The Conversation Killer
Here’s
a tough, awkward subject for you: Infertility. This is, obviously, a
difficult topic to write about; David and I used to lovingly refer to
our struggle in this area as “The Conversation Killer.” Wanna clear a
room really fast or stun a crowd into silence? Talk about how you can’t
have a baby! It works every time.
As a couple dealing with infertility, we felt alone. Being involved in church (as we are), we saw countless families “be fruitful and multiply” several times over. Friends, co-workers, relatives-Everybody is connected somehow to a pregnancy. You don’t have to look very far to find a baby brewing or being born. That left us feeling like outsiders in the worst kind of way.
When you tell people you are having difficulty getting pregnant, most people’s instinct is to want to “fix” you by offering advice. Let’s see, if I had eaten meat (I’m a vegetarian), gone to a chiropractor, taken the right kind of medicine/vitamins, used an ovulation predictor, stopped trying too hard, and just had fun-it was bound to happen! Pssst, let me tell you something. None of that stuff worked for us. And, you know what else? Before I had gone through all this, I would have offered advice too. Because sharing a “helpful tip” is better than saying nothing at all, right? The truth: No, it’s not. Listening is best. Loving is best. Delivering baked goods works well too. But when you have no personal knowledge about what someone is going through (especially regarding a sensitive topic like this one), offering advice should be the last thing you do.
A year went by, we tried EVERYTHING and we still weren’t pregnant. Finally, we decided to go to some fertility specialists in the area. Surely they would be able to find out what was wrong with our insides or what terrible sin we had committed to make us infertile (that second part was a joke). Since getting pregnant with Elijah was so easy-almost TOO easy, we were dumbfounded about the difficulty of this the second time around. And the doctors had no real answers either. After being poked, prodded, tested, and drained of fluids, the consensus was that we are a healthy-ish, young-ish, active-ish (Yes, active-ish. That is an accurate description of my exercise life) couple. There was no REASON why we were unable to get pregnant and, yet, that was our reality.
Our insurance covered some fertility treatments, so we chose to move forward with a little medical help. We decided on IUI; I won’t go into detail about the procedure except to say that it was minimally invasive. In fact it was so minimally invasive that sometimes I found myself rolling my eyes in irritation about having to drive the 45 minutes to have it done. All this for the mere prospect of being pregnant, which is something 2 tipsy co-eds can accomplish in the backseat of a car. But OUR pregnancy attempts now required a “middle-man” doctor, which was awful. After the first IUI procedure, I just laid on the hospital bed and cried and cried. David took my hand, his eyes filling, and said, “I know we didn’t plan on this being how we would have a second baby, but it will be worth it if it happens.”
To make a long story short, it didn’t happen for us. We got to the point where we were burned out emotionally, strained in our relationship, exhausted from running around, and completely broken hearted. After the 3rd IUI attempt failed, we discovered that our insurance would not cover any more procedures. We knew then that it would not be responsible, for our marriage or for our finances, to invest more time and effort into something that might not produce any results. The day we made the decision to stop getting outside medical help, our hopes to increase our family withered and died inside us.
During that dark time, I went to a women’s conference with some dear friends of mine. A featured speaker talked about losing her daughter hours after her birth. Then she asked women in the audience to stand if they had experienced a loss like this, whether it be through miscarriage, stillbirth, or the death of a young or old child. The number of women that stood up was staggering, heart wrenching. One of my best friends lost her sweet boy after only 2 precious hours of life; I cannot imagine experiencing that kind of pain as a mother. As I sat in my chair looking at all these broken women, I realized that I had yet to acknowledge my loss. My grief. Not that I would mourn or grieve on the same level as these women surrounding me, but I needed to allow myself to grieve. No-I hadn’t lost an actual child, but I had lost the dream of one. Another little boy, Elijah’s co-conspirator. A baby made from pieces of me and David. We needed to give ourselves the opportunity to mourn the loss of some hopes and expectations for our family. It is a valid loss and one we still mourn today.
We live in an imperfect world. People we love die, marriages end, children are orphaned, friends get sick for no reason. Despite this crappy reality, I believe that God has a plan to use our lives for good. Now He won’t be emailing you a detailed version of this plan in a word document later, but it does exist. Honestly I think if we knew our life story in advance, we might laugh and say “Sorry God but, Dude, find someone else to fill that role.” And yet, He gives us the strength to make it through the craziest circumstances. Things we would NEVER have believed ahead of time. Things that will test our endurance as people, especially as people who strive to honor Jesus despite circumstances that make us question everything we know about Him. It isn’t easy. David and I will walk with an “infertility” limp for the rest of our lives. It wounded us deeply. But I think the full appreciation for the miracle of walking is the clearest to those of us who limp. Life is mysteriously beautiful; it is equal parts rewarding and difficult. If pregnancy had been simple for us the second time, I don’t know how completely we would have grasped that wonderful fact.
My favorite part of Christmas is this: God came to us in a mess. In a broken down shed with a bunch of animals. The Divine used the imperfect to complete His plan. Like He can use you and me in this screwed up world. And without our years of struggling with infertility, we would have NEVER taken a leap of faith and started this adoption. I hate to think of our beautiful, Ethiopian baby who could have lived her life in an orphanage, hopeless and alone-like David and I once felt, just because we were gifted with an easy second pregnancy. It’s no longer a question in our minds; it was worth it. God redeemed our sorrow for good.
 |
| Elijah being either "stunned" or "awkward". It's hard to tell. |
As a couple dealing with infertility, we felt alone. Being involved in church (as we are), we saw countless families “be fruitful and multiply” several times over. Friends, co-workers, relatives-Everybody is connected somehow to a pregnancy. You don’t have to look very far to find a baby brewing or being born. That left us feeling like outsiders in the worst kind of way.
When you tell people you are having difficulty getting pregnant, most people’s instinct is to want to “fix” you by offering advice. Let’s see, if I had eaten meat (I’m a vegetarian), gone to a chiropractor, taken the right kind of medicine/vitamins, used an ovulation predictor, stopped trying too hard, and just had fun-it was bound to happen! Pssst, let me tell you something. None of that stuff worked for us. And, you know what else? Before I had gone through all this, I would have offered advice too. Because sharing a “helpful tip” is better than saying nothing at all, right? The truth: No, it’s not. Listening is best. Loving is best. Delivering baked goods works well too. But when you have no personal knowledge about what someone is going through (especially regarding a sensitive topic like this one), offering advice should be the last thing you do.
 | ||
| What my carnivore husband wishes was the solution for everything-RED MEAT! |
A year went by, we tried EVERYTHING and we still weren’t pregnant. Finally, we decided to go to some fertility specialists in the area. Surely they would be able to find out what was wrong with our insides or what terrible sin we had committed to make us infertile (that second part was a joke). Since getting pregnant with Elijah was so easy-almost TOO easy, we were dumbfounded about the difficulty of this the second time around. And the doctors had no real answers either. After being poked, prodded, tested, and drained of fluids, the consensus was that we are a healthy-ish, young-ish, active-ish (Yes, active-ish. That is an accurate description of my exercise life) couple. There was no REASON why we were unable to get pregnant and, yet, that was our reality.
Our insurance covered some fertility treatments, so we chose to move forward with a little medical help. We decided on IUI; I won’t go into detail about the procedure except to say that it was minimally invasive. In fact it was so minimally invasive that sometimes I found myself rolling my eyes in irritation about having to drive the 45 minutes to have it done. All this for the mere prospect of being pregnant, which is something 2 tipsy co-eds can accomplish in the backseat of a car. But OUR pregnancy attempts now required a “middle-man” doctor, which was awful. After the first IUI procedure, I just laid on the hospital bed and cried and cried. David took my hand, his eyes filling, and said, “I know we didn’t plan on this being how we would have a second baby, but it will be worth it if it happens.”
To make a long story short, it didn’t happen for us. We got to the point where we were burned out emotionally, strained in our relationship, exhausted from running around, and completely broken hearted. After the 3rd IUI attempt failed, we discovered that our insurance would not cover any more procedures. We knew then that it would not be responsible, for our marriage or for our finances, to invest more time and effort into something that might not produce any results. The day we made the decision to stop getting outside medical help, our hopes to increase our family withered and died inside us.
During that dark time, I went to a women’s conference with some dear friends of mine. A featured speaker talked about losing her daughter hours after her birth. Then she asked women in the audience to stand if they had experienced a loss like this, whether it be through miscarriage, stillbirth, or the death of a young or old child. The number of women that stood up was staggering, heart wrenching. One of my best friends lost her sweet boy after only 2 precious hours of life; I cannot imagine experiencing that kind of pain as a mother. As I sat in my chair looking at all these broken women, I realized that I had yet to acknowledge my loss. My grief. Not that I would mourn or grieve on the same level as these women surrounding me, but I needed to allow myself to grieve. No-I hadn’t lost an actual child, but I had lost the dream of one. Another little boy, Elijah’s co-conspirator. A baby made from pieces of me and David. We needed to give ourselves the opportunity to mourn the loss of some hopes and expectations for our family. It is a valid loss and one we still mourn today.
 |
| Lighting a candle in memory of Gabriel-our little friend already in heaven. |
We live in an imperfect world. People we love die, marriages end, children are orphaned, friends get sick for no reason. Despite this crappy reality, I believe that God has a plan to use our lives for good. Now He won’t be emailing you a detailed version of this plan in a word document later, but it does exist. Honestly I think if we knew our life story in advance, we might laugh and say “Sorry God but, Dude, find someone else to fill that role.” And yet, He gives us the strength to make it through the craziest circumstances. Things we would NEVER have believed ahead of time. Things that will test our endurance as people, especially as people who strive to honor Jesus despite circumstances that make us question everything we know about Him. It isn’t easy. David and I will walk with an “infertility” limp for the rest of our lives. It wounded us deeply. But I think the full appreciation for the miracle of walking is the clearest to those of us who limp. Life is mysteriously beautiful; it is equal parts rewarding and difficult. If pregnancy had been simple for us the second time, I don’t know how completely we would have grasped that wonderful fact.
My favorite part of Christmas is this: God came to us in a mess. In a broken down shed with a bunch of animals. The Divine used the imperfect to complete His plan. Like He can use you and me in this screwed up world. And without our years of struggling with infertility, we would have NEVER taken a leap of faith and started this adoption. I hate to think of our beautiful, Ethiopian baby who could have lived her life in an orphanage, hopeless and alone-like David and I once felt, just because we were gifted with an easy second pregnancy. It’s no longer a question in our minds; it was worth it. God redeemed our sorrow for good.
“What if my greatest disappointments or the aching of this life,
Is the revealing of a greater thirst this world can't satisfy?
What if trials of this life-
The rain, the storms, the hardest nights,
Are your mercies in disguise.”
-Laura Story, in Blessings
Laura,
ReplyDeleteThanks for this. It's beautiful and authentic. Made me cry.