— MICHELLE KIMERY —
“Even though it’s been two decades,I still need to be OK with grieving. I stillneed to admit the hole in my heart. Butthat’s not the end of my story.”“I want to be a mother of 100 babies.” This was the answer coming straight from my second-grade
heart when asked, “What do you want to be when you grow up?” With complete abandon to the
reality of childbirth and parenthood, I longed for the diapers, the tiny white onesies, the nights of
swaddling. I wanted to be a mom more than anything else in the world.
For 20 years, my husband and I have seen the doctors, done the tests, tried the treatments.
“Unexplained infertility” is our diagnosis. What’s worked for others hasn’t worked for us, and
no doctor can tell us why. I’ve dealt with the shame of wondering what’s wrong with me—wrong
with us—that we would get passed over like this. Left behind as all our friends had their first
babies, their seconds and thirds. We’ve run the gamut of emotions from anger to grief to hope to
acceptance and all the way back again. What I understand now is these emotions aren’t one and
done. It’s not a sequence to pass through. Not long ago, I had an entire day when I couldn’t stop
crying, so I went to a good friend and just let it all out. Because even though it’s been two decades,
I still need to be OK with grieving. I still need to admit the hole in my heart.
But that’s not the end of my story.
I remember the exact moment in college when I felt 100 percent certain that I was going to
become a Neonatal Intensive Care Unit (NICU) nurse. I barely knew what that meant and hadn’t
yet learned that I would struggle to have children of my own, but it was decidedly clear how I’d be
spending my days. And I never looked back. For 19 years, I nurtured preterm babies through the
days and nights, comforted families in their heart-wrenching trauma, held those featherweight
angels, and celebrated as they moved through developmental milestones. I’ve seen lives rescued,
and I’ve witnessed miracles.
I haven’t rushed to find the silver lining in our infertility journey. To be honest, I don’t think I
could even if I wanted to. But as the years have passed, I see some blessings so clearly, like having
a career built around nurturing babies, young mothers, and families. This is my heart of hearts,
my sweet spot. And because of the extra space I have in my life, I’ve been able to invest freely and
richly in my relationship with my husband. (Date nights every night, if we want.) “Aunt Shelly”
is the nickname I’ve earned around family and friends, because I’ll hold your baby like nobody’s
business, go to your kid’s sporting events, babysit so you can go out at night. I’ve even joined in
on playdates when my friends were young moms, which felt a bit funny at first, but I wanted to be
part of my friends’ lives, and that was a way to do it. In all of this, I’ve learned to embrace and not
withdraw, unless I need to set a boundary—like skipping church on Mother’s Day or passing on
a baby shower invite. I think this honest posture is why I’m in a good place. I think it’s also given
other women struggling with infertility the assurance that they can ask me anything, learn from
what I’ve learned, cry when they need to cry—and if they’re suddenly pregnant after years of
infertility, they know I definitely want to be part of the good news. Because I will celebrate every
new life every chance I get.
Two of my NICU baby graduates emailed me the other day—a pair of 28-week-old twins who
are now in college (I can hardly believe it) living full and healthy lives. I get to sit with the sweet
memories of our days in the hospital together—those impossibly tiny fingernails, that fragile
breath—and I recognize the bond we’ve experienced no matter the bloodline that separates us.
Because in the end, I have been a mother to 100 babies, just like I’d always dreamed.