Thursday, December 3, 2015

Infertility Post 1 - Because I just can't think of a good title for a bad situation

There are five Christmas stockings hanging on our stocking holder.  Five. I had to wipe tears today when I looked at them.  A woman who was told that conception was probably not possible, has three stockings to fill for excited little children to open on Christmas day.  Sometimes, I still can't believe it.  Sometimes I wonder, "Why me?"  Why have I been allowed to see my mommy dreams come true?  Why not someone else?

I have close people in my life who are struggling to get pregnant.  Not just one person.  Multiple people.  Their  hearts ache for what they do not have and so does mine.  I wish I could change their circumstances.  I know it's not fair.  I know that some of those people have to avoid looking at my pictures and FB status updates because it only causes pain.  They've never told me this, but I know.  I know that if another pregnancy test comes back negative they will not know if they should throw it, cry, or stare at it long enough hoping that instead of seeing nothing in the positive line, a very faint line might just appear.  They've never told me this, but I know.  I know that some of these sweet ones hold their breaths when they are sitting in church pews just hoping that this Sunday is not baby dedication Sunday.  They've never told me this, but I know.  I know that if the tears they cried over being childless could be turned into something good, not one child in this world would want for anything.  They've never told me this, but I know.

A sweet friend whom I have not spoken with in great length for years (thanks only to life leading us down different paths) contacted me this week to ask me for advice on how to help someone who is struggling with infertility.  I have mulled over what to say.  I have nothing.   Nothing I say will help.  Nothing I suggest can truly make this person feel better. I know, because I have been there.  So, instead, I will pray for this sweet lady who longs to be a mama.  I will pray fervently and I will pray daily.

For those of you who are wishing and hoping and praying that this will be your last Christmas without a child of your own (those I know for sure are and those who have never even mentioned it to me)...I pray for you daily and I leave you with this (written months before conceiving Addi) in hopes that you will understand that while I may be silent in terms of offering you advice about your situation and while words of "encouragement" don't fall loosely from my tongue, I do care and, on some level, I understand.

INFERTILE...I don't know if there is another word in all of the english language that is so ugly. I am infertile (at least for now). What does that mean? For now it means putting my biggest, longest dream on hold. It means cringing when people ask when we're going to have a child. It means wanting to scream when people are insensitive to what's going on (though most don't even know we're struggling). It means pretending the tears I cry at a baby dedication are tears of joy for the parents. It means feeling guilty because there are times I am envious of those who have children. It means wanting to smack some people across the face when they complain about having a bad day with their children. It means wondering why me, why out of all of my friends, I seem to be the one to have to carry this burden. It means feeling inadequate and unfeminine knowing that my body can't be part of creating a miracle. It means getting angry with God once in a while and then quickly crying out to Him in despair. It means hurting worse than I have ever hurt before. It means being scared that when people we love find out about this that they will judge me. It means wondering if there are times my husband wishes that he had married someone else...someone who could give him a son or a daughter to hold in his arms. It means questioning every thing I buy because each purchase is less money to put in savings for adoption. It means hiding behind a smile more often than I'm not these days. It means times of feeling so lonely I want to run to the closest insane asylum. It means wanting to wake up from a very bad dream and realizing daily that this nightmare is very much a real part of my life.



On the other hand...


It means hope. Hope that God will bless me like he did Hannah and Sarah in the Bible. Hope that because Jared and I have had to face this, we will be stronger and more sensitive to the needs of those around us. It means assurance. Assurance that God will grant me my heart's desires if I delight to do His will. It means joy. Joy in knowing that I have a Heavenly Father who puts my tears in a bottle and holds me close to His heart. It means healing. Healing from this pain and allowing God to mend my broken heart. It means awe. Awe that God is allowing me to deal with this because He knows I am strong enough to handle it. It means love. Love that grows daily for God, for my husband and for the child I will one day hold in my arms.