Empty

Tonight I sat at my mom's house and noticed something I had never noticed before: the way the picture wall is arranged reflects the stages of her children's lives.  I had noticed the wedding picture of my brother and his wife, and the photo of me and my husband that was added after we were married.  My sister isn't on this particular wall (there are several photo walls in their home,) because she is not married yet.  What drew my attention tonight is that my mom has started adding pictures of her grandkids.  So, my brother and sister-in-law's wedding photo is surrounded by several pictures of their son, their daughter, and all of them as a family.  The other side of the wall contains one photo of Joe and I on our wedding day.  No other photos surround us.  We are alone on an empty side of the wall.  And that makes me really sad.  In this instance, the sadness isn't necessarily for us, though there is an element of that to everything, it seems; this sadness is for my mom, my dear, sweet mother who would love a house full of grandchildren and so far has only two.  What if we never add to that wall?  That makes me sad for her.  This infertility thing not only involves the hopes of the two people trying to have a baby.  It involves the hopes of grandparents-to-be, aunts and uncles in waiting, cousins who would love playmates, and friends who want to share this stage of life with us.  It is hard to look beyond my own pain and sadness at this situation to see this, but sometimes I can look beyond the edges of it, like looking to the edge of a field, and catch a glimpse of how it might affect others.  It's blurry, but it's there.  Sometimes it makes it easier, focusing on someone else's perspective of the situation, and sometimes it just knocks the wind out of me, the knowledge that I am, again, albeit through no control of my own, letting people down.  And that stinks.