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.

 

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.

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.

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. 

Psalm 27: 13-14

I Don't Want to Want It

"I just really don't want to want it again, until I get it, and then I want to want it fully. Make sense?"

I muttered this to my husband as we both attempted to drift to sleep, each battling our own never ending colds and rarely silent thoughts. Fortunately (or unfortunately) he totally understood what I meant.

It's starting. Well, really, it started to start in October, but now it's really starting.

The baby itch.

Sigh. I'm so not ready for this ....

I got great news from two good friends yesterday. One friend is having a girl, and the other is newly pregnant. I'm so excited for them both! And then it hit me .... I want to announce a pregnancy. But I don't want to start the process that is most likely inevitably our path to conception and pregnancy. I don't want to chart, I don't want to give myself shots, I don't want to "try" and "try" and "try" .... I don't want to want it, until I get it, and then I want to want it fully.

Make sense?

I'd like another child ... perhaps even another after that. But the memory that is not far from my mind and my heart of the yearning and longing and painful waiting makes my stomach twist in knots. The fear of more miscarriages, later term miscarriages, gobs and gobs of money, days and days of charting ... it's almost enough to make me not want to try.

The thought of wanting to be pregnant, longing for it, yearning for it--it drains me. It scares me.

I don't want to want it until I get it. If only we had the luxury of an "oops".

As I told a good friend this morning, our journey to Joshua has touched so many others who have had similar struggles. I guess I can get behind another tough journey if it means we can touch more lives. But sometimes, often times, in my most genuine moments, I just want to be "that woman" who gets pregnant just by looking at her husband and carries easily to term. Sometimes, often times, I don't want to be "that woman" who God works through in her pain and sadness to minister to others.

Of course, though, if this is our path--to struggle in this life to conceive our children and use that pain to touch others--then we are honored that God would redeem our pain, redeem our sadness, redeem our struggle for His good purpose.

It'd just be really great to not want it until we got it, but I'm guessing that's not how this is going to go .... So, let's get on with it!

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.

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.

TED talk: Glad I watched

Three weeks ago, my pastor sent me a link to a TED talk, saying that I might be interested.

Today I finally took the time to watch it.

He had said he was hooked by 8 minutes in.

At two minutes in, I was intrigued enough to keep watching.

At five minutes in, with a chart depicting love over time for offspring, I was hooked.

At nine minutes in, when Alisa shared about her miscarriage, I was bonded.

She speaks for the feeling a failure a woman feels, the fear for conceiving again, and the discovery of the "secret society of women" who had been there. She was speaking my language when she spoke of miscarriage as an "invisible loss" with no community support. If you walked with me through the journey of infertility, you know I've railed against this. I remember being so angry that the death of my child, albiet unborn and only a few weeks past conception, didn't warrant a day off from work. I was to use a "sick" day to grieve the life of my child. I'm sorry--is miscarriage a sickness? And inferitility itself--I wasn't "sick", so there was no need for delivered meals, or offers of help. I was still able, and available, and successful ... but was dying inside, month after month after month. I remember telling a friend how lonely the journey of infertility is. I remember it, and I pray to God never to have to walk that road again. But if I do, I resolve to continue to speak out, speak up and stop the silence surrounding the pain of waiting for a child.

I digress.

I started watching this TED talk this morning, purely because I don't like to say I'll do something and then not do it.

Today, I'm quite grateful for that trait in me that doesn't allow me to ignore another's suggestion.

So thanks, Steve, for sending it. It was refreshing to watch, fun to listen to, and thought provoking to blog about.

Let's talk parenting taboos: Rufus Griscom + Alisa Volkman | Video on TED.com

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.

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.

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!

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.

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!!!!!"

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 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?"

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.

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.

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.

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?

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?

Behind the Smile

warning: brutal honesty below. read @ own risk.

I just can't do it anymore.

If one more pregnant woman complains about her morning sickness, I am going to scream.

If one more pregnant lady makes a face about the pooch on her belly, I am going to punch a wall.

If one more stupid person says, "At least you know you can get pregnant!", I am going to run away.

After screaming at and punching said stupid person.

If the knot in my stomach doesn't unwind and the pain in my heart doesn't lessen, I am going to die.

Stop telling me to trust.
Stop telling me to hope.
Stop telling me I'm young.
Stop telling me there's a plan.

Just Stop.

If you don't know what to say, just leave me to my grief. Just shut up and leave me alone. Don't look at me with pity, but don't ignore me either.

Basically, you can't do anything right, so just stop. And be prepared for me to bite your head off anyway.

Or cry. Or scream.

Punch a wall and run away.

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

Originally written March 9, 2007
Re-posted in honor of grieving friends and my own continued emotionally taxing journey.