Sunday, November 24, 2013

On The Other Side: 5 Years Past Infertility

This Saturday afternoon, we traveled with the foursome to the home of The Man of the House's sister and her husband, our newest brother-in-law. They were married last spring in an awesomely fun beach wedding at Key West where we all were involved with the ceremony. It's a really neat thing to welcome new members into the family and we're blessed that Aunt Kimbie is so happy. AND THEN they told us this past summer at the beach that they were expecting in April of next year. So exciting to have another little one around!

We were heading to their home for a gender reveal party. They didn't tell us beforehand how the big reveal was going to happen, but once the time came, we all - the family and their friends who came to celebrate -  had cans of Silly String, unmarked, covered with wrapping to hide the color. On the count of three, we all sprayed at once... and tons of blue string came flying out at all of us! Everyone was ecstatic and began chattering about how much fun a new little guy will be.

As we drove back, I had plenty of time for musing. The thing that was hitting me was how happy I was for my sister-in-law and her husband, and how finally this feeling was separate from any personal or inward sadness over the fact that we won't ever have biological children ourselves. And I realized that, a few weeks ago, when I was told by our church choir director that she was also expecting in April, I was able to honestly feel happy and excited for her. And maybe what I sensed was also a LACK of a feeling - the lessening of the tug of the grief, waning over time.

Wait. How selfish to say. Are you the reader a little irritated that I even mentioned considering whether or not I was feeling happy and excited about this?

If you haven't gone through infertility struggles, this might be hard to understand. It's also hard for me to articulate. This probably all sounds incredibly selfish and self-absorbed. Why wouldn't you be happy? Someone else's happiness doesn't diminish your own or take anything away from you. Especially something like a pregnancy - it's not like my own pregnancy was personally taken away from me by any other woman I see that is pregnant when I am not.

Five years ago was when my husband and I were living out the nitty gritty parts of our infertility story. Each woman (or man) encountering infertility will handle it differently. For me, it was the most painful thing I've ever gone through. I'm not saying that to be dramatic; it's the honest truth. I lost my dearly dearly loved grandmother to ovarian cancer when I was twenty-one. That's the only thing that comes close to any actual grief I've faced personally. I feel blessed that the first part of my life was not marked by any deep tragedy for me or someone close to me. I thank God for the blessings and experiences I have had. Infertility was the first grief I really had to face. And for me, it was an incredibly devastating grief.

I always knew I wanted to be a good wife and mother, and that that calling was the most important beyond whatever I did as a career. That's not to say I never wanted a career - I just knew that as much as I loved whatever I ended up doing, I would love being a mom more. I was the girl who was going to be a teacher or pediatrician because I loved kids so much. I honestly worried as a little girl, as I was wont to do and still am, whenever I read the stories of Rebekah and Rachel and Hannah in the Bible - what if I find out my husband and I won't be able to get pregnant?

When no pregnancy happened after a year, we began testing. I watched my friends and my sister get pregnant and I festered an increasing frustration that turned into depression. It was a very dark time for me. By the time the testing began, which added stress in and of itself, I had developed shingles. The doctor told me he had never seen anyone who was my age and as otherwise healthy as I was have shingles. "You must be extremely stressed and you need to relax," he told me. Easy to say, right?

I didn't really talk to anyone about this at first. It's anticlimactic to tell people you're "trying to get pregnant". Infertility is a lonely struggle. You feel like the only person going through it.

And, of course, it doesn't help that everyone seems to be pregnant around you when you're going through infertility. In fact, The Man of the House and I have a joke that I am other people's good luck charm. Whenever I found out that someone else was having infertility problems, I would gently reach out - it's hard to face crises alone! BUT... then, soon, they would be announcing their pregnancy and I would be SO happy for them, honestly and authentically - please understand that - but still left once again to struggle and grieve on my own.

As much as grief is ever present, I've learned that its severity is also cyclical. There are times when things affect me much more than others. I can go a long time between days of really feeling sad about it. The rest of the time, the best way to describe it is like scar tissue - it's there, has made its mark permanently on you, and might make its presence felt at times, may hold you back a tiny bit, but it's not on the forefront of your mind all the time.

I had to come to grips with the fact that this pain cannot be allowed to be all-consuming. There were definitely times when it felt like it was. Like I would never feel happy or whole again. This struggle stole the light from my spirit for a while. The days went on with or without my paying attention to them, or fully living them. I can't make this worse by letting it turn me into someone I'm not.

I'm not pessimistic. I'm not self-consumed. I'm not non-functioning. I'm not broken. We're not doomed forever because of this. I can't become these things.

If anything, I want to use this as a catalyst for strength. I can look back and say to myself, "You've made it through this." I can be proud of how we not only made it through, but thrived - as a couple, and now as a family.

Our story progressed into a journey traveling through foster care and adoption. Others may have a different journey, but there is purpose, both in the journey and in the destination, whenever and wherever that comes. Good can come through any struggle. We can grow.

For anyone going through this same struggle, there is a light at the end of the tunnel. You will emerge eventually from the darkness. It won't look like the life you planned, and you won't be the same person you were when you began. You are in my thoughts and prayers as you travel your own journey. Please know you are not alone.

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