I woke up at 6:00 on my day off full of hope and anticipation. Today was the day all couples struggling with infertility know too well: twelve days post-ovulation and time for a pregnancy test. Over the last few months we stopped this routine of planned tests and tracking cycles. Up until this point my cycle had been so terribly off that there was really no reason to take tests anymore. But not this month. No, this month was surely the month. The elements were all in place for us: the weight loss, a regular cycle for the first time in over a year, the right pills prescribed by my Catholic doctor, the novenas prayed, the saints interceding---- yes, this was definitely the month.
By 6:03 I was back in bed with silent tears streaming down my face. I thought this was the month.
The past 10 months have been the happiest, healthiest, and most challenging part of my life. Marriage is the most beautiful gift and we have been blessed beyond measure. Ben and I truly enjoy each other's company. We love every aspect of marriage and have molded our two lives into one extremely well (in my opinion). However, from the very beginning, we were challenged to lay down our hopes and dreams for a family and follow God's design for our life. To say that it has humbled us would be an understatement. I always think back on a homily I heard many years ago about how when a sheep wanders from its flock the shepherd will leave the rest of the flock to find it. When the two meet, the shepherd breaks the legs of the sheep and then carries it home. This helps the lost sheep to learn total dependency on the shepherd, knowing that the shepherd will provide everything that it needs. It's a pretty beautiful analogy for when we experience pain and are learning total dependency on God --- except for when you're the one being broken. And that is what it feels like: broken. I feel like my body is broken. My prayers are broken. My mind is broken. My spirit is broken. When I enjoy the moment and don't allow myself to feel the pain of infertility I feel like I am denying myself healing. When I focus on the pain and allow myself to heal I feel that I am denying myself the joy of the moment.
I met up with two friends a few months ago to talk about the pain. I had become great at hiding it unless I was in Ben's company. It was time to allow others into the sadness. That conversation helped me to focus on the present moment in my married life with Ben and to realize that infertility is such a small portion of who I am and my life as a whole. I walked away with a newfound fervor for life. I knew that getting pregnant was not dependent on me, it was dependent on His will for me. However, something was said that night that I could not relate to: sometimes in our pain we can become angry with God. I have never had the inclination to be mad at Christ. Maybe in my angsty teenage years it happened a time or two, but I have always known that being mad at God would never solve anything. He is the one who heals, the one who loves, the one who cares. I was glad that I had that knowledge.
Until 6:35 this morning.
I curled up next to Ben and bawled like a baby. He held me and assured me that he felt the pain too. This is the millionth time we have done this: realization of infertility sinks in, Ben holds me and asks me to vocalize my pain, we pray together, and then we get up and move on with our life. This time was different though. This time I felt different. I felt anger. I felt frustration. I felt betrayed. I felt all of these things and they were directed at Christ.
A priest once told me that in his experience as a pastor, infertility feels like the loss of a child. He said that I needed to take time to grieve. While I have never lost a child and think that the pain of losing one far surpasses what I am feeling right now in my year of infertility, I can relate to the feeling of loss. It is not the loss of a physical being-- it is the loss of my dreams. It is the loss of trust in God's love for me because He knows my heart so well, He knows that what I am willing is good, He knows that this cross is one that I feels so heavy I cannot bear it alone, and yet He is still allowing me to undergo this pain. It is the loss of confidence in my body because no matter how hard I try, I'm just going to have these cysts that will wreak havoc on my health. It is the loss of hope in the anticipation of a child. This year has shown me the reality that I may never conceive a baby.
Thus brings me to 8:08 as I sit here writing this all out. Ben has made a pot of coffee, soon we will sit down together for breakfast, and our life will go on. Today I am reflecting on the idea of embracing your cross and what that means in the life of those who suffer. Maybe it means that we embrace EVERYTHING that our crosses offer: joy, redemption, sadness, pain. Maybe embracing my cross right now is taking all of the anger and devastation that I am feeling and just holding it while God wraps His arms around it all. Maybe it is experiencing emotions as they come so that they don't rule my life on "pregnancy test day." Or maybe it is simply gazing upon the road to Calvary and asking God to make me as brave as Jesus was the day He carried His cross.
8:15 and I am going to crawl back into bed with my Simon. Another day of infertility, another day to learn to love in a different way.
