Bust An Infertility Myth: I Am Not A Broken Woman.

In retrospect, it was fitting that my last performance in The Vagina Monologues was reading "I Was There in the Room." It's a haunting, reverant, glorious monologue from Eve Ensler's perspective of watching her adopted son's child being born. She is present in the physical moment, in the space itself, but Eve is not the one birthing another. It's a noticable void in The Vagina Monologues: there's no monologue describing birth from a birthing mother's perspective. Just Eve's voice as the outside observer.

I often wonder if I will always be a kind of woman who is only there in the room: always observing, but never experiencing the moment myself.

. . .

When I was 18, I had my ovary removed in emergency surgery. Assured that my fertility would endure, I still felt like I was somehow broken. I had written a poem at the time about feeling like a tree with a broken branch.

. . .

She is a Tree of Life to those who take hold of her; those who hold her fast will be blessed. (Proverbs 3:18)

. . .

The Vagina Monologues were instrumental in my healing process back in college. They allowed me to shape and define my womanhood, a blossoming young adult woman myself. Performing three years in a row, the show gave me a space to take pride in my womanhood: to celebrate, cherish, and worship it. I performed another two times while working for another college; my final performance a visceral, but beautiful observation of the birthing process. It felt good to perform that monologue.

All this time, my soulmate was at my side. We celebrated, cherished, and worshipped each other. I knew we'd get married. I knew we'd have children together. This is just how it was supposed to be. And we did get married. We talked over our plans and agreed on May 2011: we'd begin our family. We'd give ourselves three years just as two, to grow to three (or more!) after that time.

I was worried about being down one ovary but remembered the assurance from my doctor from many years before: "You'll still be able to have children."

. . .

We had only been married a year and my puzzling symptoms at 26 simply didn't make any sense. In March of 2009, everything changed: premature ovarian failure.

In an instant, "the way things were supposed to be" was robbed from me. From us.

"I have failed you as your wife, as your soulmate, as a woman," I sobbed.

He held my face in his hands, looked me straight in the eye: "You are no less woman to me. You have failed no one. You're my wife and my soulmate and I love you."

"But I'm broken," I said in a voice, barely audible.

"No Keiko: you are not broken, I promise," Larry assured me. "We'll get through this."

. . .

Those years in college and in the years following, I took great pride and joy in being a woman. Sure, I griped about my monthly cycle: the cramps, the bleeding, the mood swings. But I still valued the work that my body was doing (or so I assumed at the time). I knew I was merely paving the way for my body's greatest test, and I would celebrate that too when the time came.

My body, my woman's body: a holy vessel of creation, power, life.

. . .

My infertility tried to rob me of that power. When I was diagnosed, I felt like Someone had taken a giant hammer and smashed my holy vessel to pieces. I am a broken woman, I would tell myself. I wove myself a blanket of shame and guilt.

Those days were the darkest, the days I felt robbed of all that I had celebrated and cherished about being a woman.

This was the myth I told myself.

. . .

In the past year, my voice has gained confidence, strength, and hope:

I am not a broken woman.

I am NOT a broken woman.

. . .

It's not that I think women should be baby-factories, let me be clear. Rather, I see the acts of conception, pregnancy, birth, and motherhood as sacred gifts in the womanhood experience. Our bodies then, are truly vessels of creative - in the truest sense of the word - power.

Yet my womb lies barren. My tree bears no fruit of its own. I am endlessly blessed to live in an age of modern science, where my womb can be made full with the help of a selfless other, a lab, and a little luck. There is no guarantee, but it's the chance I'm willing to take.

And if we can't conceive with help, then we are just as open to adoption. Motherhood without its traditional preceding acts is no less sacred; to parent is no less a gift.

. . .

So when I look at the past two years, at the vastness of what has felt like a decade but has only been just two years - I've come a long way. Each month at the Red Tent Temple, I remind myself and am reminded of all the joyous ways of being a woman in all stages. I leave my titles at the door: Barren. Childless. Infertile. Broken.

And I choose not to collect those titles when I leave.

I am not a broken woman.

I invite you to shed this myth with me. To bury this myth, to banish it from your mental vocabulary, to cast it out from your hearts. Say with me now:

I am not a broken woman.

I am NOT a broken woman.

Now keep saying this - out loud - with me:

I am strong and beautiful. 

I am a force to be reckoned with. 

I am wise and joyous and whole in spirit and grace. 

My infertility is only one facet of the many parts of who I am and I am not a broken woman.

I am not a broken woman and I have yet so many wondrous gifts to share with this world.

My Woman's Work has only just begun.

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It's National Infertility Awareness Week. Infertility affects 1 out of every 8 couples... like me. Find out how you can participate and provide support to 7.3 million people living with this disease: www.resolve.org/takecharge. This post is part of the Bust a Myth Bloggers Unite project.