To those in the thick of it

I found myself searching my blog for something the other night and couldn't help but skim several old posts. Wow. I came away with one feeling. And it wasn't what you may be thinking, that so many amazing things were on the horizon for me back then. Just hold on! Good things are coming your way!

No, it wasn't that at all. It was something quite different. My thoughts were more along the lines of, Woah, girl. This is some serious stuff you're dealing with. Emotionally, spiritually, physically. My head is spinning just thinking about it. I give you loads of credit. I don't think I have it in me.

Of course, funny thing, it was me. But I can't even imagine being that person now. And it's not because I'm a mom. Heck no. It's because she was strong and driven and motivated and tireless (even though I was tired all the time, at least according to my old posts).

Cuddling with my baby, circa 2009

Now I think I've got it bad if I haven't gotten out of the house in a few days or if I don't get to sit down by lunch time. Those things have got nothing on the feeling of your heart being crushed right inside of you as you mourn the loss of babies who have never existed, all while trying to keep straight your myriad medical problems as you recover from a surgery or two or three.

My mom and I, venturing out for the first time after my third surgery, annoying abdominal-wrap-thing under my dress.

 
Infertility is some serious business.

I thought it was fresh in my memory. I could have sworn it was never far off, that it was like a muscle memory my body will always know. It's been four years this month since I conceived Luke, so secondary infertility (and now pregnancy loss) has brought up similar, albeit much more muted, emotions.

But I was wrong. Yes, the pain is memorable - that feeling like I couldn't breathe, the jealousy that I could feel eating away at my insides, the despair that I wondered if anyone could ever pull me out of. That, I remember.

It's the day-to-day effort, the sheer strength that was required, that I have forgotten. What went into taking that next breath, driving to doctor appointment after doctor appointment, keeping track of all my medications and levels and what needs to be tested next, charting, temping, researching adoption agencies, avoiding baby showers, attending baby showers, crying in bed, attempting to make sense of it all every second of every day, begging God endlessly to have mercy on me and make my husband a father; that's the stuff that I don't find myself thinking about anymore.

Those parts of infertility are like the labor - painful and necessary to reach the desired end (whether it be children or health, or both) but so overwhelming that my mind neatly tucks it away in its far recesses, like old blog posts that are forgotten until you search for them.

Some much-needed respite from the throes of infertility, with those who understood

And that's why I must say this: Infertility is incredibly hard. To those who are in the thick of it right now, I'm not going to tell you it'll all be okay because you very well know that no one can tell you that. But I can tell you that you are courageous simply because you are hanging on and living and breathing through every single moment, whether it hurts or not. And some of you, unlike myself on most days back then, are even managing to be joyful and hopeful through it all. And living your lives to the fullest. But if you struggle to do that too, don't worry. You are doing the very best you can. You are fighting the good fight for your family, no matter how that family ends up looking. I have to believe you are pleasing God.

Maybe you won't even see this (I know I didn't read blogs filled with smiling toddlers when I was suffering through infertility). And maybe you don't care what this mom-of-three who has "crossed over" has to say about it in the first place. But I know you. I was you. And I know you could probably use a pick-me-up. So please accept this virtual hug and high-five. Keep carrying that cross and inspiring those around you (because you are, even though you probably have no idea). I'm praying for you always.

You were real

Sometimes I look down at my (relatively flat) stomach and think, it wasn't real.

After five-and-a-half years of failed cycles the first go-around, and two-and-a-half years of no luck during secondary infertility, you start to believe your body is just not capable of making another human being.

And sometimes it's hard to imagine that it's even how any of us are designed. 

It was extremely difficult to wrap my mind around the idea that I was pregnant with Luke. For a long, long time after he was born, I'd just look at him and think, in utter disbelief, how did this happen?

It seemed like a dream.

So if a pregnancy that ended in a living, breathing child felt surreal to this sub-fertile woman, then you can begin to imagine what a miscarriage does to my very confused brain.

It's all so hazy now - the positive test on Thanksgiving morning, telling our families, the first appointment and seeing our doctor again (she was so happy for us). Not eating deli meat or egg yolks, not working out even though I could have. Looking at baby name websites against my better judgment. Falling asleep at night knowing I had two guardian angels with me. 

Sometimes the memories are so far away that I question if they ever really happened.

But then there are the reminders I see every day.

There are the ones I keep around on purpose, like the St. Catherine website that I keep open on my phone's browser, which I referred to for prayers during my pregnancy and now can't bring myself to close. Or the date on our bulletin board we use for school, which still reads December 11, the day before my first OB appointment.

There are the reminders I see when I'm not trying to remember, like the bright white hand towels used on the day of my miscarriage. Or catching a glimpse of the tag that reads "maternity" on my pajama pants that are too comfy to give up.

And there is the reminder I can go to when I'm in the mood, or when I worry none of it actually happened. It's a little white box that lives under my bed, filled with everything we have that has anything to do with the pregnancy and loss. Sympathy cards, letters, the program from the memorial service and a little stuffed green frog they gave out to all the grieving mothers that day. And a tiny blanket, knitted by my mother, which uses yarn from each of the three blankets she made for Clara, Luke and Esther.

There's the positive test - one piece of indisputable evidence that it was all very real. One of only two pregnancy tests of mine that have ever been positive.

And there's the other indisputable proof - the photographs. They stay on our fridge, sometimes hidden, sometimes not. They are prized possessions.

Of course, I'd rather be reminded tonight by little kicks. And a five-month-pregnant belly. And an updated photo on our fridge of a cute little profile, or one with an arrow announcing the gender surprise.

But that is not our story. Not this time. So I have my box, and my treasures, and my memories. And for all of that, I am thankful.

God has provided for us abundantly. And while the memories are painful at times, I rejoice in the little soul who is forever part of our family. Who waits for us in Heaven.

It may seen hazy, it may seem surreal, it may seem all like a dream. But you were real. And we love you.


"I believe though I do not comprehend, and I hold by faith what I cannot grasp with the mind." - St. Bernard

Birth-year buddies, I'm looking at you

Sometimes I think there must have been a drop in births the year I was born.

Kids were on leashes way back in 1977. For reals.

When you don't get married young (at least by Catholic/Christian standards, i.e. in, or just out of, college), and then it takes you five-and-a-half years to become a mother, you find that everyone around you is younger than you. 

Like, way younger.

People are usually shocked when they discover how old I am. Which, on one hand, is a good thing, I guess. At least I don't look over the hill. But it's also clear from their reaction (jaws dropping to the floor) that they think I am really, really old.

I'm so old my parents had to take a picture of the TV when I was on (middle, front)

And the weirdest part - no one is EVER the same age.

My theory is this: My peers are, generally, moms to much older children. If they do have young ones like me, they also have a few older kids too, which means they're too seasoned, or too busy with the older kids, to do all those newer mom things that newer moms do. So they run in different circles. Don't attend Moms Group anymore. Are busy picking their kids up from school. Hang with the parents of kids their kids' ages. 

But that's just my theory. It could be that no one was actually born the same year as me.

The dress. The hair. The eyebrows. Someone out there must remember the 90's.

When I need a reminder that there are, in fact, people born in 1977, I look at this list and revel in all the beautiful, youthful stars who aren't 24, 29 or 32, like everyone else I know. They're 37 like me! They do exist! (Okay, I don't really look at that list, but Ryan and I are always playing the age game with whomever we're watching on TV and we're obnoxiously happy when someone is our age or older).

One year later, out with the puffy sleeves and in with the hooker dress. The '90's were funny like that.

I'm not complaining. Really, I'm not. Everyone you know being younger than you is a small price to pay for finally becoming a mother after all those years wondering if it would ever happen. It's just that they're all so fertile. And pregnant. And yes, I may be keeping up with my three kids. But their three kids is just the beginning, because they have so many, many, many, many years of fertileness left. 

I, on the other hand, am nearing the close of my fertile window. A window that only cracked open twice in my whole life. A window that, just as I was starting to get accustomed to breathing in the fresh air, is about to be closed forever. I could go on with this analogy all night, but I'll spare you.

Seriously, though. I am not just of advanced maternal age, but have been for a couple years now. Menopause is on the horizon. 

Don't get me wrong, I have a ton in common with all those younger girls. My closest friends are younger girls. And, truly, age is just a number once you're an adult. But I still would like to bump into someone born the same year as I was.

So where my 1977 peeps at? 

(Yes, I really just said "peeps." Remember, my teenage years were spent in the '90s). 

I'll take 76'ers too. I live with one, and would have been one myself if not for two days. So hit me up.

Without infertility

You know how sometimes people who have been divorced will say they wish they'd never met their ex, except then they wouldn't have their children so... well, they can't really regret it ever happening?

I have decided that's how I feel about infertility.

I really hate infertility. Despise it. I didn't like a second of it while it was happening, and I don't like looking back on it now. It makes me angry when I find out other women I know are going through it and my heart breaks for those who know the pain of it firsthand.

But, for me, without it - without that annoying, manipulating, demoralizing, cruel, soul-crushing monster (did I go too far?) - I wouldn't have my babies.

So I can't really wish it never happened.

In fact, I have to embrace it with open arms and even thank God for it.

I'd love to say we would have adopted even if I hadn't been infertile. But I'm going to be honest. I just don't see us conceiving every couple of years, working to feed all those mouths, trying (and probably failing) to save a buck or two for college, a bigger home, savings...and then, on top of it all, saying, "Hey, I know a great use for those tens of thousands of dollars we don't have - let's adopt!"

I know us, and I know we would have thought we couldn't afford it. We wouldn't have had a reason to take a risk and trust that God would provide.

And even if we had adopted, who knows if we would have done it at exactly the time necessary to adopt Clara and Esther?

I can't even think about that for too long.

And, if I had been fertile, who knows if everything would have led up to me conceiving Luke exactly when I did? That timeline probably would have been thrown way off by other pregnancies.

So I thank God (and infertility) that it worked out just so, leading us to know these precious souls, who were always coming into the world right when they did. And that we were there, ready and willing, to catch them upon entry.

Infertility also brought me closer to God, strengthened my marriage and toughened me up. And I know I was supposed to find joy in suffering, but I don't know if I ever got quite that far.

Joy aside, it did teach me more than I ever hoped to know about suffering. And crying. And jealousy. And confession. And redemption. And grace. And miracles. And God's ability - and desire - to make all things new.

All of our stories lead us to today. And, in our case, it's a sad chapter that is forever a part of us, that made us who we are, that allowed God to fashion our family just so.

We wouldn't be here without infertility. Not here, at least. Not with these three kids who we adore beyond all imagination asleep in their rooms, with a baby gate shutting off the kitchen, number flashcards hanging from our mantel.

So, like that divorcee, I can't wish a second of it away.

Darn you, infertility. I really wanted to wish we'd never met.