fertility drug. His anticipation over the results of a home pregnancy test and the let down he and Constance felt upon seeing that Big Fat Negative made me recall my own disappointment with every stick I’ve ever peed on.

And then I read chapter sixteen, and all of page 188 is now soaked with my salty tears:

“Joe’s funeral was a wholly Catholic affair. Polish Catholic to be exact, which led to an hour and a a half of standing, kneeling, sitting, praying, and sobbing. All of which was closely followed by countless rounds of food and beverages served up by and white-and-black clad waiters in a Polish banquet hall. Sausages, sauerkraut, pierogies, liver and dumplings, chicken and beef were all served as a gut-busting tribute to our dear friend’s brother.”

Oh, how true this is! Polish Catholic funerals are grand affairs; celebrations of the lives of our loved ones who have passed.

And then I read page 189:

“Two pews in front of us, a young woman was struggling to contain the pacifier and slightly jarring coos of a less-than-two-year-old toddler as Gina’s mom stoically revealed the irreparable heartbreak of her daughter, who had purchased her wedding dress the day before the accident. teh toddler was a perfect, dark-skinned, dark-eyed beauty with a mat of curls secured on the top of her head by a small pink bow.”

Church is my private hell. Catholic women are raised to make babies. Every Sunday at Mass, I cry just a little as I watch the family with seven beautiful children make their way to the front pew. A few rows over, another family with five children, gets situated in their seats.

Meanwhile, I sit in the far back row, with my husband and son, so that no one can see me cry over the children I wish I had. It isn’t that my son isn’t enough, I love him dearly — more than words can describe. I cry because the house of God is a safe place, but for me it represents pain. Pain I can’t seem to let go.

Instead of celebrating the vows my husband and I took in that very church, or celebrating the baptism of the child we have, the sacred sacraments professed in praise to God, I cry silent tears in the last row.

Matthew writes so openly about his struggles and about the hope he and Constance felt when choosing to do IVF. While IVF isn’t something I’m able to do (for religious reasons), I pray that this method works for Constance and Matthew.

This book is brilliant; honest and compassionate. Matthew shares his raw emotions with the reader. He reaches out to those who have walked in his shoes, as well as to those who may not understand what the infertile world goes through.

This book isn’t just about the pain he and Constance have endured, it’s also a love story. A story of two people who stand by each other through good times and bad, through life and loss, and for all the days of their lives.

Thank you, Matthew Miller, for sharing your story with us. Thank you PBN, for allowing me the privilege of reading this amazing book.

For more information about Maybe Baby, please visit Matthew’s website.

More information: http://thedanafiles.com/2008/09/08/book-review-maybe-baby-an-infertile-love-story/

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Book Review: Maybe Baby: An Infertile Love Story