When I woke up on September 21, 2012, I never woulda thought so much would happen in a matter of hours. My life took a major twist. And though we've ended up miraculously straightened back out, my heart will never be the same.
I never woulda thought that I was strangely and strongly led to schedule an induction--even though I'd never considered it before--because of what I now believe was an absolute need to get Rebecca out and into this world by 9:42pm on September 21. Only God knows why, but I am convinced that she needed to be out by that moment so that she could live.
I never woulda thought that my relatively easy, normal, basically perfect pregnancy would end with such a bang ... and that Rebecca's life would begin with such panic.
I never woulda thought, as we toured the hospital in early August, that I'd know every crack in the floor, every turn in the hall from the parking garage to the NICU.
I never woulda thought that I'd be the one noticing lost, confused people in the hallways of the hospital and stopping to give them directions.
I never woulda thought that I wouldn't get the joy of wheeling through the halls with my brand new baby girl, showing her off to everyone in sight.
I never woulda thought that we would welcome no one but immediate family to meet Rebecca at the hospital, and that we wouldn't even be able to hold her until day four of her life.
I never woulda thought that I'd learn the lingo of the NICU, and be able to converse with other moms with the same experiences.
I remember the moment. The moment I knew something was wrong. She'd come super fast, and I was still reeling with the realization that my delivery was over. The doc pushed her onto my chest, but because she was so limp, her body kinda flopped. That's when I knew--I knew when I couldn't get a grasp of her, I knew when I didn't hear her cry. I knew when I asked, "Why isn't she crying?" and the nurse quickly whisked her away. I knew something was wrong.
And yet, I still can't figure out why I wasn't more upset. I wasn't more concerned. My sister jokes with me now about how I was asking if I could eat something--while my baby girl was barely breathing on her own in the other room. Why wasn't I bawling? Why wasn't I screaming for her and begging her to be okay? Was I in denial? I know I was being shielded by my husband who didn't want me to know, by my sister who wasn't sure what to say, and by the doctor's who were busy just trying to figure out what went wrong.
I do remember shaking--violently shaking anytime I'd allow my thoughts to drift to her. So I think I just didn't--I just didn't think. I asked for crackers, I talked to the doctor, and did everything I could to just get through.
I don't remember feeling anything when I realized NICU had been called in. I DO remember feeling something when they stopped long enough to let me see her. Her little eyes blinked so slowly, and she took the most labored raspy breath ever. Her head was a funny shape, her color still a little off. Her cheeks were out of this world, and she had the same swatch of dark hair her brother had.
She was alive.
I knew in that moment, when my eyes locked with her, that everything was going to be all right. Even an hour later, when the neonatologist used the words "brain damage" and explained the cooling therapy and the drugs and the risks ... even when my thoughts, my horrible dark selfish thoughts were, "I can't do this. She'll mess up our life. How will her disabilities affect Joshua? And our family? I want to start over!", a sense of peace settled over me. In that moment, I knew--and I never woulda thought--that no matter what, Rebecca Elizabeth, developmental delays, possible brain damage and all, would be and already was a member of this family. No matter what, this little girl would change our lives for the better. No matter what, Joshua would be shaped by his experience as big brother to this little angel. No matter what, Erik would be affected by her sweet presence and her smile. No matter what, this mama's heart would expand to include a little girl, who by no fault of her own, entered this world with a little unnecessary drama.
I never woulda thought we'd walk out of the NICU with a pink bundle of perfection with a clean bill of health.
I never woulda thought that we'd be one of those families with a story of how prayer works, God heals, and Facebook spreads the word. :)
I never woulda thought that I'd be sitting here, 13 days after her birth, and only 3 days after her arrival home, blogging about an experience that I never expected to have, with a tiny little lady with sparkly blue eyes, her brother's nose, her daddy's lips and the worst case of hiccups ever sitting in the bouncer next to me.
My God healed my baby girl. I believe that He knew something would go wrong in the birth canal. He knew that my daughter would not be breathing. He knew her brain would have "unhappy neurons" (I love how the NICU neurologists helps us understand things) and that evidence of seizures would display. He knew that Wednesday afternoon at 3:00 and 3:40, my little girl would stop breathing and need nurses to help her through it.
And oh mind you--I am human. I have yelled a little bit, and asked Him, "If you knew a bad thing was going to happen in there, why didn't you stop it? Why not heal it before the bad thing happened instead of allowing the bad thing to happen? Why allow my baby to come into the world this way? To go through this pain? Why would you have us walk this road?"
But even as I asked, I knew. Because He knew his people would rally to pray. He knew His name would be glorified, and that is why we exist here on earth--to bring glory to His name. And while I wonder why I needed to be the mama who went through this to bring Him glory, I know I am stronger because of it. Not stronger in myself, but stronger in Him. Never before have I been the recipient of such miracles.
I never woulda thought that this would be Rebecca's story. But truly, I can truly say: I'm grateful that it is.
My little miracle baby who didn't cry at birth is starting to cry now--apparently she's hungry again. :) Oh how I love that cry.
Showing posts with label On Grieving. Show all posts
Showing posts with label On Grieving. Show all posts
Thursday, October 4, 2012
Tuesday, June 12, 2012
25 Weeks: The Gift of Infertility
There I was, kissing my two year old angel goodbye, and struggling to climb semi gracefully out of the car. At 25 weeks pregnant, "graceful" is quickly becoming a thing of the past. I balanced a handful of trash, my water bottle and my purse, and walked quickly toward the park.
As I tried to contain the prego-waddle while shuffling toward the bridge, I saw the person I was meeting.
Today, I met with a young woman struggling with infertility.
As we walked the lake a few times, it was like looking in a mirror. The questions she asked, the emotions she expressed, the tears she shed ... It was like stepping into my own past.
It hasn't been that long, and yet it has. As infertility consumes and defines you, so does pregnancy and motherhood. 25 weeks into my second successful pregnancy, and I am surprised at how infrequently I remember the infertility. Even with a miscarriage less than a year ago, I am much more "mother of toddler" and "pregnancy guru" than I am the "infertility voice" that I was.
And yet, it's all still there. All I had to do was hear this young woman ask me questions like:
Were you able to still enjoy life in the midst of trying to conceive?
I remember. I remember the darkness. I remember the pain. I remember the desperation, the inability to pray, the discouraging moments when you realize you might not have any more capacity for the disappointment that follows high hopes. I remember the tears. I remember the bitterness. I remember the guilt, the desire to show excitement for friends, the horrifying days when you recognize your lack of trust in the Lord.
I remember.
And as I told this young woman today, as we exchanged tissues and tears, I am so incredibly grateful that God has redeemed our pain. He has and continues to use our journey of infertility to minister to others. And not only does He use it now--He used it during the pain.
So if you are in the midst of pain, as many of us are--in some way or another--ask God to use it, redeem it, work through it NOW. Don't wait for later, when it's over and in the past. Might as well start using it for good.
What an incredible gift those almost three years were--those years of crying, beseeching, shouting, stonewalling, learning, grieving, growing, hoping, stretching. And now, 25 weeks pregnant with Baby Boo, God allowed me the incredible honor of reaching back into my not so distant past to help encourage another woman, desperate to be a mother, and aching with the pain of unfulfilled hopes.
As I tried to contain the prego-waddle while shuffling toward the bridge, I saw the person I was meeting.
Today, I met with a young woman struggling with infertility.
Today, I met myself.
As we walked the lake a few times, it was like looking in a mirror. The questions she asked, the emotions she expressed, the tears she shed ... It was like stepping into my own past.
It hasn't been that long, and yet it has. As infertility consumes and defines you, so does pregnancy and motherhood. 25 weeks into my second successful pregnancy, and I am surprised at how infrequently I remember the infertility. Even with a miscarriage less than a year ago, I am much more "mother of toddler" and "pregnancy guru" than I am the "infertility voice" that I was.
And yet, it's all still there. All I had to do was hear this young woman ask me questions like:
Were you able to still enjoy life in the midst of trying to conceive?
How did you connect with your husband in the midst of the pain?
Were there days you were just sad?
Was there ever a time you just didn't think you could ever hope again?
Is there any way to not be consumed by it?
I remember. I remember the darkness. I remember the pain. I remember the desperation, the inability to pray, the discouraging moments when you realize you might not have any more capacity for the disappointment that follows high hopes. I remember the tears. I remember the bitterness. I remember the guilt, the desire to show excitement for friends, the horrifying days when you recognize your lack of trust in the Lord.
I remember.
And as I told this young woman today, as we exchanged tissues and tears, I am so incredibly grateful that God has redeemed our pain. He has and continues to use our journey of infertility to minister to others. And not only does He use it now--He used it during the pain.
And that's my hope is that we can all realize that God doesn't wait for our pain to pass, for us to come up from under the darkness to use it all for good. If we allow Him to, He can and will start now.
So if you are in the midst of pain, as many of us are--in some way or another--ask God to use it, redeem it, work through it NOW. Don't wait for later, when it's over and in the past. Might as well start using it for good.
What an incredible gift those almost three years were--those years of crying, beseeching, shouting, stonewalling, learning, grieving, growing, hoping, stretching. And now, 25 weeks pregnant with Baby Boo, God allowed me the incredible honor of reaching back into my not so distant past to help encourage another woman, desperate to be a mother, and aching with the pain of unfulfilled hopes.
I hope I never forget. Ever. The pain of infertility continues to shape my path, and makes me who I am--and I am so grateful for it.
Monday, February 13, 2012
Trusting in the Midst of Grief
These past two weeks have been a roller coaster.
We found out we were pregnant on January 5, much to our surprise considering our history of struggling to conceive. And thus we began the wonderful journey of early pregnancy--cautious hope, hesitant excitement, all with a dash of anxiety and a base of trust.
Unlike my three pregnancies that ended in miscarriage, I had an incredible sense of peace that this one was going to work. Even when I would wonder and slip into doubt, I could honestly say that it felt like we were definitely going to have a baby in September. I just had peace.
By the time I was 6 weeks along, we were feeling pretty good. And then we received some fun news that a friend was pregnant as well! How fun that she and I would get to experience this joy together.
Then I started bleeding. And I must say, I just lost it. I ignored the peace that I had, and I sobbed. And sobbed. And sobbed. I was so hurt, and scared, and confused. I just couldn't understand why God gives, and takes away. (Even though I recognize He doesn't necessarily cause miscarriages, in my sorrow, I was upset that He hadn't prevented it.) We began to prepare our hearts for the journey we know all too well--recovering from the grief and heartache of early miscarriage.
But I was still pregnant--what?! My hormone levels were rising, my symptoms weren't disappearing ... and lo and behold, a week and a day later, after spotting consistently, I saw a teeny tiny little heartbeat. The peace I had was accurate; in spite of all appearances, there's a little baby growing in there!
The same day, my friend experienced some spotting too. She got an ultrasound, saw a teenier-tinyer little embryo (no heartbeat yet) and felt great! We again were so excited.
But her spotting continued. While mine finally, slowly, went away (it was due to two small clots near the placenta), her's increased. Until, sadly, yesterday she lost the baby.
And thus the blog title: Trusting in the Midst of Grief.
In the midst of heartache and pain, what does it look like to trust? In the midst of the unknown and fear, how do we rest in God's peace? Does trusting mean the absence of all emotion? Does resting mean we never cry out in agony and pain?
NO.
If I learned anything in my journey to conceive Joshua, it's that God is big enough to handle my emotions. And boy am I glad He is, cuz I sure have a lot of them! I remember feeling some guilt after we realized I wasn't miscarrying. I recalled finding the bleeding, and turning my face to the ceiling, asking, "Really God? Really?" In hindsight, I of course felt bad that my first response was the blame Him.
But guess what--He's still God.
In the hours leading up to my ultrasound, where I would discover whether my baby was alive and growing, or about to miscarry, my battle against fear and anxiety was escalating. It took every ounce of my strength--Christ's strength in me--to surrender my fears and TRUST. And if you could have heard me in those moments, you would not have heard anything that sounded like peaceful trust. I was a little bit of a wreck. The unknown--the possibility of having to accept and slog through another miscarriage--was weighing on me like a ball and chain. Did this mean I didn't trust that God is good? Did this mean that I didn't know that His plan is best and miscarriage serves a natural purpose? Did this mean that I wasn't trying to surrender and rest in His peace?
NO.
Trusting in the Midst of Grief is hard. It sucks. It's a roller coaster.
My friend is there right now--and I'm there with her. My heart is breaking for the pain I know she is feeling. The pain I begged God to give me, instead of her, because I at least know from experience how to deal with it. I tear up constantly, my heart physically aches, my stomach just isn't right today. I am asking God "Why?" ... and yet, I trust. I trust that He is good. I trust that He can handle our grief. I trust that He saw that little baby, and He knew the journey my friend would take. And I trust that He will sustain her, and make her stronger, through it.
We found out we were pregnant on January 5, much to our surprise considering our history of struggling to conceive. And thus we began the wonderful journey of early pregnancy--cautious hope, hesitant excitement, all with a dash of anxiety and a base of trust.
Unlike my three pregnancies that ended in miscarriage, I had an incredible sense of peace that this one was going to work. Even when I would wonder and slip into doubt, I could honestly say that it felt like we were definitely going to have a baby in September. I just had peace.
By the time I was 6 weeks along, we were feeling pretty good. And then we received some fun news that a friend was pregnant as well! How fun that she and I would get to experience this joy together.
Then I started bleeding. And I must say, I just lost it. I ignored the peace that I had, and I sobbed. And sobbed. And sobbed. I was so hurt, and scared, and confused. I just couldn't understand why God gives, and takes away. (Even though I recognize He doesn't necessarily cause miscarriages, in my sorrow, I was upset that He hadn't prevented it.) We began to prepare our hearts for the journey we know all too well--recovering from the grief and heartache of early miscarriage.
But I was still pregnant--what?! My hormone levels were rising, my symptoms weren't disappearing ... and lo and behold, a week and a day later, after spotting consistently, I saw a teeny tiny little heartbeat. The peace I had was accurate; in spite of all appearances, there's a little baby growing in there!
The same day, my friend experienced some spotting too. She got an ultrasound, saw a teenier-tinyer little embryo (no heartbeat yet) and felt great! We again were so excited.
But her spotting continued. While mine finally, slowly, went away (it was due to two small clots near the placenta), her's increased. Until, sadly, yesterday she lost the baby.
And thus the blog title: Trusting in the Midst of Grief.
In the midst of heartache and pain, what does it look like to trust? In the midst of the unknown and fear, how do we rest in God's peace? Does trusting mean the absence of all emotion? Does resting mean we never cry out in agony and pain?
NO.
If I learned anything in my journey to conceive Joshua, it's that God is big enough to handle my emotions. And boy am I glad He is, cuz I sure have a lot of them! I remember feeling some guilt after we realized I wasn't miscarrying. I recalled finding the bleeding, and turning my face to the ceiling, asking, "Really God? Really?" In hindsight, I of course felt bad that my first response was the blame Him.
But guess what--He's still God.
In the hours leading up to my ultrasound, where I would discover whether my baby was alive and growing, or about to miscarry, my battle against fear and anxiety was escalating. It took every ounce of my strength--Christ's strength in me--to surrender my fears and TRUST. And if you could have heard me in those moments, you would not have heard anything that sounded like peaceful trust. I was a little bit of a wreck. The unknown--the possibility of having to accept and slog through another miscarriage--was weighing on me like a ball and chain. Did this mean I didn't trust that God is good? Did this mean that I didn't know that His plan is best and miscarriage serves a natural purpose? Did this mean that I wasn't trying to surrender and rest in His peace?
NO.
Trusting in the Midst of Grief is hard. It sucks. It's a roller coaster.
My friend is there right now--and I'm there with her. My heart is breaking for the pain I know she is feeling. The pain I begged God to give me, instead of her, because I at least know from experience how to deal with it. I tear up constantly, my heart physically aches, my stomach just isn't right today. I am asking God "Why?" ... and yet, I trust. I trust that He is good. I trust that He can handle our grief. I trust that He saw that little baby, and He knew the journey my friend would take. And I trust that He will sustain her, and make her stronger, through it.
I remain confident of this:
I will see the goodness of the LORD
in the land of the living.
Wait for the LORD;
be strong and take heart
and wait for the LORD.
I will see the goodness of the LORD
in the land of the living.
Wait for the LORD;
be strong and take heart
and wait for the LORD.
Psalm 27: 13-14
Tuesday, August 2, 2011
Waterfalls, Dams and Kinkos.
I cry a lot lately.
Just here and there, and everywhere--any random thing can make the waters rise and trickle down my cheeks.
At the local park, as I round the corner of the pond and gaze on the most beautiful mountain range I've ever lived near and realize that I'm leaving my mountains.
At the FedEx/Kinkos office, where James, the most helpful and kindest employee ever, remembers my name, and recalls that my son is about 1 1/2 (Josh is 15 months old--I'd say James was pretty close!)
At the weekly Bible study with ladies I've taken for granted and now realize I will deeply deeply miss ... no explanation needed. The tears flow just writing about it.
At the sound of Joshua squealing and clapping in delight as we make the right turn into my parents' drive. My tears could rival waterfalls in the Amazon.
At the memories in this home, the far off voices in the walls, the images that float through the halls. The dam might break forever if I contemplate what leaving this house will feel like.
At the moment in Denver where I thought I heard someone call our names. No one did, but the fact that I knew we could run into someone we knew was wonderful. Until I remembered we're moving to a place where no one knows us and it'll be rare for many years for us to run into people we know anywhere we go.
At the twists and turns and streets and stoplights that I can navigate in my sleep, and have since high school.
At the reassurance that I always have a place to go when I need a break, a hug or some super super super ridiculously strong coffee. (A.K.A. Mom and Dad's. The coffee is always stronger when Mom makes it though...)
At the truth that explodes in my heart that while this is where I'm known, this is where I reside, this is where I wish I could live forever ... I'm no longer called to be here. The tears that well and gush and flow at that are a mixture of grief and hope. Grief at leaving my home, and hope at the prospect of an adventure. Grief at leaving the known for the unknown, and hope at the blessings of following the call of my Lord. Grief and hope ... tears and more tears.
I've said it before, and I'll say it again--moving is hard.
Just here and there, and everywhere--any random thing can make the waters rise and trickle down my cheeks.
At the local park, as I round the corner of the pond and gaze on the most beautiful mountain range I've ever lived near and realize that I'm leaving my mountains.
At the FedEx/Kinkos office, where James, the most helpful and kindest employee ever, remembers my name, and recalls that my son is about 1 1/2 (Josh is 15 months old--I'd say James was pretty close!)
At the weekly Bible study with ladies I've taken for granted and now realize I will deeply deeply miss ... no explanation needed. The tears flow just writing about it.
At the sound of Joshua squealing and clapping in delight as we make the right turn into my parents' drive. My tears could rival waterfalls in the Amazon.
At the memories in this home, the far off voices in the walls, the images that float through the halls. The dam might break forever if I contemplate what leaving this house will feel like.
At the moment in Denver where I thought I heard someone call our names. No one did, but the fact that I knew we could run into someone we knew was wonderful. Until I remembered we're moving to a place where no one knows us and it'll be rare for many years for us to run into people we know anywhere we go.
At the twists and turns and streets and stoplights that I can navigate in my sleep, and have since high school.
At the reassurance that I always have a place to go when I need a break, a hug or some super super super ridiculously strong coffee. (A.K.A. Mom and Dad's. The coffee is always stronger when Mom makes it though...)
At the truth that explodes in my heart that while this is where I'm known, this is where I reside, this is where I wish I could live forever ... I'm no longer called to be here. The tears that well and gush and flow at that are a mixture of grief and hope. Grief at leaving my home, and hope at the prospect of an adventure. Grief at leaving the known for the unknown, and hope at the blessings of following the call of my Lord. Grief and hope ... tears and more tears.
I've said it before, and I'll say it again--moving is hard.
Friday, July 22, 2011
The Luxury of an Oops
Ever since I miscarried last week, I've had this phrase rolling through my mind:
Luxury of an Oops
It has occurred to me that having an "oops" pregnancy, while unexpected and kinda stressful, is actually a luxury. At least from the point of view I'm coming from. See, I'll most likely, as confirmed by last week's miscarriage, never have the luxury of "Oops! We're unexpectedly pregnant! Well, haha---guess God decided it was time!"
See, that won't be us because of my ridiculous genetic blood protein chromosome something something problem--the beautiful MTHFR. My problem is not necessarily in the conception--it's in the keeping of an embryo. I've conceived four times (to my knowledge), and I have one child. Bad odds. That's because my body doesn't seem to know how to sustain a pregnancy without lotsa blood thinner shots, baby aspirin and uber amounts of folic acid to help my own body combat, well, itself. In order to keep my child. Sheesh. What a mess!
You may recall that Erik and I went a LONG time without conceiving before we struck gold with little Joshua. I truly believe God heard, and not only heard but answered our prayers. Our prayer was quite specific, and truly, I don't know if we really knew what we were actually asking for. We prayed:
"God please PLEASE don't let us miscarry again. Please don't let us conceive until it's going to stick and carry."
Well, after miscarrying our second in September of 2007, I did not conceive again until August of 2009. Let me tell you--that's a LOT of trying and failing. A lot of praying and waiting. A lot of wishing and hoping.
God does answer prayer. He knew we needed to find out about MTHFR. He knew I needed to be with the right, arrogant, aggressive doctor who would treat this contested disorder. He knew I needed to be on certain shots and drugs even preconception for little "Bubba" (now Joshua) to stick.
He knew, He heard, and He answered.
And after this quite unexpected pregnancy that ended not unexpectedly in miscarriage, I ask of my Lord again. Please, Please, don't let me have another oops if it's just going to end like this. I'd rather find the specialist, pay the money, do the shots that bruise my skin and turn me ugly shades of yellow, purple, black and blue. I'd rather take the horse-sized pills, cut the caffiene, endure the blood draws, and mess with my hormones. I'd rather do all this then be reminded again some time in the future that my body does not have the ability to--on it's own--sustain a tiny little embryo past 6 weeks.
I won't ever experience the luxury of an oops.
Wednesday, July 13, 2011
Unexpected ... Miscarriage
It's amazing how something you weren't expecting and not trying for can change your whole train of thought. Alter your entire way of thinking about the near future. Morph the image in your mind of the next steps.
On July 4th, we were shocked to find out we were pregnant. And this morning, sadly, I am losing the pregnancy.
I'd forgotten how quickly that positive pregnancy test changes your life. I had a inkling I was pregnant. As we traipsed around New York City, and I was extra tired, ridiculously crabby, and quite demanding of food, a small voice in my brain kept taunting me saying, "You're pregnant! You're pregnant!"
And so I was. And the second we saw that test, planned or not, our visualization of our future changed. Suddenly there was a pregnant belly while unpacking our place in Madison. There was a newborn baby early in March, or most likely February. Joshua would have a baby sister or brother before he was 2--definitely not in our plans, but now our new reality.
This is, was, the first time I've ever been pregnant without trying. I have a whole new understanding for the woman who has an "oops." (Please don't comment and rant about how no baby is an oops and every baby is created by God ... I'm aware. It's a phrase. Thank you.) This was our "oops!" (I like to tack an exclamation point on the end because it sounds like a happy oops then.) And Baby Oops really threw me for a loop. I'd never not planned on a pregnancy before. And this one startled me--and so did my emotions.
I remember laying down with Joshua at my Grandma's house to spend some time with him before nap time. And I cried. Cried with shock, cried with happiness, cried with those crazy pregnant lady hormones. And Joshua laid with me, forehead to forehead. He reached out his chubby little hand and patted my cheek, as if to say, "There there Mommy, we can handle another one like me."
I had thoughts like, I'm not ready. I can't do this. Wait! Maybe I only want Joshua!!!!
But then I had thoughts like, What a miracle. We didn't even have to try!
Then the cramping started, and I couldn't decide what to feel. Sadness? Relief? Fear? A mix of it all. Then the cramping went away ... then it returned ... then it went away .... Ugh--just happen already!
And so now, the answer is clear: no baby in March. No brother or sister for Joshua--not yet anyway.
I've miscarried before. I've sobbed and I've bawled. This one is different. I'm still a mother, so yes I am grieving. I'm heartbroken and sad. But this one is different too. Because this time, I was able to open a door, smile at a little boy, pick him up and receive the biggest most exuberant hug any mommy could ever receive. Having Joshua makes this okay, and trusting God gives me hope.
On July 4th, we were shocked to find out we were pregnant. And this morning, sadly, I am losing the pregnancy.
I'd forgotten how quickly that positive pregnancy test changes your life. I had a inkling I was pregnant. As we traipsed around New York City, and I was extra tired, ridiculously crabby, and quite demanding of food, a small voice in my brain kept taunting me saying, "You're pregnant! You're pregnant!"
And so I was. And the second we saw that test, planned or not, our visualization of our future changed. Suddenly there was a pregnant belly while unpacking our place in Madison. There was a newborn baby early in March, or most likely February. Joshua would have a baby sister or brother before he was 2--definitely not in our plans, but now our new reality.
This is, was, the first time I've ever been pregnant without trying. I have a whole new understanding for the woman who has an "oops." (Please don't comment and rant about how no baby is an oops and every baby is created by God ... I'm aware. It's a phrase. Thank you.) This was our "oops!" (I like to tack an exclamation point on the end because it sounds like a happy oops then.) And Baby Oops really threw me for a loop. I'd never not planned on a pregnancy before. And this one startled me--and so did my emotions.
I remember laying down with Joshua at my Grandma's house to spend some time with him before nap time. And I cried. Cried with shock, cried with happiness, cried with those crazy pregnant lady hormones. And Joshua laid with me, forehead to forehead. He reached out his chubby little hand and patted my cheek, as if to say, "There there Mommy, we can handle another one like me."
I had thoughts like, I'm not ready. I can't do this. Wait! Maybe I only want Joshua!!!!
But then I had thoughts like, What a miracle. We didn't even have to try!
Then the cramping started, and I couldn't decide what to feel. Sadness? Relief? Fear? A mix of it all. Then the cramping went away ... then it returned ... then it went away .... Ugh--just happen already!
And so now, the answer is clear: no baby in March. No brother or sister for Joshua--not yet anyway.
I've miscarried before. I've sobbed and I've bawled. This one is different. I'm still a mother, so yes I am grieving. I'm heartbroken and sad. But this one is different too. Because this time, I was able to open a door, smile at a little boy, pick him up and receive the biggest most exuberant hug any mommy could ever receive. Having Joshua makes this okay, and trusting God gives me hope.
Friday, March 5, 2010
Week 30: Didn't, Wasn't ... Did, Am.
For so many months, I didn't.
For so long, I wasn't.
Many months, others did.
Many times, others were.
And I didn't, and wasn't.
And yet, here I sit--I did, and I am.
I'm the lady breathing heavily while wandering around the grocery store. I'm the one seeing stars after bending over to pick something up. I'm the one hitting my belly on the corner counter because, even after so many weeks, I'm still not used to it being there.
There are still women out there who, month after month, don't. Who time after time, aren't.
For 881 days, I didn't and wasn't. Compared to some womens' waiting, that's not that long. I remember when I wasn't. I used to say that I actually worried about the day where I was the waddling one in the mall who caused pain in some flat stomached woman's life. And it pains me that my blessing of a bulging belly has and will continue to cause others stomachs to twist and jaws to clench. I don't judge them. I would never tell them to be happy for me. I know how it feels.
I wish I could wear a sign. The sign would say, "This did not come easily." "I do not take this miracle for granted." "I understand and shed tears over your pain." "I know the infertility journey."
Because of God's goodness, I did and I am. And I pray I never ever forget how it felt when I didn't, and wasn't.
For so long, I wasn't.
Many months, others did.
Many times, others were.
And I didn't, and wasn't.
And yet, here I sit--I did, and I am.
I'm the lady breathing heavily while wandering around the grocery store. I'm the one seeing stars after bending over to pick something up. I'm the one hitting my belly on the corner counter because, even after so many weeks, I'm still not used to it being there.
There are still women out there who, month after month, don't. Who time after time, aren't.
For 881 days, I didn't and wasn't. Compared to some womens' waiting, that's not that long. I remember when I wasn't. I used to say that I actually worried about the day where I was the waddling one in the mall who caused pain in some flat stomached woman's life. And it pains me that my blessing of a bulging belly has and will continue to cause others stomachs to twist and jaws to clench. I don't judge them. I would never tell them to be happy for me. I know how it feels.
I wish I could wear a sign. The sign would say, "This did not come easily." "I do not take this miracle for granted." "I understand and shed tears over your pain." "I know the infertility journey."
Because of God's goodness, I did and I am. And I pray I never ever forget how it felt when I didn't, and wasn't.
Friday, February 5, 2010
Week 26: Finally My Turn
I was cleaning out old documents when I found this. Written March 3, 2008--it's so weird to hear my voice from the past. These emotions seem so recent, and yet, so long ago. It's weird how things change so quickly ... But it's good to be reminded from where I've come. From where God has brought me. During a week where I was continually amazed at the experiences of pregnant, it was so good to remember how badly I wished for this. Why would anyone complain about being pregnant?? I'm so blessed to get to experience this miracle. Former me would be so happy ....
I have a headache. My legs hurt. I feel like I need to stretch but don’t have the energy to do so. I hate that I know that the energy would come if I would just get up and move around. But that takes effort. I feel like effort is not something I can put forth right now. Because I have a headache.
I want to be done with school. I want to not feel guilty about not being heavily involved in a ministry. I feel like I’m tired and slightly burned out, which is dumb because I just got back from vacation.
I feel that it’s unfair that all these women in my life can all have babies and I can’t. I feel that it has been long enough—how much longer until it’s my turn? Do I get a turn? Maybe I won’t!?
That feeling scares me. I feel like it’s not going to happen. That I’m not going to be blessed with my own baby.
I want to experience pregnancy. I want to feel my baby kick inside of me. I want to have horrible heartburn, I want to puke every morning, I want to have swollen feet and I want to have to buy a fake cheap wedding band at Wal-Mart because my fingers are too big to wear my real one.
I want to have beautiful hair and strong nails. I want my pants to be tight. I want to be able to sleep only on one side and have to hug a body pillow just to be comfortable. I want to fight with Erik over names.
I want to avoid coffee and deli meats for 9 whole months, just because they might harm my baby. I want to feel fat. I want to waddle. I want to wonder if I’ll ever see my toes again. I want to have to ask for help to tie my shoes. I want to not have to clean the litter box. I want people telling me that I’m the cutest pregnant woman they’ve ever seen. I want to not be able to travel.
I want to be pregnant. And it’s my turn.
GOD!! I just keep plodding along, but I’m tired Lord. I’m tired. I want to be a mom. Is that too much to ask? For me? For Jenni? ForErin ? For Heather? Why not us, God? Why are we the statistics? What did we do to deserve the loss of our CHILDREN?! Not matter how big, or how miniscule, those are our babies. And it hurts to lose them. It’s devastating.
So when is it our turn God? When do we get to hold our babies in our arms? To see their little eyes looking up at us with such love and trust?
When do we get to watch our sons learn to play baseball, and our daughters dress cabbage patch dolls?
When is it our turn to clean up spaghetti stains and organize millions of toys?
When do we get the privilege of getting no sleep and making multiple runs to Target for diapers and formula?
When, God, is it my turn to feel a baby kicking, to deal with hiccups at 2am, to feel the pain of Braxton Hicks?
When God? How much longer? Where are You in this???? You could snap Your fingers, and I could be pregnant. Is this not what You have for me? When in the world IS Your timing? Soon….please God soon.
I feel so obligated to write something about how I know it’s Your timing, I know You are here, I know this is for my own good…
but I just sometimes want to ask the questions. I want them hanging out there, unanswered, because it feels good to let them hang. Good in an extremely empty, desperate way. Good in a strangely depressing way.
After so long, it feels good to question—to honestly vent, question and not feel obligated to remind myself and others reading that I know His words on waiting, growing, challenging, disciplining. Sometimes, I just don’t care. I want to be sad. I want to play the victim; I want to whine.
When is it my turn??
Dear Former Me--it's my turn!!!!! Bubba's strong and healthy and coming very very soon! The Lord is good--no matter how I'm feeling.
I have a headache. My legs hurt. I feel like I need to stretch but don’t have the energy to do so. I hate that I know that the energy would come if I would just get up and move around. But that takes effort. I feel like effort is not something I can put forth right now. Because I have a headache.
I want to be done with school. I want to not feel guilty about not being heavily involved in a ministry. I feel like I’m tired and slightly burned out, which is dumb because I just got back from vacation.
I feel that it’s unfair that all these women in my life can all have babies and I can’t. I feel that it has been long enough—how much longer until it’s my turn? Do I get a turn? Maybe I won’t!?
That feeling scares me. I feel like it’s not going to happen. That I’m not going to be blessed with my own baby.
I want to experience pregnancy. I want to feel my baby kick inside of me. I want to have horrible heartburn, I want to puke every morning, I want to have swollen feet and I want to have to buy a fake cheap wedding band at Wal-Mart because my fingers are too big to wear my real one.
I want to have beautiful hair and strong nails. I want my pants to be tight. I want to be able to sleep only on one side and have to hug a body pillow just to be comfortable. I want to fight with Erik over names.
I want to avoid coffee and deli meats for 9 whole months, just because they might harm my baby. I want to feel fat. I want to waddle. I want to wonder if I’ll ever see my toes again. I want to have to ask for help to tie my shoes. I want to not have to clean the litter box. I want people telling me that I’m the cutest pregnant woman they’ve ever seen. I want to not be able to travel.
I want to be pregnant. And it’s my turn.
GOD!! I just keep plodding along, but I’m tired Lord. I’m tired. I want to be a mom. Is that too much to ask? For me? For Jenni? For
So when is it our turn God? When do we get to hold our babies in our arms? To see their little eyes looking up at us with such love and trust?
When do we get to watch our sons learn to play baseball, and our daughters dress cabbage patch dolls?
When is it our turn to clean up spaghetti stains and organize millions of toys?
When do we get the privilege of getting no sleep and making multiple runs to Target for diapers and formula?
When, God, is it my turn to feel a baby kicking, to deal with hiccups at 2am, to feel the pain of Braxton Hicks?
When God? How much longer? Where are You in this???? You could snap Your fingers, and I could be pregnant. Is this not what You have for me? When in the world IS Your timing? Soon….please God soon.
I feel so obligated to write something about how I know it’s Your timing, I know You are here, I know this is for my own good…
but I just sometimes want to ask the questions. I want them hanging out there, unanswered, because it feels good to let them hang. Good in an extremely empty, desperate way. Good in a strangely depressing way.
After so long, it feels good to question—to honestly vent, question and not feel obligated to remind myself and others reading that I know His words on waiting, growing, challenging, disciplining. Sometimes, I just don’t care. I want to be sad. I want to play the victim; I want to whine.
When is it my turn??
Dear Former Me--it's my turn!!!!! Bubba's strong and healthy and coming very very soon! The Lord is good--no matter how I'm feeling.
Sunday, November 8, 2009
Innocence Lost
Pregnancy is an amazing gift. A joyous surprise. A wonderful piece of news to share.
But it’s different when you’ve miscarried.
There’s hesitancy, a lack of excitement. Doubt rules, and fears overwhelm. Where jumping and screaming should occur, looks of concern mixed with tiny bits of hope appear instead.
Once I experienced the innocent bliss of announcing a pregnancy. Just once. And probably never again. That one time will always stick in my mind; I hold it close to my heart. That baby never came to be, but for one precious month, one short, short month, we were excited. We were unconcerned. We did not fear. We got to do the “we’re pregnant!” excited phase.
Sure, we’ve now reached that phase with this pregnancy, and of course, the excitement is bubbling and the joy is inexplicable. But the day I took that test, the moment I saw the plus sign, the “pregnant” reading, the double line, I didn’t jump for joy. I hyperventilated. I collapsed in fear. I froze in doubt. Miscarriage steals the initial joy from pregnancy.
When I told my family, they weren’t sure how to respond. I’m pretty sure my Mom’s words were, “Okaaaay…and how do we feel about this?” It wasn’t an incorrect response on her part—it was a response based out of months and months of hoping and crying and wanting and waiting. It was a response based out of, not blissful, innocent joy, but out of fear of more hurt, more pain, more disappointment.
I’m so excited to be pregnant—Lord knows I’ve waited for a very long time. But my heart literally hurts when I see friends get to announce their pregnancies to screams of joy and astonishment, instead of smiles and hugs laced with concern and memories of pain.
Please don’t pity me, or think I’m pitying myself. This is my journey; this is the path I was led on. It’s just how my life is, and there’s nothing wrong with that. Sin and brokenness muck up this world, and this is one way it has affected mine. The discovery of pregnancy, in this household, was terrifying, even though we were trying so hard and wanting it so much. The memory of loss was too fresh, in spite of the time that had passed.
If you are a woman who is able to embrace the news of pregnancy with blissful joy, cherish it. Not all of us have that experience, and I’m so glad you do.
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
I Lied.
Written July 8, 2009 ...
My devotionals for the past few days have been on Ecclesiastes 3 “A Season for Everything”. Good chapter, good reminders … I kept thinking maybe my season of waiting would end soon. I kept wondering what season would end next, knowing that it wouldn’t necessarily be my “infertile” season.
And then she called. Terri called. Terri, my friend that God blessed me with on this infertile crappy journey called. She called to say, “I’m so sorry—but I’m pregnant!”
That’s it. The season’s over. I’m back to it just being me. Me, all alone. Me, “That Girl.” Me, the infertile one. Me, the non-pregnant one. Me. Just me. Not me and Terri anymore. Just me.
It never occurred to me that the next season to end would be the season of having a friend to slog through this with.
And I fully understand that Terri is still with me. It’s not like, now pregnant, she gets carted off to some other planet where pregnant ladies go to prepare for their children.
Or is it? They seriously are in another world. Going through things I can’t understand, experiencing things I haven’t experienced, sensing some deep need to bond only with each other…it really does put up a small wall when one of my friends gets pregnant. Course, I’m used to it now. I realized yesterday that every single one of my best, closest, “doing life together on a regular basis” friends are pregnant. Or just were. Seriously God? Really? When is it my turn?!
Terri and I have asked that question together now for almost exactly one year. Almost a year ago today we were commiserating over the fertility drugs we were about to start. We were joking about how cool it would be if we got pregnant together, on the same month’s cycle. We were venting about the side effects and imperfect processes of fertility drugs and procedures.
We have walked this journey, side by side for a year. 12 months. (Actually, more than that in all reality, but my email trails that I’ve saved go back to only a certain date.) And Terri has been with me on this path long before she started struggling herself. She has been a great friend, and I know she’ll continue to be. It’s just, this season is over. She’s pregnant; I’m not. I’m back to being alone.
The Friend who is Infertile.
I remember struggling with excited yet guilty feelings when I realized Terri was going to walk this journey with me. They’re still there. Now, I’m so relieved and happy for my friend—God has answered her (and my) prayers. She knows her answer now. I’ve always said how good it will feel to look back and be able to say, “Ah yes, this is the journey.” When Terri told me she was pregnant, she said, “I just wasn’t supposed to be pregnant before now. This is the right time.” Well, I hate to say it, but DUH! It’s such a relief to know her timing … and yet, I’m so jealous. So jealous of the answer, the timing, the wait that is now over. The excitement that will begin to grow as the reality settles in. I’m jealous of the morning sickness, the cravings, the sleepless nights. And the guilt is still there too. I feel guilty when I think why her and not me? I’ve been waiting longer! I’ve lost two! I feel guilty when I consider selfishly the change in our friendship. The non-similar experiences. The inevitable awkwardness, since she is and I’m not. I feel guilty. And happy. And jealous. And sorrowful. And so so so tired of crying my eyes out over a friend’s joyous news.
I told Terri that her getting pregnant gives me hope.
I lied.
My devotionals for the past few days have been on Ecclesiastes 3 “A Season for Everything”. Good chapter, good reminders … I kept thinking maybe my season of waiting would end soon. I kept wondering what season would end next, knowing that it wouldn’t necessarily be my “infertile” season.
And then she called. Terri called. Terri, my friend that God blessed me with on this infertile crappy journey called. She called to say, “I’m so sorry—but I’m pregnant!”
That’s it. The season’s over. I’m back to it just being me. Me, all alone. Me, “That Girl.” Me, the infertile one. Me, the non-pregnant one. Me. Just me. Not me and Terri anymore. Just me.
It never occurred to me that the next season to end would be the season of having a friend to slog through this with.
And I fully understand that Terri is still with me. It’s not like, now pregnant, she gets carted off to some other planet where pregnant ladies go to prepare for their children.
Or is it? They seriously are in another world. Going through things I can’t understand, experiencing things I haven’t experienced, sensing some deep need to bond only with each other…it really does put up a small wall when one of my friends gets pregnant. Course, I’m used to it now. I realized yesterday that every single one of my best, closest, “doing life together on a regular basis” friends are pregnant. Or just were. Seriously God? Really? When is it my turn?!
Terri and I have asked that question together now for almost exactly one year. Almost a year ago today we were commiserating over the fertility drugs we were about to start. We were joking about how cool it would be if we got pregnant together, on the same month’s cycle. We were venting about the side effects and imperfect processes of fertility drugs and procedures.
We have walked this journey, side by side for a year. 12 months. (Actually, more than that in all reality, but my email trails that I’ve saved go back to only a certain date.) And Terri has been with me on this path long before she started struggling herself. She has been a great friend, and I know she’ll continue to be. It’s just, this season is over. She’s pregnant; I’m not. I’m back to being alone.
The Friend who is Infertile.
I remember struggling with excited yet guilty feelings when I realized Terri was going to walk this journey with me. They’re still there. Now, I’m so relieved and happy for my friend—God has answered her (and my) prayers. She knows her answer now. I’ve always said how good it will feel to look back and be able to say, “Ah yes, this is the journey.” When Terri told me she was pregnant, she said, “I just wasn’t supposed to be pregnant before now. This is the right time.” Well, I hate to say it, but DUH! It’s such a relief to know her timing … and yet, I’m so jealous. So jealous of the answer, the timing, the wait that is now over. The excitement that will begin to grow as the reality settles in. I’m jealous of the morning sickness, the cravings, the sleepless nights. And the guilt is still there too. I feel guilty when I think why her and not me? I’ve been waiting longer! I’ve lost two! I feel guilty when I consider selfishly the change in our friendship. The non-similar experiences. The inevitable awkwardness, since she is and I’m not. I feel guilty. And happy. And jealous. And sorrowful. And so so so tired of crying my eyes out over a friend’s joyous news.
I told Terri that her getting pregnant gives me hope.
I lied.
Tuesday, September 1, 2009
My Almost Rebellion: Part Three
My flight was delayed. The inbound plane was coming from Chicago. I hate Chicago. Nothing gets out on time. It’s like that place eats planes or something. So, I was stuck in Wichita. It’s one of those tiny airports where everything shuts down at like, six. So no magazines to purchase, no munchies to buy. Just me, my thoughts, and I. I think I talked to my Mom again … yeah, we chat quite a bit. I love my Mom.
You know when someone’s standing near you and you kinda get that sense that they would talk to you if you let them? So you avoid eye contact, and make sure your body language is not open. And you know when sometimes those people choose to ignore all that and talk to you anyway?
Well. I was standing, as my muscles were a little tired from all the sitting I’d done. A shorter woman, probably in her late 50s or early 60s, with frizzy blonde, shoulder length hair, blue capris—the kind of denim blue that shouldn’t be allowed anymore—a button down, oversized pale yellow shirt, and, you guessed it, a hip pack leaned toward me. She motioned toward the big window we were near and said, “Amazing sunset isn’t it?” I turned, and saw the most beautiful Kansas sunset I’ve ever seen. (Truth be told, it was the first Kansas one I’ve ever seen, but honestly, it rivaled the Colorado sunsets at that moment.)
“Isn’t that just the silver lining on this situation?” she asked. I knew she meant the delay of the plane, but …. I could not tear my eyes away from that sunset. I watched and watched and watched … and ducked my head because I was crying. I couldn’t help it. It was like God was saying here look—there’s still beauty in this world. I know you are hurting and broken, but life is still beautiful and I Am still here. I watched that sun until is disappeared behind the horizon. And I’m pretty sure when I turned, with tears still glistening in my eyes, I saw that funny little woman watching me and smiling to herself. I think she knew I needed that.
On the plane, near the end when I was no longer allowed to play obsessive, back to back games of Solitaire on my iPod, I rested my head against the stored tray table in front of me, and cried some more. Simply because it felt good to cry. I just felt so sad. And it felt so good to allow the sadness, still keeping out the anger and bitterness and jealousy. I was just sad.
I pulled it together and got off the plane, helped calm a lady and direct her to her connection, followed her there just to be sure, smiled at her reassuringly, as if her problem was the biggest in the world, and went to find my car. And drive to Colorado Springs, where Erik awaited me in a castle, in the highest room atop the highest tower.
I’m not joking—he really was in a castle, and really was waiting for me.
And so I went. I’d love to tell you I spoke to God the whole way and allowed Him to help me heal. But that wouldn’t have helped me stay awake, so I definitely danced my way to the Springs to the good ole music of America’s very own Britney Spears. Hey—don’t judge me. I got there safely.
The next morning, I went to the beginning of Erik’s conference session. (worship conference, morning session = worship songs). I sat at a table and just watched the words. I could not sing; I know myself too well. I couldn’t do it. But I did soak it in. I heard the words, and I allowed the tears to flow. The song that got to me the most that morning, just this morning actually when I think about it, was:
Matt Redman - You Never Let Go
From the album Passion 06: Everything Glorious
Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death
Your perfect love is casting out fear
And even when I’m caught in the middle of the storms of this life
I won’t turn back
I know You are near
And I will fear no evil
For my God is with me
And if my God is with me
Whom then shall I fear?
Whom then shall I fear?
Chorus:
Oh no, You never let go
Through the calm and through the storm
Oh no, You never let go
In every high and every low
Oh no, You never let go
Lord, You never let go of me
And that’s when I realized. I really can’t run away from God. He’s got me, and He’s not going to let go. Just like my Mom is always telling me, God is big enough to handle my little emotional moments. He’s big enough to handle my questions, my doubts, and my yelling. He created me with these emotions, these hormones, and He knows what it feels like when they’re swirling inside of me, making me an emotional monster. And He’s big enough to handle said Monster. He’s not going to let me go.
What’s so funny about all of this, is I knew that. I know that. I’ve always known that. And yet, from August 26th-August 29th, I really really thought that I’d almost ... I don’t know what. But “almost”. I almost quit. I almost lost it. I almost attempted to run away from God. And then I realized something—it’s not that I can’t, but I don’t want to. Why would I?
Monday, August 31, 2009
My Almost Rebellion: Part Two
Somewhere in the recesses of my heart, I determined to at least attempt to talk to God a little, before I ran away from Him. I figured the hour drive in Kansas was a good place to start.
I didn’t get very far on that either. I mean, really—what do I say anymore? I’ve asked for answers, I’ve asked for peace, I’ve, of course, asked for pregnancy, I’ve asked for the pregnancy desire to lessen, if that would help. I’ve asked to be taught, I’ve asked to be molded. And I do know that, at times, these different things were answered. I have to give Him that, I guess. So, instead of talking, I turned on worship music, and drowned my sorrows in Hillsongs.
I didn’t get very far on that either. I mean, really—what do I say anymore? I’ve asked for answers, I’ve asked for peace, I’ve, of course, asked for pregnancy, I’ve asked for the pregnancy desire to lessen, if that would help. I’ve asked to be taught, I’ve asked to be molded. And I do know that, at times, these different things were answered. I have to give Him that, I guess. So, instead of talking, I turned on worship music, and drowned my sorrows in Hillsongs.
In my hotel room that night, my friend Terri called me. I had just finished reading an email from my friend Kelly, who commiserated with me on the confusion of prayer, answers, and how they don’t always come together. I appreciated that email, and I really appreciated Terri’s call.
She asked me how I was, and I told her honestly. I went through my rant. At one point I said something about saying to God, “God, get me pregnant!” and she said, “Wow—that sounds more like a demand than a prayer request!” I backtracked by saying, well, ah, you know, in real life it was more like “Dear God, please allow me the chance to bear a child …” But you know what? She was right. I started to wonder if I’d fallen into that trap, the trap that is so common for us all to fall into. The trap where as long as the one thing that I deem important in my life is missing, I’m upset with God. Had I really gotten there? Sure. I had. At least in those few hours of wrestling. Man, I hate wrestling.
By the end of the phone call, Terri had me in hysterics—laughter of course, I mean, come on—if you knew Terri, you’d understand—about how newborn babies look like overturned cockroaches. You know how when a bug is on its back and its little legs are flailing? Well, picture your favorite newborn, on its back, screaming and crying, with flailing appendages and you now understand why I was dying and out of breath from laughter.
Mom and I talked again. She called because she wanted to share something she’d read … or was it heard? Or found? Or wrote herself? No, that’s not it … I don’t remember. I admit, I wasn’t listening super closely. I’m a horrible daughter. I do remember this though. She said that whatever it was she had read/heard/found/wrote was something like this: Sometimes we’re so wrapped up with being angry about something, angry at God about something, that we forget to grieve. We’re so focused on anger, and so quick to go there, that we forget to allow the God of all comfort to, well, comfort. She said to me, something to the tune of (man, I need to listen better), maybe you just need to stop running toward the anger, and sit in your grief. God will meet you in that grief and, if you allow Him, begin to heal your wounds. Yep, I think that’s basically what she said. And if that’s not what you said, Mom, well, it’s what I heard and it helped. So good job.
Grief. When was the last time that I grieved? That I just allowed sadness? I jump to bitterness. I rest in anger, not that any rest actually happens there. I run to jealousy. But grief? I was done with grief. I’d done the cycle; I’d grieved the miscarriages. But to grieve simply the journey? To grieve the loss every single month, month after long month of still no baby? I hadn’t thought to grieve that. And so, in Kansas, the next day as I drove around the countryside, plastered on a smile for clients, found my way back to the airport and wandered to my concourse, I tried to remember how to grieve. I allowed sadness. I shut out anger, bitterness and jealousy, and I grieved.
(the third and final installment still to come...sorry it's so stinkin long!! I had a lot to "emote")
My Almost Rebellion: Part One
The past few days have been some of the hardest of my life. Nothing big has happened, I didn’t lose anyone, or anything. But I feel like I almost lost God. Or, well, He almost lost me. Well, wait, that still doesn’t work … I feel like I almost attempted to give up on God. I don’t know if I would have gone through with it. Actually, I’m fairly certain I wouldn’t have. God is so good about putting people in my life when I’m in these tough spots. People who speak truth to me, and who are willing to help me work through my emotions. People who don’t get scared when I question God, and question everyone’s perfect little theologies of Him. People like my friend Terri, my husband Erik, my friend Kelly and, most importantly in this little discussion, my Mom.
Here’s where I was at on August 26th. I was sitting in my favorite leather chair in our living room, scouring my well-worn Bible, that’s engraved with Kristin Miller—it was a high school graduation gift—and I’m looking for verses that speak to prayer. I found all the normal ones and wrote them in my journal. And after them I wrote a huge I DON’T GET IT. Because in that moment, I was so pissed. I was so confused. I was so done. Erik came home in the midst of this, and I started ranting, in a teary way, about how none of this makes sense to me. I handed him my journal and said, “I don’t get these verses.” And he kinda laughed, and said, “And you want me to explain them to you?” I could see the teasing in his eyes, because he didn’t yet get the personal torture I was putting myself through, and he was just seeing this as another way to prove that his Bible schooling is superior to my Bible schooling. I said yes, and watched his eyes drop to the page. The teasing left his eyes as he scanned the verses that I had listed. I had also underlined certain specific phrases.
1 John 5:14-15
This is the confidence we have in approaching God: that if we ask anything according to His will, He hears us. And if we know that He hears us—whatever we ask—we know that we have what we asked of him.
Matthew 7:7-8
Ask and it will be given to you; seek and you will find … For everyone who asks receives …
Luke 18:1
Jesus told his disciples a parable to show them that they should always pray and not give up.
Matthew 26:39b
Yet not as I will, but as you will.
John 15:7
If you remain in me and my words remain in you, ask whatever you wish, and it will be given you.
He dropped the journal and admitted he didn’t know. Neither of us spoke; we just looked at each other, and I of course, got teary. Because here’s where I was at in that moment:
I was remembering high school me, content to believe “Everything happens for a reason!”
I was recalling college me, content to believe “God has a perfect plan that He is working out even as we speak.”
I was recognizing that this was where I was currently:
To high school me: If everything happens for a reason, then why is this happening to me? Show me the reason, and I’ll deem whether or not it’s worth the pain.
To college me: If God has a perfect plan, and His plan involves me suffering like this and giving up on prayer, and doubting His close presence in my life, then what kind of perfect plan is that?
To all the other “me’s” that have been, and to those who think they have the answers:
If God is in control of everything and plans everything out, well, then, He’s being pretty mean allowing everyone in my life to be pregnant except for me.
If God is not in control and has chosen to limit His power in this broken, fallen world, and is sitting back, just as sad as I am about this suffering, well, then, He’s just not all that powerful is He?
If God really does operate like the book of Job suggests, allowing Satan to harm us to prove that we can be faithful to Him, well, then, where was my choice in the matter? Because today, I don’t feel like being the one that proves faithfulness.
If God is choosing to allow suffering in my life to reveal His glory in me, for some odd reason, well, then, sorry to yet again sound selfish, but I’d rather not play that role, thank you very much.
If God is changed by our prayers, and prayers are worth praying, well, then, has anyone been giving Him my messages? Because not just me, but probably hundreds of people have sent up prayers about this and nada.
And the biggy—if everything is set in motion, and God isn’t affected by our prayers, well, then, I’m out. I’m done. Because the prayers are just disappointing at this point.
Please know that I am very aware—nauseatingly aware—of how incredibly selfish, and bitter, and angry, and well, human all of this ranting sounds. But hey—guess what? I’m HUMAN! And I refuse to stuff my real, true emotions with some platitudes designed to make me sound like a good Christian girl.
I voiced this all to Erik, who is struggling with the same hurt and deep sadness and so obviously didn’t have any answers, and went about my day. My Mom called at one point, and I sobbed my eyes out over the phone. It had been a while since we’d talked, and I was in quite the turmoil, so my conversation with her was full of anger and bitterness and doubt and questions … and the overarching desire to quit. To give up. To latch onto my anger and run. Though I’m not sure how far one can actually run from God, when He’s ingrained into your very being and etched on the walls of your heart, but I sure thought that maybe I was going to try. I didn’t get very far with that idea though, because I had to get ready for a business trip. And off to Kansas I went. . .
(for the sake of length, the rest of this will be posted tomorrow-ish.)
Monday, June 8, 2009
Stages of Pregnancy ... Not My Own
I am becoming an expert on the stages of pregnancy. Sadly, not my own, since neither of mine have gotten much further than pee on a stick, get excited, bond a little tiny bit with the essence of the being inside me, then cry my guts out.
Sorry to start this blog with such a downer! Wow. Sometimes I'm just a bummer to be around!
No, I'm becoming an expert on the stages of my friends' pregnancies. Not on the nuts and bolts (though I do hear an awful lot about breast feeding classes, midnight cravings, and changing bodies), but on how an "infertile" person deals with the experience. I've only recently realized that there are actually stages to accepting others' pregnancies. And since this blog is all about me (just in case you were confused and thought it was about something else) and you getting "Glimpses of Me" and what's going through my head, I'll elaborate.
Stage One: This stage is optional, depending on the closeness of the friend, the openness of our relationship, and the circumstances of the conception. If I am lucky, I become aware that a friend is actively trying to conceive. You might be surprised, but this is a Stage for me. It takes time for me to come to terms with this new information. I even tell my friends that I will try to pray for success, but that most likely, I just physically will not be able to. With most, this stage is skipped.
Stage Two: Obviously, the announcement. If I knew the friend was trying, the announcement is a little easier to take. If I had no clue, it pretty much blind-sides me and sucks. If the announcement includes a "oops" in it, or a "we weren't even trying yet", well, that just knocks me down and sending me tumbling into at least a week of "Why, God?" and "It's just not fair!!" I had a very close friend ask me recently what to do when she gets pregnant. Should she call? Should she email? Should she wait for a face-to-face if possible? No, no and no. And yes, yes, and no. And no. And yes ... and I don't know ... My answer is this: My ability to respond with excitement is based almost completely on where I am in my monthly crappy cycle. It pretty much has nothing to do with how good of friends we are, or how much I love you or am happy for you. It has everything to do with A) If I was already bracing for it (i.e. I was blessed with a Stage 1) B) How recently I have been denied, yet again and C) How many other people have announced pregnancies lately. Stage Two is obviously a tough one. On to ...
Stage Three: The Sex of the Baby announcement. Surprisingly enough, this is a stage. Typically by the 20th-ish week U/S I have come to terms with the fact my friend is pregnant, and have actually started expressing interest, asking questions--you know, acknowledging it. And then the "It's a Girl!" or "It's a Boy!" (though in reality, they've all been "It's a Girl!" ones lately ...) comes. Whether I get a text, see a status change on Facebook (ugh. Pregnancy announcements on FB...that's a whole other blog), or get a personal phone call, this stage always hits me with a surprising rush of emotions. Now, because all the recent announcements have been female ones, I am not sure if I would have the same emotional response if it were a boy. It is the announcement itself? Or is it the announcement of a girl specifically? I guess I won't know until someone finally has a boy. Either way, as it stands, Stage Three sets me back a few days. Like I said, I've just adjusted to the friend's pregnancy and now I'm forced to re-accept, re-question, re-shout-unfair!-at-God, and re-pout about my lack of pregnancy. My lack of "girl-baby" pregnancy, in particular. But of course, I get used to it and slowly begin reaching out, asking questions ... moving on. Dealing, as usual. And it's all good. Until ..
Stage 4: The newest stage. The one I'm just now beginning to experience. It begins with Facebook Labor updates, centimeters dialated, contraction counting ... And all of the sudden, barely hours later, I'm hit with the stark truth: My friend is now a Mommy. Forever changed, forever. It takes a couple days to understand--she is a Mom. A Mother. A Mama. She is my age, and yet, has a baby. She does, and I don't. I get very apprehensive about seeing my Mommy friend and her new precious angel. I get very emotional, and I want to run and hide. I don't want people to pity me when they see me around the new baby. I just want to be gone, away from the babies. This stage is frustrating to me, because I wish I could just freaking be excited for my friend. But, in my life right now, I just can't. There is so much more for me to deal with first, to work through and accept. See, it's because I should be carting a two year old on my hip when I go to visit these new babies. I should be an experienced mother by now. Instead, I'm just not.
Stage 5: I hold the baby. My wounded soul is bandaged; my heart swells with tentative hope. On Sunday, a brand new beautiful baby was thrust into my arms, all 6 pounds something ounces of her ... and I starting bawling. Bawling out of pent up fear and confusion (see Stage 4), bawling out of months of emotion spent on acknowledging, and accepting this little one's existence (see Stages 2 and 3), bawling out of jealousy and bitterness melting away and hope seeping into the empty space. Bawling, just bawling. Because I don't know what else to do. I don't know anything anymore, except that now, months later, the baby is here. Unlike my babies, this one came to be. This one was used by God (already! She's like, a week old and being used by the Lord!) to touch my soul, and remind me of the glimmer of HOPE that I've stuffed down and covered up with my nasty reality, bitterness, fertility treatments, and angry blogs.
Sorry to start this blog with such a downer! Wow. Sometimes I'm just a bummer to be around!
Anyway ...
No, I'm becoming an expert on the stages of my friends' pregnancies. Not on the nuts and bolts (though I do hear an awful lot about breast feeding classes, midnight cravings, and changing bodies), but on how an "infertile" person deals with the experience. I've only recently realized that there are actually stages to accepting others' pregnancies. And since this blog is all about me (just in case you were confused and thought it was about something else) and you getting "Glimpses of Me" and what's going through my head, I'll elaborate.
Stage One: This stage is optional, depending on the closeness of the friend, the openness of our relationship, and the circumstances of the conception. If I am lucky, I become aware that a friend is actively trying to conceive. You might be surprised, but this is a Stage for me. It takes time for me to come to terms with this new information. I even tell my friends that I will try to pray for success, but that most likely, I just physically will not be able to. With most, this stage is skipped.
Stage Two: Obviously, the announcement. If I knew the friend was trying, the announcement is a little easier to take. If I had no clue, it pretty much blind-sides me and sucks. If the announcement includes a "oops" in it, or a "we weren't even trying yet", well, that just knocks me down and sending me tumbling into at least a week of "Why, God?" and "It's just not fair!!" I had a very close friend ask me recently what to do when she gets pregnant. Should she call? Should she email? Should she wait for a face-to-face if possible? No, no and no. And yes, yes, and no. And no. And yes ... and I don't know ... My answer is this: My ability to respond with excitement is based almost completely on where I am in my monthly crappy cycle. It pretty much has nothing to do with how good of friends we are, or how much I love you or am happy for you. It has everything to do with A) If I was already bracing for it (i.e. I was blessed with a Stage 1) B) How recently I have been denied, yet again and C) How many other people have announced pregnancies lately. Stage Two is obviously a tough one. On to ...
Stage Three: The Sex of the Baby announcement. Surprisingly enough, this is a stage. Typically by the 20th-ish week U/S I have come to terms with the fact my friend is pregnant, and have actually started expressing interest, asking questions--you know, acknowledging it. And then the "It's a Girl!" or "It's a Boy!" (though in reality, they've all been "It's a Girl!" ones lately ...) comes. Whether I get a text, see a status change on Facebook (ugh. Pregnancy announcements on FB...that's a whole other blog), or get a personal phone call, this stage always hits me with a surprising rush of emotions. Now, because all the recent announcements have been female ones, I am not sure if I would have the same emotional response if it were a boy. It is the announcement itself? Or is it the announcement of a girl specifically? I guess I won't know until someone finally has a boy. Either way, as it stands, Stage Three sets me back a few days. Like I said, I've just adjusted to the friend's pregnancy and now I'm forced to re-accept, re-question, re-shout-unfair!-at-God, and re-pout about my lack of pregnancy. My lack of "girl-baby" pregnancy, in particular. But of course, I get used to it and slowly begin reaching out, asking questions ... moving on. Dealing, as usual. And it's all good. Until ..
Stage 4: The newest stage. The one I'm just now beginning to experience. It begins with Facebook Labor updates, centimeters dialated, contraction counting ... And all of the sudden, barely hours later, I'm hit with the stark truth: My friend is now a Mommy. Forever changed, forever. It takes a couple days to understand--she is a Mom. A Mother. A Mama. She is my age, and yet, has a baby. She does, and I don't. I get very apprehensive about seeing my Mommy friend and her new precious angel. I get very emotional, and I want to run and hide. I don't want people to pity me when they see me around the new baby. I just want to be gone, away from the babies. This stage is frustrating to me, because I wish I could just freaking be excited for my friend. But, in my life right now, I just can't. There is so much more for me to deal with first, to work through and accept. See, it's because I should be carting a two year old on my hip when I go to visit these new babies. I should be an experienced mother by now. Instead, I'm just not.
I thought this was it. I thought it was Four stages and I was
forever stuck in the "My Friend is a Mommy?!" stage.
Turns out, thankfully, I was wrong.
Stage 5: I hold the baby. My wounded soul is bandaged; my heart swells with tentative hope. On Sunday, a brand new beautiful baby was thrust into my arms, all 6 pounds something ounces of her ... and I starting bawling. Bawling out of pent up fear and confusion (see Stage 4), bawling out of months of emotion spent on acknowledging, and accepting this little one's existence (see Stages 2 and 3), bawling out of jealousy and bitterness melting away and hope seeping into the empty space. Bawling, just bawling. Because I don't know what else to do. I don't know anything anymore, except that now, months later, the baby is here. Unlike my babies, this one came to be. This one was used by God (already! She's like, a week old and being used by the Lord!) to touch my soul, and remind me of the glimmer of HOPE that I've stuffed down and covered up with my nasty reality, bitterness, fertility treatments, and angry blogs.
The Stages of Pregnancy ... each one is so difficult for my wounded,trembling heart to take. And yet, here I am, in each of those stages at various times, often overlapping stages, doubling up on stages, stuck in certain stages and all the while, wondering when I get a turn. When my little angel will appear and finally allow me to experience the real stages of pregnancy. Not just the stages of all of my friends'. I guess only time will tell, since God is being pretty silent. For now, at least I can hold my friends' babies and be reminded, even if just for a little while, of the amazing miracle of HOPE.
Monday, April 20, 2009
I Echo David ...
Give ear to my words, O Lord, consider my sighing. Listen to my cry for help, my King and my God, for to you I pray. In the morning, O Lord, you hear my voice; in the morning I lay my requests before you and wait in expectation. Psalm 4: 1-3
A Lord, do not rebuke me in your anger or discipline me in your wrath. Be merciful to me, Lord for I am faint; O Lord, heal me, for my bones are in agony. My soul is in anguish. How long, O Lord, how long?... I am worn out from groaning; all night long I flood my bed with weeping and drench my couch with tears. My eyes grow weak with sorrow … Psalm 6: 1-3, 6-7a
How long, O lord? Will you forget me forever? How long will you hide your face from me? How long must I wrestle with my thoughts and every day have sorrow in my heart? How long will my enemy triumph over me? Look on me and answer, O Lord my God. Give light to my eyes, or I will sleep in death…But, I trust in Your unfailing love; my heart rejoices in your salvation. I will sing to the Lord, for he has been good to me. Psalm 13
Turn to me and be gracious to me, for I am lonely and afflicted. The troubles of my heart have multiplied; free me from my anguish. Look upon my affliction and my distress and take away all my sins. Psalm 25:16-18
O God, do not keep silent; be not quiet, O God, be not still. Psalm 83:1
Hear my voice when I call, O Lord; be merciful to me and answer me. My heart says of you, “Seek his face!” Your face, Lord, I will seek. Psalm 27:7-8
To you I call, O Lord my Rock; do not turn a deaf ear to me. For if you remain silent, I will be like those who have gone down to the pit. Hear my cry for mercy as I call to you for help, as I lift up my hands toward your Most Holy Place. Psalm 28:1-2
All my longings lie open before you, O Lord; my sighing is not hidden from you. My heart pounds, my strength fails me; even the light has gone from my eyes. O Lord, do not forsake me; be not far from me, O my God. Come quickly to help me, O Lord my Savior. Psalm 38: 9-10, 21-22
Awake, O Lord! Why do you sleep? Rouse yourself! Do not reject us forever. Why do you hide your face and forget our misery and oppression? Psalm 44: 23-24
Hear my prayer, O Lord, listen to my cry for help! Be not deaf to my weeping. Psalm 39:12
O Lord my God, I called to you for help and you healed me. Psalm 30:2
I sought the Lord and he answered me; he delivered me from all my fears. Psalm 34: 4
The eyes of the Lord are on the righteous and his ears are attentive to their cry … The righteous cry out, and the Lord hears them; he delivers them from all their troubles. The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit. Psalm 34:15, 17-18
I waited patiently for the Lord; he turned to me and heard my cry. Psalm 40:1
Find rest, O my soul, in God alone; my hope comes from him. He alone is my rock and my salvation; he is my fortress, I will not be shaken. My salvation and my honor depend on God; he is my mighty rock, my refuge. Trust in him at all times, O people; pour out your hearts to him, for God is our refuge. Psalm 62: 5-8
My flesh and my heart may fail, but God is the strength of my heart and my portion forever. Psalm 73:26
“Because he loves me,” says the Lord, “I will rescue him; I will protect him, for he acknowledges my name. He will call upon me, and I will answer him; I will be with him in trouble, I will deliver him and honor him. With long life will I satisfy him and show him my salvation.”
Be at rest once more, O my soul, for the Lord has been good to you. Psalm 116:7
We wait in hope for the Lord; he is our help and our shield. In him our hearts rejoice, for we trust in his holy name. May your unfailing love rest upon us, O Lord, even as we put our hope in you. Psalm 33:20-22
Monday, April 13, 2009
Packing Up HOPE
A week ago yesterday, I packed up HOPE. I was done, that was it--no more.
Erik and I had been informed of yet another pregnancy--yet another pregnancy that wasn't ours', that didn't seem "fair" and that caused us to ask, "Why not us?"
It's so hard for me to hear a person say, "We weren't planning this...it's not the best time....we didn't want this right yet...." It causes me to turn toward God and scream, "I WANT IT! Give it to me!! Stop giving it to the people who don't want it yet!!!!!"
A long time ago, when we never dreamed our infertility would last this long, I painted the guest room pale yellow, with fun green, blue and white designs and called it a nursery. Many months ago, before we realized the struggle this would be, I bought a table at a garage sale and painted it blue. Hundreds of days ago, during a time when it made sense to HOPE, I purchased black iron letters and placed them on this table.
Ever since, this little table, with its blue finish, its cute white and green lamp, its collection of antique Disney books, editions 1-17, the pair of socks given to me when pregnant, and its four letters spelling HOPE has been a beacon of light in our house. A beacon that reminded me daily of the assurance I have, that no matter how hard it gets, my HOPE is in the Lord. That there is HOPE. That HOPE is key to survival.
I have spent the week questioning, yelling, crying ... and losing HOPE. I just figured, if prayer doesn't sway God, then why pray? If HOPE doesn't help, only hurts, why HOPE? If time doesn't heal, why continue on?
Every time I'd enter the former nursery, now confused, brightly colored guest room, my emotions changed. The first few times I went in, I felt almost victorious. Like, "There. Good. I win. It's over." As the week went on, and as I worked through my emotions with the Lord, and with good friends, my feelings upon entering the room changed. It became more like, "Huh. It's kinda empty" to "Hm. I kinda miss HOPE." to "Wow--I wonder if I'll ever bring it back?"
I only packed up HOPE for one week, and one day. HOPEfully, I don't ever hit that low again. The only way I've made it through 881 days of this, is HOPE. As hard as it is to HOPE; as much as it hurts ... there is no other way to do it.
Erik and I had been informed of yet another pregnancy--yet another pregnancy that wasn't ours', that didn't seem "fair" and that caused us to ask, "Why not us?"
It's so hard for me to hear a person say, "We weren't planning this...it's not the best time....we didn't want this right yet...." It causes me to turn toward God and scream, "I WANT IT! Give it to me!! Stop giving it to the people who don't want it yet!!!!!"
So I packed up HOPE.
A long time ago, when we never dreamed our infertility would last this long, I painted the guest room pale yellow, with fun green, blue and white designs and called it a nursery. Many months ago, before we realized the struggle this would be, I bought a table at a garage sale and painted it blue. Hundreds of days ago, during a time when it made sense to HOPE, I purchased black iron letters and placed them on this table.
Ever since, this little table, with its blue finish, its cute white and green lamp, its collection of antique Disney books, editions 1-17, the pair of socks given to me when pregnant, and its four letters spelling HOPE has been a beacon of light in our house. A beacon that reminded me daily of the assurance I have, that no matter how hard it gets, my HOPE is in the Lord. That there is HOPE. That HOPE is key to survival.
But a week ago yesterday, I packed up HOPE.
I was done; that was it--no more.
I was done; that was it--no more.
I have spent the week questioning, yelling, crying ... and losing HOPE. I just figured, if prayer doesn't sway God, then why pray? If HOPE doesn't help, only hurts, why HOPE? If time doesn't heal, why continue on?
Every time I'd enter the former nursery, now confused, brightly colored guest room, my emotions changed. The first few times I went in, I felt almost victorious. Like, "There. Good. I win. It's over." As the week went on, and as I worked through my emotions with the Lord, and with good friends, my feelings upon entering the room changed. It became more like, "Huh. It's kinda empty" to "Hm. I kinda miss HOPE." to "Wow--I wonder if I'll ever bring it back?"
It felt good to set it all up again--as if I've returned. I've never been one to quit. I've never been one to give up. I've just never had to struggle with something so hard, and so long before. It has been 881 days since we started this journey. 881 of praying, wishing, hoping, grieving, crying, yearning....2 miscarriages, one surgery and many puffy eyed mornings later, we're still here.A week ago yesterday I packed up HOPE.
Today, I dragged it all out again. The lamp is back, the books are back, the teddy bears are back, the Noah's Ark painting it back, the stuffed bunny is back ... and HOPE is back.
I only packed up HOPE for one week, and one day. HOPEfully, I don't ever hit that low again. The only way I've made it through 881 days of this, is HOPE. As hard as it is to HOPE; as much as it hurts ... there is no other way to do it.
HOPE is officially unpacked.
Friday, March 20, 2009
This isn't a happy one...
Sometimes I feel guilty that many of my posts are depressing. But then I think, 'hey--the title of the blog is 'Glimpses of Me'. If you don't like what you see, than don't read it!'
This morning has suddenly turned rough.
When you're young and you chatter with your friends about having children, fertility struggles never cross your mind. My friends and I would just list the amount of children we'd want, and doodle their potential names all over our notebooks. Brandon James, Alyssa Katherine, Clara Elizabeth ... Then as we grew older, and starting dating and marrying, we simply thought we'd settle into marriage for about two years, and then start having kids.
Not start trying to have kids. We just assumed it would happen. Fertility problems are for older women--not me.
But you know what? It's just not that easy. Well, actually, it is that easy--for most of my friends. For most of the people I meet. But not for me. Not for us.
"They" don't tell you a lot of things about having children. About trying to have children.
1. You have to actually try. That just doesn't cross your mind when you're 12 and dreaming about having 5 kids.
2. There's only a very small window when it actually works. This is a "best kept secret." Don't tell all the high schoolers.....
3. You might get pregnant, but you can lose it. 1 in 5 are lost. I'm that 1. Two times over.
4. They don't tell you that, over time, you won't know what to say anymore to God. He's not answering, so why even ask?
5. I never knew that something as happy as trying to have kids could actually hurt your marriage.
6. They don't warn you about the emotional highs and lows--the inevitable fact that for 2 weeks out of every month, you will slowly and methodically go crazy.
7. I didn't know there was something called the "Two Week Wait". It's during this two week wait that one's reserves are depleted, strength is obliterated, and all hope fades.
8. When I dreamed with my friends about having kids, it never occurred to me that they all would ... and I wouldn't. Always a bridesmaid, never a bride.
9. I never pictured myself as "That Woman"--the one who cries when she prints her friends' Target baby registry lists, the one who wanders the baby section with tears in her eyes as she picks out items for others that she wishes she could buy for herself.
10. I didn't know that something as pure as the desire to carry a child and be a mother ... could tear me apart and leave me sobbing on the kitchen floor.
So, I wonder--all these things I didn't know--do I wish I had known them beforehand? Probably not. Why?
This morning has suddenly turned rough.
When you're young and you chatter with your friends about having children, fertility struggles never cross your mind. My friends and I would just list the amount of children we'd want, and doodle their potential names all over our notebooks. Brandon James, Alyssa Katherine, Clara Elizabeth ... Then as we grew older, and starting dating and marrying, we simply thought we'd settle into marriage for about two years, and then start having kids.
Not start trying to have kids. We just assumed it would happen. Fertility problems are for older women--not me.
But you know what? It's just not that easy. Well, actually, it is that easy--for most of my friends. For most of the people I meet. But not for me. Not for us.
"They" don't tell you a lot of things about having children. About trying to have children.
1. You have to actually try. That just doesn't cross your mind when you're 12 and dreaming about having 5 kids.
2. There's only a very small window when it actually works. This is a "best kept secret." Don't tell all the high schoolers.....
3. You might get pregnant, but you can lose it. 1 in 5 are lost. I'm that 1. Two times over.
4. They don't tell you that, over time, you won't know what to say anymore to God. He's not answering, so why even ask?
5. I never knew that something as happy as trying to have kids could actually hurt your marriage.
6. They don't warn you about the emotional highs and lows--the inevitable fact that for 2 weeks out of every month, you will slowly and methodically go crazy.
7. I didn't know there was something called the "Two Week Wait". It's during this two week wait that one's reserves are depleted, strength is obliterated, and all hope fades.
8. When I dreamed with my friends about having kids, it never occurred to me that they all would ... and I wouldn't. Always a bridesmaid, never a bride.
9. I never pictured myself as "That Woman"--the one who cries when she prints her friends' Target baby registry lists, the one who wanders the baby section with tears in her eyes as she picks out items for others that she wishes she could buy for herself.
10. I didn't know that something as pure as the desire to carry a child and be a mother ... could tear me apart and leave me sobbing on the kitchen floor.
So, I wonder--all these things I didn't know--do I wish I had known them beforehand? Probably not. Why?
Because no amount of reality, no amount of forethought, no amount of bracing could have prepared me for the most gut wrenching struggle of my life. As I drip tears all over the keys of my keyboard, and as my hands shake so much I can hardly type, I truly wonder--it all this worth it?
Friday, October 24, 2008
I AM Job.
I AM Job.
"The Lord gave and the Lord has taken away; may the name of the Lord be praised." Job 1:21
Gut wrenching pain to the depths of my being. Never before have such emotions racked my body, wreaking havoc on my soul, clouding my mind. Look at me--really look! Do you see? How can't you see? You see strength, you say. Resolve, determination, might.
Look again. Outward glimpses lie. Look closely and you'll see a heart that's barely beating, a mind that won't stop racing, emotions that rage savagely, doubts that clamor to overtake all and a faint hope that grows weaker by the day. Every morning is another crushing blow; every swollen belly a hit to mine; every baby a cutting reminder. Such depression I've never experienced---such intense anger I've never felt. Such pain ... I can hardly breathe. Chaotic emotions, ever changing feelings, bitter dark thoughts, brief reprieves of hope and joy. The waiting, the wondering, the worrying ...which emotion will come next? Why am I crying? Why these tears? I don't even know--couldn't explain it if I tried. Raving lunacy; fury and sorrow. The rollercoaster of my life.
Silently I grieve, quietly I fret. My resolve evaporates more each day. My heart slows, hope wanes, memories fade, dreams die. Innocence gone, never again to be found. Overwhelming excitement will now be debilitating fear. Tell me not to worry; tell me not to despair and I'll tell you of the gut wrenching pain to the depths of my soul.
I AM Job.
"and in all this, Job did not sin by charging God with wrongdoing." Job 1:22
Re-posted in honor of grieving friends and my own continued emotionally taxing journey.
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