And she never saw it coming.
I never would have imagined when I got married on a blustery, but gloriously sunny Valentine’s morning that four years later my divorce would become final. I always believed that at this stage of my life, I would be settled in a comfortable upper-middle class existence. I would have the husband, the house, the children and the career.
Instead, I now have no husband, one child who will be an only child, a satisfying career (albeit not the one of my dreams), and I am starting over at 42.
I loved my ex-husband deeply. We shared plenty of great times. But our marriage was also wrought with struggle. Financial struggles, fidelity struggles and fertility struggles.
Almost all of our short four-year marriage was spent desperately trying to conceive. Exhausted from years of failed fertility treatments, I decided to take a year off from trying. My ex vehemently disagreed. He warned that tomorrow is never promised, and urged that we keep trying.
I half-heartedly agreed to a modified effort. I insisted that for the duration of that year, we abandon the word “trying;” I take no meds and see no doctors. We would simply let everything be and see if nature would take its course.
As agreed, the beginning of the new year meant the beginning of a new cycle of fertility treatments. Despite that, I made up any excuse that I could muster not to return to the doctor. I was exhausted from it all. I did not want to revisit the disappointment and despair of failed attempts. My faith was lost.