I met Lily* when I was 23, at a party my boyfriend took me to. She and I immediately bonded over our shared love of Virginia Woolf, Tori Amos, and Sarah Jessica Parker’s Sex and the City wardrobe. And while it didn’t take long for the boyfriend to disappear from my life, Lily remained a fixture.
Few other decades in life are as transformative as our 20s. In the space of ten years, we proceed to make one life-changing decision after another: education, career, and, for some of us, choosing a life partner and having children. We shed old identities and try on new ones until we find one that fits the new, adult-ish version of ourselves.
I was lucky enough to experience all this with Lily by my side. Together we navigated the ups and downs of life as newly minted adults. We cheered each other on in our fledgling careers, each convinced that the other one had what it took to be the best. We pooled our money and vacationed together in cheap beachside hotels. Spending the day side by side in pool loungers without running out of things to talk about. We supported each other through bad boyfriends and celebrated when good ones came along. And we swore we’d always be friends.
We were wrong.
When I moved to New York, Lily flew to visit me, including once to be my maid of honor. I returned the favor two years later, traveling back to the Midwest to walk down the aisle in her bridal party. Though we no longer lived in the same city, we settled into the next chapter of our lives with a shared optimism for the future. Until we started trying to get pregnant.
Source: Sam Hojoti | Unsplash
Fertility became an obsession for us both
We both received our infertility diagnoses around the same time. Mine was the ultra-vague “unexplained fertility” and hers was diminished ovarian reserve. We were in our mid-30s by then and suddenly stricken by the sickening thought that maybe we’d waited too long to broach motherhood. We’d always talked about having children, of course, but in that blurry, naive way you do when you believe you have all the time in the world. Now, though, trying to coax our bodies into harboring life became our collective obsession.
We were in our mid-30s by then and suddenly stricken by the sickening thought that maybe we’d waited too long to broach motherhood. Now, trying to coax our bodies into harboring life became our collective obsession.
Before, our light-hearted phone catch-ups had covered weekend plans, what we were reading, the state of our respective relationships, and a sprinkling of celebrity gossip. Now we talked in serious tones about our fertility-drug-induced mood swings, success rates of IUI vs. IVF, and the abysmal state of infertility insurance coverage.
We went through multiple rounds of IUI together, then both switched to IVF. We coached each other through the dreaded two-week wait and cried together on the phone when the tests came back negative yet again. Then, I got pregnant.
Then I got pregnant
My first thought was to call Lily, but I hesitated. How would I feel if the roles were reversed? Would I be able to set aside my personal despair to be happy for her? With some apprehension, I dialed her number.
“I’m pregnant,” I told her.
“Oh,” she said after a pause. Her congratulations were warm but there was a hollow quality to her voice. That turned out to be one of the last times we spoke.
I called her a few more times to check in on her progress. But as my pregnancy progressed, I felt awkward, like I was speaking to her from the stage of an otherwise empty auditorium. My attempts at optimism for her situation began to sound forced and her responses to my questions became skeletal in their detail. Our conversations shortened and then transitioned to texts. As I reached my final trimester eventually those ceased, too.
As a new mom, I didn’t have much time to think about the void Lily had left in my life. Feeding, rocking, and staring in wonder at the small creature I had created took over all my waking hours. Occasionally it occurred to me to check in and see how Lily was doing, but I never did. I wasn’t sure I could stomach her answer.
Now that I had a child I understood with a visceral clarity what I’d been missing when I was childless. I would breathe in the sweaty, powdery scent of my son’s head and feel near physical pain thinking about what I’d almost missed. I wasn’t sure I could handle witnessing that in someone else.
Source: ColorJoy Stock
Where we are now
Just as I chose to stay cocooned in new motherhood at the expense of my friendship, so Lily opted to avert her eyes from my joy. When I stopped to think about it, her absence from my life stung. Now, though, I know enough to not begrudge her act of self-preservation.
Just I chose to stay cocooned in new motherhood at the expense of my friendship, [she] opted to avert her eyes from my joy … Now I know enough to not begrudge her act of self-preservation.
When my son was four, Lily texted me for the first time in years. Seeing her name pop up on my screen sent a bolt of joy through me, but also a tremor of trepidation. What did she have to say to me after all that time?
In her text, she explained in black and white what my heart had suspected: that being in touch with me once I’d gotten pregnant had just been too hard. That she was sorry it had been that way and she hoped I understood.
Despite its ending, my relationship with Lily remains one of the best I’ve ever had, full of laughter and fierce support. These days we follow each other on social media and exchange holiday cards. Though she and her husband never had children, it’s clear they’ve created a beautiful and full life. They travel, go hiking and boating, and enjoy life with a broad circle of friends.
Some days I miss her, but I know what I’m missing is what we had all those years ago, not necessarily what would be possible today. For now, it’s enough to love her from afar and to know she’s doing the same for me.
*Name has been changed
