(Courtesy of PUAH) Malka relates:
Some women don’t discover their fertility issues until they’re married, or, at the very least, hit puberty. But mine were evident from day one; I was born without a uterus.
As a young girl, this didn’t affect my life at all, because I didn’t know about it. My parents figured, why burden a child with the knowledge that she’ll never have her own biological children? But once I hit my teenage years, my body’s lack became starkly, painfully clear. I wasn’t like all my friends; when they would complain each month about aches and cramps, I just stayed silent. At a certain point, when it became too embarrassing, I pretended to also experience the same symptoms.
But, for the most part, my life was normal until we hit the shidduch stage. That’s when I knew I was officially parting ways with my friends. As, one by one, they became engaged, then married, and then mothers, I felt increasingly sidelined. And depressed. I constantly asked myself, “Why did I have to be so different? And what was Hashem’s plan for me?” All I wanted was to get married and have a family like everyone else, but who wanted to marry a girl who couldn’t have children?
As the years went on, the feeling of isolation grew. Then, about five years ago, a concerned family member mentioned to me that PUAH had recently started a support group for single women with fertility issues. But I wasn’t interested. What could be more depressing than hearing other women moan about their miserable lives when I was drowning in mine? Besides, I didn’t have fertility “issues;” I had complete lack of fertility. The last thing I needed was to hear other women feeling sorry for themselves about their reduced chances to become pregnant, when I knew my chances were zero.
I don’t remember what made me capitulate in the end. I think I was just worn down by the constant nagging of my mother, my sisters, my aunts: “How can one meeting hurt? Isn’t it better than being lonely at home?”
So, I tried it out. Again and again. Before I knew it, I was a totally hooked member, and I had come to see this group as my lifeline. Yearit, the phenomenal woman who not only runs the groups but also works as the assistant in the PUAH Jerusalem office (you know, the kind of secretary who really runs the place), is very warm and encouraging, and she conveys that attitude to all of us. For the first time in my life, I felt safe to discuss not just my sorrows and fears but also my hopes and dreams, without being scared that they would be laughed at or shot down. Then there were the lectures and guest speakers who brought to life topics and ideas that I hadn’t properly understood before. Slowly but surely, I was becoming a stronger, more confident person, and, among all of the other fringe benefits, it made me readier for marriage.
Now I just needed to find someone. Over the years, I’d had a few shidduch suggestions, men who also had fertility issues, but nothing had panned out.
And then I met Yossi, a widower with children. Since he was a Kohen, he was more limited in whom he could marry, and it seemed like a perfect match. I was thrilled with the idea of becoming a mother to a built-in family. For the first time, I felt optimistic about my chances to actually build a normal life. Yossi, however, was hesitant, knowing that he wouldn’t be able to have any more children with me.
It was a very stressful process, the whole back-and-forth of this shidduch. It probably would never have even gotten off the ground if not for PUAH. Their support during this process was crucial—not just the emotional support I got through the singles group, but especially the support from PUAH’s rabbinic advisors, who were in close contact both with my rav and with Yossi’s. They carefully and clearly answered all questions and explained everything about my condition to allay Yossi’s concerns.
The day I got engaged, I thought the office would explode from the way the entire staff erupted in joy. My “sisters” in the support group were almost as emotional as my actual sisters and family who were, of course, beside themselves with excitement. Finally, after so many years, I, too, was a kallah.
It was then that I decided that if I was at last achieving normalcy in my life, I wanted to do it all the way. I wanted to be like all the other kallahs; I wanted to go to the mikvah before my wedding.
Not having a monthly cycle, there was no halachic reason for me to go to the mikvah. But, emotionally, I felt that this would be the perfect spiritual preparation for my married life. My rav said that there was no problem with my going, but that I shouldn’t recite a bracha. When I mentioned my wish to Yearit, she was strongly supportive and even offered to accompany me, together with my mother.
On the big day, the three of us arrived at the mikvah, prepared for an emotional scene. What I wasn’t prepared for was my panic attack. Which, in retrospect, was kind of shortsighted of me.
See, I didn’t know how to swim. I don’t know why—maybe I had some forgotten trauma when I was young—but I’ve always been scared of water. Why I’d failed to take this into account, I have no idea. But suddenly I was standing on the precipice of the mikvah, what was supposed to be one of the most spiritual moments of my life, and the only thing flashing through my mind was, “There’s no way in the world I’m stepping into this thing.”
I stood rocking there for a few moments, with the mikvah attendant starting to make some subtle throat-clearing signs of impatience, until I finally turned to her and said, “I can’t do this.”
She looked startled. She opened her mouth to argue. Instead, she threw up her hands and left the room. I heard her calling out my mother’s name.
“Won’t help,” I thought, as my brain screeched, “If you go in there, you’ll drown!” No, I couldn’t do this. And, what was more, I didn’t have to. This was totally voluntary.
But it wasn’t my mother who came in. It was Yearit. And she said, in that warm, loving, but firm voice she had when she was insisting to all of us singles that we would get married one day, “Sweetheart, you’re going into the mikvah. Even if I have to sit here all day with you until you do it.”
And with that, she sat down by the edge of the pool and looked at me expectantly.
“You might be here a few days,” I warned.
“No problem,” she answered, with a wink. And then she added, “But you and I both know that’s not true. Within a half hour, we’ll be out of here.”
I stared at her incredulously, and she laughed. “How many years have I known you already, Malka? There are so many things in your life you thought you’d never be able to do—and then you did them. You thought you’d never be able to get married. And look where you are now. Because your will is stronger than your fear. Considering how much you’ve overcome in your life, walking into the mikvah right now should be a piece of cake.”
After that speech, what could I do? It still took me some time to work up the courage, but Yearit was right. She’d gotten to know me well over the years in the support group, and she knew what I was capable of—maybe more than I knew myself. And Yearit understood that if I walked away right then, I would always feel like I was different, that I hadn’t quite made it as a normal kallah. She understood how important this was to me, and she was willing to do whatever it took to make sure I dunked in that mikvah.
And so, I did.
When Yearit danced with me at my wedding a few nights later, we shared a special smile. There were others there who knew how much she’d done for me throughout my years as a member of PUAH’s singles support group. But no one else knew just how far she’d been willing to go to make sure my special night was as perfect as possible.
