Yeah, So You're An Idiot

Amy was one of the first women I met when my family moved to Grenada. She is sweet, fun, and would do anything for you. I have enjoyed getting to know her over the last two years and love that we can share our stories of infertility and provide comfort for one another. Here is her story:

I remember when I was a young girl knowing that I would grow up, get married and have babies. I never had a number picked out, but I just knew I was going to be a mother one day. Fast forward to many years later. I meet my prince charming and we get married. We never tried not to get pregnant from that day on. Sure it would happen. It’s only natural right. Easy, yes? Um No. So when I first talked to my doctor about trying to get pregnant they told me to start taking some vitamins and that practice makes perfect. Simple, yes? Um No. After a year of trying and one failed miscarriage, I began to believe that people were idiots. I was raised that it is better to be thought an idiot, than to speak and prove yourself one. Apparently not a lot of others around me were taught this. So let me let you in on why I started saying, “You’re an Idiot”.

At first, when nothing was happening month after month, I became very disheartened. I felt let down by nature. I mean come on, it is so easy, and everyone around you is able to do it. Why not me? So instead of telling people I became ashamed of it. I bore my pain alone. I didn’t understand infertility. No one I knew had ever experienced it or ever talked about having problems with having babies. When the inevitable phrase, “So when are you guys gonna have kids” was asked, it was more like a knife being stabbed into my womb. Oh how my body ached for one. I hated and envied my friends who were having their first baby showers. A few upsetting times I couldn’t even attend them. The pain was too much and too raw. I avoided all talk of kids and babies. So one month I won the lotto or at least that is what it felt like. I was pregnant. Yeah. We were over the moon. We were getting ready to go on vacation with my in-laws and were going to tell them there. I had made my first doctor’s appointment for when we got back. We left on a Saturday and by Tuesday night I started bleeding. I was miscarrying. So instead of telling them good news it was telling them bad news. So in all efforts to make me feel better I was told, “It’s ok, at least you know you can get pregnant”. Yeah so, You’re an Idiot! Under no circumstance does this ever make someone feel better. So yeah, You’re an Idiot. I felt like screaming at them. Instead I just choked back my tears and nodded in agreement.

I would have many more of these “You’re an Idiot” moments to come. Eventually, I was referred to a Reproductive Endocrinologist. He is the best on the east coast and rightly so. By this time a few of our friends and family knew we were having problems and that I was taking measures to the next level. So we started the testing and what not. Trying this and that and taking this pill and that one. It ended up being that dreaded PCOS. If you are reading this blog then you probably know what this is and I will spare you the details. 5-10% of women have PCOS, so you would think that I would know someone with it too right? Wrong. It wasn’t until I came to the wonderful island of Grenada that I met girls like me. It was wonderful for the first time in my struggle to meet so many just like me. It was almost comical having talks at the pool about our side effects from this drug or that drug. For the first time I saw the other faces of infertility and they shared their stories with me. Instead of having a “You’re an Idiot” moment we shared our struggles and their own moments like mine. It felt nice, even if we didn’t relish on our infertility, that we knew what each one of us was going through. We were fighting a battle and we were determined to win.

Still I had those people back home to give me those moments. I heard it all the time. “You’re on a tropical island with no stress, surely you’ll get pregnant now.” Well yeah, You’re an Idiot”. Or still we people would ask us “When are you gonna have a kid?” Like, really people, “You’re an Idiot”. Eventually I met a great woman whom after another moment I broke down to and told her my struggle. She suggested a wonderful book by Jennifer Saake called Hannah’s Hope. Click here more information http://www.hannahshopebook.com/index.html I can’t say enough about this book and what it means to me. It is about a women’s struggle with infertility, miscarriage and failed adoption and how she got through with it with God’s help. I have been making light of my experiences but it was hard and lonely for a long time and this book gave me hope when I lost all of mine. So read it when infertility gets you down to give you a little extra boost to get you back to that hope.

Eventually I did get my miracle baby. I was blessed in February 2009 with a beautiful baby girl and the light of my life. My infertility story doesn’t end there and I have had many more “You’re an Idiot” moments since her birth. Now as we struggle for baby number two, and have miscarried again, we hear “Well you had one so the next one will come easier”. Well yeah, “You’re an Idiot”.

Some lessons I have learned have been….

1) Never give up. Where there is a will there is a way.
2) Whatever you have to fight for, when you get it, it is sweeter and you cherish it more.
3) God has a plan for each of us. It may not be what we want or when we want but He has a plan. Just trust in Him.
4) People are trying to be nice and most of them just do not understand about infertility. Forgive them of their “moments”.
5) And lastly, remember to laugh.

Also, I am a lover of quotes. Here are a few that get me through:
“It’s going to be okay in the end. If it’s not okay. It’s not the end.”
“If you can’t find hope. Look in a new direction.”
‎”Hope is a renewable option: If you run out of it at the end of the day, you get to start over in the morning.”

Here is my miracle baby, Sophia

Putting Up A Wall

Do you put up a wall when you are told, "It will happen for you soon hun"? Do your eyes start to glaze over when story after story is told of a friend of a friend who adopted 5 children and then had 5 children of their own? Do you feel like sticking your fingers in your ears and screaming, "LA LA LA LA" every time someone tells you to, "just have faith,"? I know I have, I do, and I will continue to wince at every cliche and overused expression in the how-to-comfort-a-friend-who-can't-have-a-baby-but-I-can book. Bitter much? Yes. It comes and goes in waves. And yet, sadly, I too am guilty for using these same beaten-to-death expressions.

Recently I have had friends ask me how I have dealt with a recent miscarriage, and after giving them my knee-jerk answers, I thought I had better examine them to see why I thought my words of wisdom would matter, should matter, to anyone who I would grace with my sage advice...please note the dripping sarcasm.

First, pray. My mom has been telling to me to pray since I could remember. Over every lost key, test, broken heart, and now over every negative test, miscarriage and unfulfilled desire. It is the best of advice, but when it is given as an answer in a quest for help sometimes I just want to say, "Yeah yeah yeah. OK, now tell me what will really help." But now I find myself repeating the words of my mother. If you are feeling sad, pray. If you are struggling with a problem, pray. And if you don't get to be in charge of the when and how of starting a family, pray. Prayer has brought me strength to endure, the peace to continue, the knowledge that my trials are not only my own. However, it is not only this communion with God that is an important part of prayer, but the humility that comes from asking for help. And this leads me to my second piece of advice.

Be grateful. This is probably one of the most hated of phrases for me, having been thrown at me with each low point, an advice givers solution for every problem. And it is so much more difficult to do than the ease with which it is dispensed. But while not a quick fix, being grateful is a solution. It is salve to the wounded heart. Being grateful sets priorities in order and allows healing to occur. So the next time some one who means well tosses out this loved little gem, take it, grab hold, humble yourself enough to know they are right, and take a look around. We may not have our heart's desire now, but we are surrounded by one blessing and silver lining after another. It may take some looking, but noticing what we have on hand can make the wait for our dreams that much more bearable, and most likely, into a fulfilling journey.

Third, share. Share so that others will open their mouths as well. Share so that so many will know they are not alone. Share so that all know they have a place at this conversation, no matter how many years, miscarriages, children or reasons why their family can not be built as they see fit. I have read that infertility is often as difficult to take in as it is to find you have cancer. While I cannot compare one thing to the other, I know that my emotions are valid and that infertility need not be hidden like a shameful secret. After telling my own story I have heard so many of others that have given me hope, ideas, advice and the joy of knowing that I am part of a community. So, share.

I hope that in the future we can all take the fingers out of our ears, choke down some of that bitterness, and say thank you when our sweet friends and family seek to give us love and comfort through a few well-intentioned phrases.

Late Bloomer and the Art of Reinvention

I have the most gorgeous of friends who shares her feelings about infertility with the most gorgeous of words. Ashley is brilliant in all that she partakes, and I am sure this will follow her into eventual motherhood. Here is her story:

The reptile tongue of discouragement is inventive and convincing. I know it doesn’t make sense in the late hours of the night, but I still listen to his whispering words with baited breath. He's an enemy, I am aware, but I invite him into bed with me anyway and let his persuasive words prick my soft eyes, sending sleepy tears down my tired face. It’s too late to fight tonight. I'll let his sad words about delayed dreams lull me to sleep.

I’m counting on a promise, a dream, a capricious dancing image in a distant mirror. My dream is on the playbill in bold and glitter, but hasn’t made its grand entrance on stage. It promises to grace us with its presence before the end of the show. But my patience sometimes wears thin. I scarf some more popcorn and wonder if we’re in the wrong theater. Who bought these damn tickets anyway?

Oh.

We both did.

So in the meantime while we wait for more characters to emerge onstage, I am learning to reinvent my life in the present. I’m a list maker. I start making lists of educational pursuits, career goals, hobbies, crafts. That last one was a lie. I’d rather file an old man’s toe nails than craft. I get busy doing good things and sometimes I go for days and weeks without feeding my cancer of unfulfilled desire. Life is good.

Then I step on the train in my expensive suit and shiny heels. I feel like a poster child for the modern woman pursuing career goals in my pumps and perfectly creased pants. I pretend that I don’t want a newborn baby against my chest or a toddler’s arms wrapped around my neck. I pretend. But then a two-year-old Asian baby with pig-tails and perfectly creamy skin boards the metro with her mom behind the stroller. My modern woman exterior falls off like an over-sized costume and melts in front of this perfect creature. She giggles and squeals as I make faces at her with the brilliance of innocence radiating through her eyes. I laugh and quiet my voice as my eyeballs start to get wet. I swallow hard and look up at the silver ceiling of the train car to keep my emotions from rolling down my face. Please don't work today, gravity. I wave goodbye and start walking home.

Deep breaths. The slithering snake of discouragement has turned the corner and is following me down the avenue home. Queue the music please. We’ve been through this drill before. It’s always the same.

Just when he almost reaches me, I feel a sudden encompassing feeling. The closest thing I can relate it to is when you step into a shower on a cold winter morning. The prickly shivers on your naked body make you want to dart back to bed. The cold tile on your feet makes it worse and you swear you can almost see your breath in the air. When you finally turn the shower on, the hot water dumps millions of stinging goose bumps all over your body. At first you think it hurts, but then you realize that the harsh water has replaced any former coldness with all-encompassing warmth. It dumps over every curve in your body turning bone-chilling agony into drenching comfort.

That feeling covers every molecule of my soul as I walk down the sidewalk. A smile comes over my face and the tears transform from bitter acid into sweet liquid. Without hearing a single word, the clear thought is communicated to my mind, “You will be a mother someday, Ashley.” In that moment, every fear dissipates. I know it’s true.

But the problem is that I don’t serve a Master who communicates dream fulfillment deadlines. By all reports He’s an organized fellow, but His executive assistant consistently fails to deliver a blessing deadline in my inbox. I keep checking to see if it's in the "spam" folder. I can’t add it to my calendar. I suppose knowing the precise moment might obliterate my faith.

So in the meantime, I’m trying not to spend my life waiting for my golden ticket. I’m trying to enjoy the sweetness I’ve been given without souring its taste with wishful “what if’s” and jealous “when me’s”. I’m reinventing my short-term dreams and expectations. I’m focusing on learning, being a good worker, being a better friend, and being a better lover and friend to my sweet companion.

I won’t feel guilty when I have teary moments at church or on the train. I’ll try not to let it break my heart when I see my husband get emotional about wanting a baby of our own. As long as these sad moments don’t lead me into frequent and soul deafening despair, I’m going to tell myself that those feelings are simply a heavenly reminder of what we both hope to be eternally. I also won't feel guilty when I go through periods where the desire is kept at bay. I'll remind myself that I haven't thrown the dream out the window and that that forgetfulness is a tender mercy allowing me to progress in life.

"Infertility" is difficult not because you simply want what someone else has or because you want to achieve something that’s socially expected. It’s that the label somehow chips away at what you are eternally. It makes you feel that you can’t somehow be what you believe you were born to be.

So I choose to label myself a “late bloomer” instead. God intends for us to be parents. I know that. I feel that at the center of my talents and God-given abilities is the divine nature to be a mother. His greatest joy is seeing His children grow and progress to eternal happiness and He knows that our greatest happiness will sprout from those same experiences. He has not robbed us. In His infinite wisdom, I believe He is letting our roots grow strong before this dream starts to blossom. Hopefully the delay will make that spring all the sweeter.

Whenever it comes.

Tired

I don't mind reading statuses on facebook that read, "I can't wait to have this baby". I wait on pins and needles along with my sister and sisters-in-law as they await the day when they will get to meet their new baby boy or girl. I understand logically that 40 weeks is a long time to carry a growing life force that kicks and stretches and turns. And I feel for the friend who is a week or two past their due date, feeling bloated and melting in the Arizona sun. But can I just say that I, personally, am tired of NOT being pregnant.
I want to know that my nausea is because of new hormones, my indigestion a cause of eating for two. I want to blame my stretch marks on growing life and my spreading hips on preparation for a new arrival. I want my tears to be justified and my sore breasts to be hinting at things to come. It would be nice to not have to lift heavy items because my safety was at risk, to waddle for a reason other than doing too many leg lifts, to be aware of the food I ate for more reason than the scale.
But more than anything, I am tired of not being pregnant because I am tired of waiting for a sibling for J, for a piece of Dustin and I to join our family, tired of trying, trying and trying again. I am done with moments of being brought to tears because a commercial or a book or a TV show reminds me of what I try not to focus on on a daily basis. Most days are no big deal. But today I am tired of not being pregnant.