An Open Letter to KSL

Dear ksl.com,

On behalf of every human being who has ever struggled with reproduction, I'd like to know why you ran "The flip side of infertility" by Arianne Brown on your website this past Sunday. Then, and with no more or less concern, on behalf of any individual who has ever studied writing or English grammar beyond the seventh grade level, I'd like to know how it is that you came to post such drivel to what is otherwise a relatively professional source of information.

I must admit that, as a once aspiring writer, I did find glimmers of hope strewn throughout the article--if we can call it an article. If this woman can successfully have her work (term used very loosely) published on your website, certainly there is still hope for me.

To address the latter issue first, throughout the article are sentences such as, "My mother bore 10 children, her mother had six, and I have a sister who began with twins, following quickly with two more in the space of three years."

We'll start with the numbers. You must be consistent within a category. Technically, yes, a number greater than nine should be written using numerals, but within a specific category, if you choose to use numerals, you must use them for all the numbers, including those less than ten. I certainly wouldn't bring this up on, say, someone's Facebook status update, but when it's something that is being published on a reputable website, I'd expect the rules of grammar to be followed. Speaking of followed, the twins that were born to the author's sister were followed quickly by two more. They were not following quickly.

The paragraphs in this "article" are reminiscent of a persuasive essay written during one's sophomore year of high school. There is relatively little, if any, transition between each paragraph and the points prove that there was a complete lack of research given to the topic. Additionally, the points that are made appear to be defending a separate argument altogether. There is simply not enough information given to make me understand why birth control causing blood clots is an argument for the "fact" that being fertile is so incredibly challenging. As any moderately informed adolescent can tell you, there are more ways to prevent conception than just the birth control pill. The grammar and general lack of understanding in regard to how an article or an essay should be written is simply atrocious.

Then, there is the offensive nature of the article. The fact that no one at your organization realized the absurdity of this article prior to it being published is astounding. Infertile women would simply love to be able to say "nursing and the mini-pill don't always work." They'd love to have to rearrange their lives. And every woman, regardless of position and fertility, has to decide when to call it quits. The woman who doesn't have a biological child has to decide when to stop trying. The woman with eight children has to decide when her family is complete. We all deal with whether or not we should stop trying after Joe or Kelly. To use this as an argument for why it is utterly challenging to be fertile is ridiculous.

I recognize that there are certainly challenges associated with "surprise" pregnancies. Just as infertility isn't in one woman's plans, an unexpected pregnancy isn't in another's. I would never argue that a teen pregnancy doesn't present an incredible list of challenges, nor would I wish this on anyone. A baby born 12 months after her older sibling will, obviously, present the parents with emotional, logistical, and physical limitations that may even be categorized as a trial. Even as someone who struggled through and with infertility, I know that. However, the fact of the matter is that when two people decide to engage in sexual activity, whether within or outside of marriage, pregnancy is a possibility. To be overly shocked by its occurrence is startling--especially to the infertile. To compare the challenges of being fertile to being infertile is to compare apples to a box of Cinnamon Toast Crunch. Certainly they are both food, but that's where the similarities stop.

One is a medical condition often being referred to, depending on the diagnosis, as a disease. The other is a bodily system behaving in the way God designed it to. A friend of mine said, "Ultimately, I don't care that she wrote about her struggles. But to try to compare it to infertility was insensitive, patronizing, and out of line." One of my favorite comments on the article was written by a man. "The comparison that is being drawn by the author is not so different from comparing someone in poor living conditions that can't afford their next meal and the problems associated with being a billionaire..." Another person wrote that it was like a marathon runner telling a double amputee how difficult it is to have legs. My own husband said, "It's like saying, 'I know you have leukemia. I can totally relate because my allergies are really bad right now.'" I mean, I think we can all agree that allergies are miserable and can cause us to want to tear our own face off, but we'd all pick allergies over cancer. So the fact that, near the end, she writes, "Being fertile does have its challenges. Struggling with infertility has its challenges...merely being a mother and a woman has its challenges, and not one greater than the other." is really incredible.

I'm fairly certain the use of italics should have been on "fertile" and "infertility" because it doesn't really make sense to accent "does" and then follow it by accenting "infertility". I'm also mostly sure that there's an improper use of ellipsis there. But what do I know? I've never been published on your site.

Sincerely,
A Concerned Reader

Postpartum Depression

When I found out I was going to be a mom, that The Rock Star was living inside my body, that this miraculous dream was finally happening, I was in a great deal of denial.

I'm not really pregnant.
I won't believe it until I see the heartbeat on the ultrasound.
Oh, that, right there? That's the heartbeat? Couldn't it just be a hiccup in the machine?

Once I was ushered into acceptance by the realization that the nausea had a reason, I was absolutely, blindingly terrified. For about five months (I was already nearly two months pregnant when I found out) I lived in deep fear that something awful was going to happen.

I am going to lose this baby. If I make it to the second trimester, I will tell people I'm pregnant.
Now that I'm in the second trimester, I'm sure I'll have a late and hugely traumatic miscarriage.
I have to make it to 32 weeks. I know if I make it that far, my baby will have a fighting chance.

In early June, the doctor was slightly concerned and I started having twice weekly fetal nonstress tests. I did diligent kick counts, terrified that, because of my low amniotic fluid, my perfectly healthy baby was going to suddenly die.

From the moment I found out that I was pregnant, I prayed. Lord, let this baby live. Once I'd reached 35 weeks I began to believe that this thing might go off without a hitch. Certainly I prayed for a healthy baby and a safe and uncomplicated delivery, but I relaxed more than I'd let myself up to that point. And then I turned my prayer life in another direction.

Lord, please protect me from postpartum depression.

I just could not bear the thought.

All I really knew about postpartum depression was that women sometimes wanted to suffocate their babies. Or put them in the washing machine. Or, at the very least, make someone else hold him because she felt absolutely no attachment to the kid whatsoever. (Clearly I can't claim to have done much research on the topic.)

But the thought of anything less than idyllic bliss upon the birth of my baby sounded like horrendous torture. So I prayed and prayed and prayed against it. And our Father spared me.

I'm certainly not saying that every woman who experiences postpartum should pray harder. God calls each of us to our own trials and tribulations. I'm just ever grateful that postpartum depression after infertility wasn't a road I had to walk down. (And ever thankful that it wasn't something I had to deal with when my second son was born. There are some definite perks to adoption and the avoidance of postpartum depression is one of them.)

I looked at Garrett and he was perfect and I was head over heels in love with him and, other than very emotionally wanting to slow time down, I never dealt with the feelings that so many women have to struggle with after giving birth. I once went back to our infertility clinic. One of the nurses couldn't understand why I hadn't brought the baby to show off. Because, as much as I wanted to, I'd been where those women were. I'd been the one sitting in the chair watching women bring their babies in and it had felt like death. I wouldn't be the one to add to their pain. As I stood there, she asked me how I was doing and how he was. After gushing about how wonderful he was and life was, I explained that I was struggling with wanting to slow time down, with wanting to cry over every day that passed because he was already SIX WEEKS OLD and he'd never be SIX WEEKS OLD AGAIN. She said something about postpartum depression and how to deal with it and to make sure if it went on too long or got too intense I saw someone for it.

But if that was postpartum depression, I still have it. And I managed to get it with Matthew too. Because ALMOST SEVEN and FOUR and WHERE DID ALL THE TIME GO? It still hurts me.

That was not postpartum depression.

I know people who wrestle with the real thing. I know people who have felt the oppression of chemicals, the audacity of their own hormones. I am so thankful that it is not my story. But I have friends who have walked, are walking, the winding road. One of them is brave enough to be public about it in the present. It isn't her past. It's her life.

Please visit Renee's blog. Direct your friends there. If you know someone who is struggling with this or if you can help someone just by having more information, please follow Renee's story. Postpartum is so much more than what I thought it was when my baby was growing inside me. When we, as women, are aware of the issues that face us and our friends, we are empowered, we are empathetic, we are better.

Defined

Sometimes married women can't have babies. Or, at least, not as many as they'd have liked.

Sometimes they cry about it.

Sometimes life doesn't go the way we want it to.

And even when we know that we know that we know that God is in control and that His plans are the very best, sometimes we cry because we wouldn't have written the story in quite the same way and letting go of our draft--as terrible as it might have been--isn't always easy.

Sometimes we've come to terms with things.

Sometimes we've prayerfully acknowledged and accepted that it's time to stop trying. Sometimes we've gone so far as to make sure that we won't spend every month for the next twenty years wondering.

And we're content.

We're so glad that the story is God's because we wouldn't have what we have now if we'd had it our way.

Still.

Sometimes we can be at peace and our minds can be clear and our hearts can be pure but it sneaks up on us and when we try to speak we find that there is a lump of tears waiting to be exhaled. And we can't explain it.

It's not jealousy anymore. We know because we remember what that felt like. It's not sinful anymore. (Or, at least, when we're really honest, we don't think it is.) It's nothing like the bitterness that we once carried. And we feel real joy and it isn't forced and we are so, so happy. We have everything we ever really wanted. We have so very much more than we deserve.

But sometimes the lump of tears leaks out and we wonder if this is our reality. Forever.

We have no explanation because we are so, so glad that we sleep through the night now.

And we're sorry. Deeply. Because we wouldn't trade our journey for anything in the wide, wide world.

All we can think is that maybe we still feel like a failure for not having been able to do this one thing very well.

And we wonder why on earth we feel that way at all.

A Rant

I'm just going to take a minute to launch an all out tirade against individual insurance coverage. AN. ALL. OUT. TIRADE.

When we were praying through whether or not to move here, I did some insurance research. It culminated in my sitting on the floor of Garrett's baby room--oh how I miss that space--sobbing to Troy about how I absolutely would not move somewhere where our health care would be outrageous and awful. See, I'd been told by agent after agent that because we'd been through infertility, my health care would be through the roof.

Troy was able to get us covered under a group that is based in California. It doesn't really matter what, in the world, is wrong with you if you're on a group plan. Our monthly premiums are, indeed, through the roof and our coverage doesn't hold a candle to what we had at our previous church, but it worked in a pinch. And we fell in love with our pediatrician when we got here.

Recently, to make a long story short, we had some major changes in our health care provider and we can no longer see our pediatrician. We've been told that they're "working on it" but it's been many weeks and I'm not holding my breath. Since changes were being made anyway, we went in to see an insurance agent today--to talk about our options.

We explained that we were thinking about switching to an individual plan. We explained why we'd gone with this particular group plan to begin with. And then we mentioned the infertility. You know, the thing I had a year of treatment for over five years ago. Yeah. That. Apparently I'm still unable to qualify for anything that isn't even more through the roof expensive than what we already have. I find this incredibly super cool. As in, not cool at all.

Oh, one of us can get "fixed" and then we can apply. See, that way the insurance companies won't have to worry about us deciding that we do, in fact, want more children. This is insane. Number one, if we could have actually had more children, we probably would have by now. Number two, none of the plans cover infertility anyway.

But the very best part is still to come. Even once we shell out the money to get spayed or neutered--in this case, neutered--I might be denied on account of the fact that I have an ongoing case of PCOS.

I almost went postal right then and there.

In my case, PCOS doesn't have anything to do with my health--save my reproductive health. That I might be denied medical coverage for it is absolutely rage inducing.

So, at this point it looks like we're staying with our outrageous plan that is now with a company that may as well be called Joe's Insurance Shack because no one has ever heard of it. It appears that, what with my extreme health risks, it is our only option.

The Final Installment: Interview 3

Finally, Tara asked...

What advice would you offer to someone, like myself, who is experiencing infertility?

Except she didn't. Because we didn't get to it. And this was, by far, the most difficult question to answer. So I'm going to go ahead and address it here, in depth. In way more depth, in fact, than I would have shared in an interview. And then I'll move on to some silly thing my kid said. Or a story about a really gross diaper. Or something.

I imagine that infertility is radically different for a born again Christian than it is for someone who doesn't believe that Jesus Christ is her Lord and Savior. I think the feelings of loss, pain, grief, and anger are probably pretty similar but how we cope with those feelings should be different.

Without Christ, I would have felt completely hopeless.

As a Christian, I always have hope in Christ.

Infertility is horrible. It affects people from all walks of life, men and women of all ages, and it is no respecter of race or position. It hurts. It hurts because God has made us to crave motherhood. Animals have the basic instinct to reproduce. So then, do we. Except for us, hormones aren't the only things that come into play. For us, we have to also balance raw, bleeding emotion.

I will never forget the night, six years ago, when I cried so hard that I eventually found myself in the bathroom with my head in the toilet. Someone else was pregnant. Again. I wasn't expected to pretend to be happy. I was expected to be happy. And I wasn't. I was jealous and angry and I was devastated that I was jealous and angry. I was bitter and sinful and I was horrified that I responded with bitterness and a sinful attitude. It wasn't that I thought she didn't have the right to be pregnant, to have a child, to not worry about why I would be upset. I wanted her to be happy. I wanted to be happy for her. But I was, simply, craving empathy. Because infertility felt so lonely. Even as a Christian. Even with the Lord, I felt lonely. So I cannot begin to fathom how isolating it must be for someone without faith.

Infertility spans centuries. It's heavily covered in the Bible. And make no mistake, the emotions of infertility make people--even people of faith--do crazy things. I considered chucking a block of cheese out of my kitchen window. Hannah cried so hard--in public, no less--that the priest thought she was drunk. Sarah, Rebekah, Rachel, Elizabeth, Michal, and others all suffered through the pain of being unable to have children. Sarah gave Abraham her Egyptian handmaid so that he could have a child with her. Clearly, that didn't turn out too well. Rachel yelled at Jacob, "Give me children, or I'll die!" (A sentiment I've felt more than once.) Eventually, after years of suffering through infertility, the Lord opened the wombs of Sarah, Rebekah, Rachel and Elizabeth. But Michal, David's wife, never had children.

So my advice is this: God is in control. Not you. Not your fertility specialist. And not, goodness knows, your emotions. It's going to hurt. People are going to say stupid things. They will tell you to relax, to chart your temperature, to stop stressing. They will tell you to, "Just adopt. Then you'll get pregnant." Adoption is an amazing experience and a fantastic choice but not if used as a stepping stone to having a biological child. That is entirely the wrong motivation.

But God. Is. In. Control. In Mark chapter 4, Jesus told the disciples to get in the boat. "Let us go to the other side," He said. A storm came up and the disciples panicked, thinking they'd all drown in the middle of the Sea of Galilee. You know the rest of the story. Jesus rebuked the storm and then asked the disciples why they still had no faith. Because, you see, He'd told them that they were going to the other side. The ship isn't going to go down with the Son of God on board. Your ship is not going to go down with the Son of God on board. You'll make it to the other side. It's just that the other side might not look like you imagined it would.

We tried and tried to have a baby using all kinds of medical intervention. Finally, with no medical intervention whatsoever, I got pregnant. Then we tried and tried to have another biological child and it just never happened. God is in control. He wants your dreams and your hopes. He wants total surrender.

He may never bless you with a child. He just might not. That might not be His plan. You absolutely have to reach a place where that's okay. It won't be easy. It will still hurt. But you are privileged to be in relationship with the God of the universe. And He asks us to give Him our pain. If He's the Lord of your life, you have to let Him be the Lord of your family and your future. You have to surrender your plans.

If He blesses you with a biological child, praise Him! If he doesn't, praise Him! Seek Him and ask Him if he has another plan and if He will reveal it to you. Maybe, just maybe, He has a different plan for your life. Always, always, He has your best in mind.

Remember the women from the Bible that I mentioned? With the exception of Michal, those women had the privilege of being mothers to Isaac, Jacob, Joseph, Samuel, and John the Baptist. Men that God used in mighty ways. So I can't help but think that, in the end, their infertility was an incredible blessing. I can't help but wonder what God has in store for my own sons.

If you happen to be reading this and you aren't a Christian, my advice to you is different. What I have to say is this: I'm sorry. Infertility hurts in places I didn't know existed. But it's made incredibly easier when you have someone to give that pain to. If you don't know my Savior as your own, please ask me about Him. I have a Jesus I want to share with you. I have a Jesus who has changed my life.

Kicking the Habit

August 21, 2010- Tonight, while I cooked dinner and gagged on the smells infiltrating my nose, I almost told Troy that I was starting to suspect pregnancy. Almost told him that I was late--really late. Even though I knew that I also ovulated late--really late--this time. I almost told him about the heartburn. Three nights in a row and just as bad as it was when I was pregnant with The Rock Star. In the end something stopped me from telling him about the emotions I was trying (read: failing) to suppress when I climbed into bed at night. Something stopped me from sharing the other symptoms I was experiencing--symptoms of pregnancy--because they could just as easily be explained as the fun facts of PMS. Something stopped me.

But let me back up. Some of you may remember that back in June I was trying to make a decision. The truth of it is that The Husband and I just didn't know what God's plan was for our family. We weren't sure if we were supposed to try to have more children or call it at two. Or, well, that is to say that I wasn't sure. Adoption, in the future, is not beyond the realm of possibility but at the moment, for reasons I won't go into now, it's not an option. We always said, from the time we first started to talk about kids, that our family would be complete by the time Troy turned 40. And though we've spent considerable time in prayer and in Scripture, we haven't come to any new revelation that we were mistaken in our original decision.

So we had three months to conceive. To try. To not prevent. What have you. That way a potential little tiny human could sneak in just before Troy's birthday. I struggled. I fought mightily to decide what to do. Give these three months a chance or declare our family finished. In the end, after prayerful consideration, I decided that the only sure way to let God be in control of the decision was to throw caution to the wind and see what happened. But I was very afraid of where that would leave me come the autumn and very concerned about my state of mind if (read: when) nothing happened.

Like I've said, "I'm always going to be that infertile girl." Defined by it. Recovering from it. Relapsed into it. "Infertility" defined as a disease. A mental illness, more than anything. Something that eats away at your sanity like a parasitic worm. You tell yourself, "Not this time." This time I won't be affected. Infected. This time I don't even know what I want--and truly you don't. Still you count the days that go by and the momentarily queasy stomach gives you so much more pause than it should. And you pretend your chest is sore for a reason so much bigger than your impending monthly visitor. And even while you promised yourself that you wouldn't do this you knew you would because, even though you not only know God is in control, you want Him to be, you still just want to be normal for an hour or two--just long enough to create. Just long enough to say, "Whoa! I didn't think that was gonna happen!" You look at the months gone by and think them unfair even when you know, realize and confess how lucky and how blessed you truly are. Because infertility is a disease...and a drug. A catalyst for sin where there shouldn't be any. Because God is in control which is right where you want Him to be. You just wish you could kick the habit, kill the disease and move on. But for some reason you just keep going back there. You keep walking the streets looking for your dealer. You comb the sidewalk, in search of hope. You wish that you could just stop wishing.

Three months came and went. Somewhere in the middle of it all I realized that we'd tried to conceive a child for 39 months of our life together. I'd spent more than three years of our marriage eagerly waiting for the chance to whiz on a stick, waiting for signs, reeling in disappointment when an answer came. I know some people who I honestly think would have 39 children if they'd spent that amount of time trying to get pregnant. We have our one miracle son to show for those months. And in his smiling face all of my senses scream that God is good. And, of course, without our struggles through the pits of infertility, we might never have been led to our second miracle, our son who grew in our hearts and is not flesh of our flesh. I believe with everything that I am that our God is infinitely good and wise. I know it.

But I wanted September.

I wanted to throw September in for good measure. We might as well make it an even 40 months, I reasoned. All the while knowing that I just wasn't ready to shut this chapter of our lives.

I'm not consumed with the green demon of jealousy anymore. I don't begrudge unwed mothers their children. I see the hand of Providence gliding over our family in undeniable ways. So to question the hand that blesses us is sinful, ungrateful, unacceptable. But the feeling of failure and inadequacy still permeates my heart. Still, I am plagued by the feeling of disappointment in my own reproductive system. In my husband's. In the way they are completely incompatible with each other. Still, I wish we could joke about brushing up against one another, fully clothed, in public, and turning up pregnant.

September came.

And September went.

The baby that my oldest son begs for, the one he insists we would name "Dog", is not coming. I had a moment at our women's retreat two weeks ago where I lost it. I'd walked out of the house on Friday about a half hour after discovering that there would be no baby. Gripped with the resolve that it wouldn't ruin my weekend--after all, I didn't even know that I wanted a third--I headed into a life changing few days. But on Saturday it caught up with me. For a few minutes. Not wanting to share it with the world--you know, not until I could blog about it--I disappeared into a room with a couple of new friends. They ministered to me in ways that I will not soon forget.

And I came home on Sunday feeling ready. Ready to watch my sons grow up. Ready to stop thinking about getting pregnant every month. Ready to move on. Whether our family grows or remains the same is not really for me to know. God can do what He wants when He wants.

But as for me, I'm ready to try to kick the habit. I'm tired of being addicted to infertility.

The Raffle

I'm giving away a 35 dollar Jiffy Lube gift card at my giveaway site: www.familyfishbowl2.blogspot.com. Make sure to check it out.

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When The Rock Star was nine months old we started trying to have another baby. We were counting on the fact that it took us so long to get pregnant with him. Neither of us honestly thought we'd have kids 18 months apart. I have no idea what would have happened if I'd actually gotten pregnant that first month. I truly have no idea how people have their children so close together unless they have a lot of additional help--like a village, for real. I think I might have gone a little crazy but, you know, people do it all the time so I guess it can be accomplished.

Anyway.

When we moved here Garrett was 16 months old and his brother or sister was decidedly not on the way. We had some tests run at a Reproductive Care Center so that we could compare our 2007 "numbers" and "levels" to our original ones which had been done back in 2004.

Fast forward through some more trying to conceive and researching adoption and reading about adoption and a home study and applications and a mother choosing us and our son being born and his adoption being contested and his father signing and his adoption being finalized and...

Does anyone think I'm about to say I'm pregnant?

I'm not. No. Not. Even. A. Little. Bit. And that's a good thing. I am so very content and in love with my family the way it is and, seriously, what would happen next time? We seem to top the stress level with each kid and I really don't want to invite stress into my life. No thanks. Not now. God, obviously, could write it in the clouds but, at this point, that's what it would take--and, well, another major miracle.

So fast forward to today. We got mail from the Reproductive Care Center--the one from two and a half years ago--inviting us to a patient party. I started to laugh. We were hardly patients and we haven't heard anything from them since we first moved here. This party will have food, bouncers, and fun. I started thinking about how nice that was--and awkward.

"Hey, Bill, remember me? Our wives were in at the same time for an Intrauterine Insemination."

I kept reading.

Drawing for 1/2 Off Regular IVF Cycle
Drawing for $1,000 Off IVF, Donor, Frozen, or Donor Embryo Cycle

My first thought was how incredibly generous that is--to give away that kind of money--and I still think it is. My second thought was how much my heart instantly started hurting for these people. The paper says that you have to be present to win.

I assume there will be a bunch of people standing around, waiting anxiously to hear if their number is called. People who can't afford to do IVF without getting a half off deal. People who desperately need $1,000 dollars off their donor embryo cycle. People who, more than anything, want to build a family. A ticket will be pulled. A number will be read. A woman, reduced to entering her name in drawings for half price treatment, will run screaming to receive her dream and countless others will turn and walk away, shaking their heads, defeated.

Infertility affects 10% of the population. Only 15 states require insurance coverage for infertility treatment--and the laws vary widely. In fact, in my current state, Utah, when we were shopping for private insurance, I was told that I'd be turned down because I'd had infertility treatment. And Utah isn't even one of the 15! I informed the person that I did not plan to seek treatment in the future, that we'd been there and done that and didn't see that we'd choose to do it again. He told me that it didn't matter. The insurance companies would see it as a red flag. I have a preexisting condition, didn't matter that I didn't plan on seeking future treatment. I'd be denied.

So I could be turned away for a preexisting condition that my state doesn't even offer coverage for? Insurance companies say that infertility isn't a disease and yet they can turn you away for having it? My husband found a group insurance policy that we were eligible to join. Being that it was a group policy, I couldn't be turned away for my preexisting polycystic ovaries.

I don't know what I want in exchange for my anger. I know I want insurance companies to wake up and smell the clomid. I want the world to wake up and realize how big of a number 10% is. I want coverage for all the people who will be standing around waiting to hear their raffle number called.

Broken Vases

I'll always be that infertile woman. I'm sure that won't be last time you hear that from me. I'll say it again sometime. It doesn't matter that my biological son will be three next month. I'm still the girl with the lump in her throat instead of her womb. I'm still the one who cringes when someone announces that she, "doesn't even know how this happened." I'm still the girl who almost chucked cheese through her kitchen window. I'm still cracked, ever so slightly.

I offered to go to the infertility clinic with a woman in our church. Her husband couldn't go, the procedure is a bit painful and definitely less than fun, and I thought she might need my support. She was extremely thankful that I would offer to go. I was worried that she would get upsetting results and that I would be called upon to hand out some wise words about how life would go on...in all likelihood...even though she felt like total crap inside. In the end her results were great, she was thrilled, and I got a Chai Tea out of it as a show of her appreciation, although it was completely unnecessary. It was tasty and delicious but, really, if my journey through infertility got me nothing but the ability to share the experience and bear the burden with others (and, of course, Reason #1 and Reason #2) then I am thankful to have walked the road.

She opted to have me stay in the waiting room so I prayed for her and had the opportunity to read. (And contemplated whether they might let me sit in there for an hour a day just to get a little peace and quiet. Good night! You could hear a pin drop in that place.) She later said that she thought about coming to get me so that I could be there with her. You know, so she wouldn't bolt right off of the physician's table and swear off reproduction forever. I would have been thrilled to have been able to support her during the procedure but, more than that, it would have allowed me to escape from the ache I felt inside my chest. Empathy seems like too weak of a word to use to explain how I feel in a fertility office. People come and go. Occasionally a woman will enter by herself but, more often than not, men and women walk in together. I've spent enough time in fertility offices to categorize these people simply by the looks they wear on their faces. If the government ever needed Intel to analyze the infertile, I'd be their girl.

The men generally fall into two categories. There are the morbidly horrified husbands and the apathetically resigned. Either these men are humiliated to be discussing their reproductive organs or they've been taking time off work for so long that they're totally over it, resigned to the fact that they will be chatting about the finer points of their sperm with the reproductive endocrinologist. Either way, it has to feel degrading. They must be wondering how they pulled the short stick.

There are several categories of women but all of them (except for a very rare few who wear their hearts adhered to their foreheads) have this look that says, "I'm holding my life together by a thread but I'm pretending that I am a pillar of stability. Please don't look directly at me for any length of time because this cool exterior is only moments away from cracking." Infertile women almost always look like they have it altogether. I think it's an attempt to make everything on the outside look vibrant and productive when everything on the inside feels barren and shattered.

It breaks my heart to watch these people. The men are usually almost ridiculously supportive. He has learned to handle his fragile wife with the utmost care. Gently, he touches her on the small of her back, as though she is a porcelain doll, dangerously close to toppling off the edge of the shelf. He has learned to discuss reproduction in ways that men without medical degrees are just not meant to do. He has learned to live with the horror of it all--and take it like a man. A man, anyway, who is being forced to discuss baby-making with a third party. The women, often, are vases that have been broken and glued back together. Upon first inspection it looks just like a regular vase but if you fill it up with water, well, it starts to leak. She is somehow emotional and subdued--all at once. Her chest constricts with each breath as she waits on the precipice of hope and despair.

I know that only 12% of you have a clue what I'm talking about and the other 88% are all, "Shut up about infertility already. You have two kids. Stop whining about it. I'm not even kidding. If I have to read one more post about dramatic ovaries and sperm counts I'm never visiting this blog again!" But the gut wrenching thing is, in a fertility office, that 12% becomes 100%. Everyone is infertile. Everyone has a story. Everyone just wants a baby. Everyone has a lump in the throat.

I swallowed my own lump down. I wasn't there looking to get pregnant. I have long resigned myself to the fact that that isn't happening again. And most days I'm sure I don't want it to. Most days I'm sure my family is complete. I was there to support a friend. I was there to remember just how blessed I am to have my boys. I was there to feel overwhelmed by the tragedy that wraps its cold, hard, plastic fingers around so many people in the form of ultrasounds and catheters and needles and medications. I was there to remember, as I identify myself as That Adoptive Mother With The Hideous Court Battle, that I was first That Infertile Woman Who Would Do Anything To Have Children...Yes, Even Endure A Hideous Court Battle.

Infertility is nothing new. My heart will always break for it. I rejoice in plus signs on sticks when one of these couples has victory over the demon. Though I will never be the vase that I was before infertility, I don't want to be. The lessons learned as the Lord painstakingly pieced me back together are vital to who I am as a person. And, when I watch my sons sleep, it appears that a broken vase can hold water again after all.

Awareness Week

This week is National Infertility Awareness Week and well, if you've been reading this blog for any length of time, you know how I feel about infertility. If you are walking or have walked the journey, you know how important advocacy is. If you've never been touched by the disease, I encourage you to learn more. For now I will give you just two reasons to make yourself aware of the physical, emotional and psychological effect that infertility has on your friends and family.

Reason #1

Reason #2

Obviously, my reasons look very different. Reason #1 is our biological answer to countless prayers and petitions that I would have a child. Reason #2 is our (contested) adopted answer to the same prayers. In our wedding ceremony, my father-in-law said we were coming together for the purpose of having a family (among other things--that wasn't the only reason he listed). Building our family has proven to be...uh...difficult. And there are so many things we can be doing. Like beating down the doors of the insurance companies for one thing.

Can you tell if those are Garrett's or Matthew's feet? I mean, obviously, they are baby feet...but was this picture taken in 2006 or in 2009? If you look closely, you can tell. I just find it amazing that it's hard to tell at first glance. You know, given their difference in pigment.

Hey, mom, I'm just going to rub this flower all over my brother, okay? Then he'll smell good instead of smelling like old spit up.

Quick, take the picture, he's losing me. Pretty soon he'll just move his arms altogether and I'll be forced to roll happily onto the blanket.

Can I tell you her secret? Usually I close my eyes and smile like a big giant goober. She got me laughing by telling me to say, "Poopie!" Since that is generally something she discourages me from saying, I'd like to submit that she's not being terribly consistent, which, as we all know, is rule number one of parenting.

I always look startled. I think it has something to do with my baby Einstein hair, my perpetually wide eyes, and my flared nostrils. What do you think?

Be aware of NIAW. If not for me, do it for them. They wouldn't be here if I'd never dealt with infertility.

Well, Matthew would be here. He just wouldn't be here. Which may happen anyway. You never know. Yes, I'm surly today. I'm fending off the feverish plague my son has been battling for three days. But I'd be better if you took a moment to look infertility in the face and vow never again to ask someone, "So, when are you gonna have a baby?"

It Doesn't Always Come Up Roses

Oh man. Yesterday was a bad day. It started off with a grumpy toddler and it just went downhill from there.

I talk about infertility a lot on my blog because it has molded me and changed who I am, how I view the world, and certainly how I relate to my own son and my Heavenly Father. But, generally, I talk about it in the past tense. It is something that happened to me...once upon a time. I have a kid now and, despite the fact that we've failed to have another, I try not to be a raging hormonal lunatic in reality and, especially, on my blog.

Until now.

When I had the ultrasound done back in mid December, you know, the one that revealed my small continent sized ovaries, we were surprised to see, on the screen, a huge follicle on the verge of exploding and sending a viable egg into orbit--or whatever. The last time we'd witnessed such a sight it wasn't nearly as big and I was lying, once again on the table at the reproductive endocrinologist's. It was September of 2005, right before we quit infertility and about seven weeks before I conceived Garrett. So over three years later, it was weird to be there, with memories and all the time that has passed staring at me and taunting my emotions. We knew exactly what we were looking at. We knew how to read its size and location. In some ways, I suppose, it was kind of like knowing how to ride a bike. If the bike was more like a jagged roller coaster we weren't expecting to get thrown onto in that particular moment.


We are committed to adoption and believe that it is God's plan for our lives. But. We've often wondered if adoption would be in addition to another biological child or in place of one. It seemed that, maybe, God put us in that ultrasound room for a specific reason. Maybe this would be the month...20 months after we started trying...that God would give us a second child. Maybe I'd give birth and adopt a child in the same year. Maybe not. Only time would tell.


About a week ago I started feeling more emotional than normal. Parts of my body started aching. And I felt nauseated just as I did when I was pregnant with Garrett. I told myself the symptoms were psychosomatic. But I couldn't help but wonder how I was making myself have food aversions. And I couldn't help but realize that if I really was pregnant, my due date would be a week and a half before my brother's wedding and, well, he'd probably skin me alive if I delivered late and missed his blessed event. And I couldn't help but be giddy with the possibility. Not of missing my brother's wedding, mind you. That, I had determined, wouldn't be happening. Even if I had to give birth on the side of the road on our way to San Diego. I decided that I'd wait to test until several weeks from now because that way I wouldn't know for sure and I wouldn't stress about miscarriage for the next seven weeks. Yes, I know how premature that sounds. I know how incredibly stupid it makes me seem. But I couldn't help but dream. If there is one thing I hate most about infertility, it's the reckless way in which it makes me hope.


None of this really matters and I certainly wouldn't have shared it with the whole world (a.k.a. my six loyal readers) if it weren't for everything that happened yesterday. What I really want to tell you about is my son's gentle spirit and I just couldn't tell you without baring my soul.


So, like I said, yesterday was a bad day. It started with a grumpy toddler and it just went downhill from there. When I blogged about Garrett going upstairs in search of a pacifier, I failed to understand the depths of his disaster. He left nothing unturned in his efforts to pacify his addiction. He finally came downstairs, in a better mood. Later, I climbed the steps and discovered a destroyed bedroom and playroom. I started cleaning them when I remembered that I really needed to relieve my bladder. That's when I realized that even my room was disheveled. As I headed toward the bathroom I saw the puddle of travel shampoo that Garrett had spilled onto my carpet.


I yelled at him.


But before I could clean it up I really had to go. So I darted in to the bathroom. Suffice it to say, I'm not pregnant. I've been unpregnant for the last twenty months and I think I've shed exactly seven tears. Truly, I think there have been two months where I've felt the sting and allowed myself to cry--for about ten seconds before shaking it off and remembering that God knows the plans he has for me. Maybe I should have cried more. Maybe the hysterics that ensued yesterday were the result of what is now 21 months of bottled up emotions. I honestly do not know what came over me but I started sobbing and I couldn't stop. I know part of it has something to do with the fact that we are now in the "wait for someone to choose us" stage of our adoption. There is nothing I can do. Nothing I can control. I know part of it is how badly my son wants his own baby so that he can stop holding all the babies at church and hold his own sister or brother. I know part of it is simply that I never stop thinking that maybe this will be the month. But to say that I lost it would be an understatement.

I tore past my toddler, who was staring at the shampoo mess, and into the other upstairs bathroom where I keep all related definitely not pregnant paraphernalia. At that point I was merely feeling like I was going to lose it. I sat on the bathroom floor and officially lost my grip. All the while I was thinking that my toddler could not see me like this. And all the while there was nothing I could do to stop it. When hope authentically shreds, I've learned there is little I can do to sew it back together. It feels like a disjointed lie and I am altogether ill for having believed it. It's not that I lose faith in hope for hope's sake, mind you, I just exhaust myself by hoping for infertility's sake.

I silently but rather convulsively sobbed on the floor of the bathroom and my son bounced in. As he saw me he came to a screeching halt. I tried to stop crying. Really, I did. "Mommy," his little voice whispered. I couldn't answer. What would I say? Oh, hey there, kiddo. Mommy is totally fine. This is just something she does on occasion? Or, a more truthful answer, Mommy has completely cracked up. This happened a lot before you were born and I thought that, at two and half, you were ready to witness it in full force. There was truly nothing I could say in that moment. He slowly approached me. "Mommy," his eyes implored my own. I was on my knees with my legs tucked under my body. He stood just in front of me and, ever so tenderly, reached out his left arm. He placed it on my right one and gently rubbed up and then down. In that moment I was fiercely proud of his compassion and exhaustively moved by his sweet spirit. He searched my eyes once more, moved his hand to my cheek and stroked a tear away, and, as I wondered how my toddler could be fulfilling the role of a parent so brilliantly, he whispered. "Sorry, mommy." I told him he didn't do anything wrong and he didn't need to apologize.

"Sorry, mommy. Soap on floor. Me clean."

My child, my heart, my only sweet baby thought that I was uncontrollably sobbing on the bathroom floor because he'd spilled shampoo on my carpet. That made me cry even more. I pulled him onto my lap, smothered him in snotty kisses, squeezed him tight and told him that I was not crying because of shampoo, that it was much bigger than that and had nothing to do with him. I alternated between praying and talking directly to him and said how thankful I was for him and how much richer my life was because God had brought me through the storm once before. When I'd calmed down slightly, he turned and faced me.

"Mommy. Me clean soap. Sorry." He ran and opened the linen closet, got out his Lightning McQueen towel and darted in to my room. I followed him explaining again that I knew he didn't do it on purpose and I'd clean it up and that wasn't why I was crying. I tried to clean it up but honestly it just kept frothing and bubbling and I finally gave up. Trying to pray, I explained to an omniscient God that I know he knows the plans he has for me but my emotions don't always understand reason. I pulled it together and made my son lunch. As he happily ate I silently broke down again. While I whispered more prayers, Garrett turned to face me. "Sorry, mommy," he said, seemingly exasperated at having to apologize so many times. I reminded him that I wasn't crying about the shampoo.

There is a part of me that hates myself for allowing the anguish generally contained to my womb to permeate my thoughts and my heart. But sometimes we have to climb a steep trail to see the view. As a Caedmon's Call song says...

Looking back You know You had to bring me through
All that I was so afraid of
Though I questioned the sky, now I see why
Had to walk the rocks to see the mountain view
Looking back I see the lead of love

I'll hope again. I will hope for hope's sake. I will probably hope for infertility's sake and I know I will hope for adoption's sake. I'll hope that today will be the day someone will choose me to love her child. I'll hope because, if that dream becomes despair, I have a little boy who I once only hoped for, waiting to put his tiny hand on my cheek.

And Then The Fallopian Tubes Joined In

There are two babies at my table at MOPS (Mothers of Preschoolers). One of them is a two-month-old little boy and the other, a one-week-old girl. Apparently, today, I was staring intently at one of them. I didn't realize my obsession and someone asked me if I was okay. I said something along the lines of, "Yeah, sure, why?" To which she smiled politely and answered, "You looked like you were in another world for a minute there." And really, I suppose I was. It's a world I fade into and out of at the drop of a hat. A world where my two-year-old son is doting on my newborn baby. A world full of soft fuzzy blankets and ridiculously small outfits. A world before talking back and before the poop starts stinking. A world of powder fresh scents. A world I am longing desperately to enter into--again.

I shook myself out of my make believe world and smiled. "My uterus is doing flips." (She knows we're a few steps into the adoption process.) She smiled back and lifted her son, the two-month-old out of his carrier and into her lap. "There go the fallopian tubes," I replied. More to little Jeremiah than to her, I suppose. We proceeded to have a conversation about how God works in mysterious ways. She talked about how her four children came one right after the other but she knows so many people who've had to wait for a long time or who never receive the blessing at all.

I thought of a time when a woman with four children who came one right after another simply because her husband and herself reside in the same state and sometimes brush past each other on the way up the stairs would have made me sob buckets. A time when I would have contemplated stealing one of them because, what with three others, would she notice? Instead, today, several years down my path of infertility and one precious miracle later, I thought about how tremendously good God is. Infertility is my thing. Seeing my answered prayers in a tangible toddler taught me, more than anything else, about trusting God. It's what makes my heart break for people on their own journey through infertility. It's an ache that is sometimes dull and sometimes acute and didn't go away with the birth of my son. Certainly it ebbed. But then it swelled, again, over these last 17 months of trying to conceive again. Sometimes I hurt for myself and always I hurt for other people who don't have a toddler to remind them that it's all going to be okay. And always, always, I am waiting for a second child to be welcomed into this family.

Today, over at Shannon's blog, a guest writer speaks on this topic. The writer of What I'd Like For You To Know: Infertility tells it much better than I ever could and has experienced a much higher level of grief associated with infertility than I ever did. In fact, her story makes my own battle seem like a Saturday frolic through daisies. But the bottom line is, there's a whole gaggle of women (and men) out there who just might look like they're momentarily in another world. The truth is, we are. We're in a world of tiny fingers and tiny toes. A world that a whole lot of people in this world take for granted.

Letters

Dear Cynthia Potter,
Please stop talking. I know that you know more than I do about diving. But I know that a big splash=bad diving marks. I don't understand why, when the women were diving, you could not stop talking about how you couldn't stress enough the importance of speeding up their dives and how if they didn't go faster they would get a warning and blah blah blah. Then, last night, when Matthew Mitcham, the studly (and, if I wasn't a pastor's wife I might add, hunky) Aussie who eventually won gold, took his sweet time you said, "This is the epitome of poise. Matt Mitcham took his time. He controlled the pace. And as a result he takes control of the entire contest." So, which is it?

Signed,
Annoyed
******************************************************
Dear Oliver,
What part of this do you not understand. I LOVE the birds you are bringing me. I LOVE that you have become such a tremendous hunter. I LOVE finding feathers all over my basement. In fact, I feel that maybe you are spoiling me. I'm afraid that if you continue with such avian pampering I might stop loving the dog on account of the fact that he doesn't bring me such wonderful treats. You wouldn't want that, would you? If you would like to continue bringing me birds, please try not to strip them naked and leave their clothing all over my carpet. I prefer my carcasses feathered.

Signed,
The One Who Feeds You And LOVES The Bird You Brought Me Today
********************************************************
Dear Uterus,
It is not my fault that you are not currently housing a fetus. Yes, I realize that Garrett is big and two and generally his cuddler malfunctions. Yes, I am aware that my good friends Joelle and Michelle have had babies during the last eight days. (Congrats Michelle and Joelle!) Yes, I know that those babies are cute and cuddly and very, very small. But please stop having a conniption fit. If you have a personal problem with the arrangement of things, you need to call a meeting. Invite all the reproductive parts and read them the riot act. You should probably personally escort the ovaries. It seems that they often don't get the memo.

Signed,
The Vessel Who Houses You And Often Times Wants To Rip You Out Because What Good Are You Anyway?

Needlephobia

I used to be deathly afraid of needles. Seriously. Just ask my mother about that one time when I ran around the doctor's office screaming and then fled into the hallway because oh my gosh they are trying to kill me with a flu shot. I had to write a letter of apology. It was not my finest moment. I never ran around shrieking again--but I wanted to. During every flu vaccine, every booster shot, every blood draw I could feel the five year old in me begging to run. Until I turned 23. That's how old I was when we started seeing a fertility specialist. I realize that to most of you it sounds like I was just a baby myself. I should have been out partying and sowing my wild oats. But I've never been a partier and I've never wanted to have to pray for crop failure. I'd wanted to be a mom since I was, I don't know, two. Plus my husband is 123 months older than I am so we were ready. Fertility specialists are like vampires, they want your blood. A lot. Every time you see them, it seems. My desire to have a baby was infinitely stronger than my fear of needles. It got to the point where I could actually watch. I still can't handle the needle breaking the skin but everything else is kind of fascinating.

Given the fact that I have overcome my fear of needles you would think that getting my IV during labor would not have been the worst part but it pretty much was. It was definitely worse than the epidural which I stressed out about for eight months before getting it and realizing, "Hey, that didn't hurt much at all. I didn't feel any kind of electric shock that the quack mother who was pregnant with kid number four in my birthing class referred to. In fact, I'm fairly certain I've made the right decision. That little prick in exchange for being put out of my misery was a brilliant choice."*

My husband, however, is not a fan of needles. If you so much as mention that he might have to have his blood drawn, the color drains from his face and his blood pressure shoots through the roof. Today we had our physician's exams for our homestudy. Mine was first. I take a daily dose of Metformin to control my disease. That's what the doctor called it today anyway. It actually made me laugh on the inside at the stupidity of insurance companies who won't cover infertility. According to my physician we're diseased, for heaven's sake. Alright though, seriously, the Metformin has been successful in making way for ovulation which is good considering the fact that the tiny little cysts all over my ovaries (PCOS) generally inhibit that sort of thing. And even when reproduction does not want to occur, ovulation is important for a myriad of reasons. So anyway, the doctor told me that because I take a daily dose of Metformin, I should have my sugar and cholesterol levels tested periodically. He said he could do it today if I wanted. I figured I might as well save myself a trip.

I walked into the waiting room sporting a cotton ball with some of that fancy bright orange tape wrapped around my elbow. Usually I remove the tape as soon as the nurse is out of sight but this was just going to be too easy. Troy was standing at the counter checking in. I made an I'm sorry face and gestured to my arm. He went from Caucasian flesh colored to nauseous gray in a moment. His eyes got big and he said, "Are you kidding me?" I just kind of smiled feebly. He closed his eyes for a second, as if deciding whether it was worth it. Is another member of our family worth the pain and suffering he would have to endure to get his blood drawn? When he opened his eyes I told him that he didn't have to get pricked and explained why I did. "Really? Thank goodness. My blood pressure just went way up." Then he looked at the person checking him in and explained his utter detestation for needles.

But he would have done it. Because he's a good daddy like that. Even though we don't know our second born child's name. We don't know is he's a he or if she's a she and we don't know what color skin he or she will be sporting. We don't know how much that child will weigh at birth and whether or not we'll even be there. And we don't know if we'll meet this child in a year or two or three. But we desperately want to know her or him--and we'll do what it takes. He didn't have to have his blood drawn, but I know he would have. His blood pressure would have been high and his palms would have been sweaty but, really, he wouldn't have thought twice.

*To my friend, Joelle, who is just weeks away from her first birthing experience: Labor is wonderful. It feels like a dozen fuzzy puppies licking your face. At Disneyland.

No but in all honesty, by the next day I would have done it all again in a heartbeat if given the option. Even the IV part. Because there is nothing like watching your child come into the world.

The Shiner & Advocacy Day

Last night the boy took a spill straight into the edge of my hope chest. Though he cried immediately--a good thing--it was ear drum rupturing hysterical sobbing complete with flailing and back arching--a not so good thing. He calmed down pretty quickly, which might have had something to do with the robin's eggs that I was feeding him while I tried to ice his huge lump and gorgeous shiner. Here are a couple pictures of the lump. It was difficult to get it in all its glory because Garrett must have his eyes staring directly at the camera at all times. Today the swelling is down but his eyelid is several shades of purple. It is quite a sight to behold and I am wondering if this kid will live to see two.

Happy Infertility Advocacy Day!

As soon as I found out I was pregnant with Garrett, I realized that I’d probably been pregnant once before. One time, over the course of our trying to have a baby, had I felt the same aversion to food, the same cocktail of emotion and hormones pulsing through my veins, the same hopefulness. I will never know whether or not I was pregnant. We had done a round of clomid. I had known the precise day of ovulation. The two week wait had come and gone. Three weeks had come and gone. I was halfway around the world, in Israel. If I wasn’t pregnant, my body should have let me know on the first or second day of the trip. Each day that went by was cause for elation, hope, almost celebration. And then there was the scant bleeding that I explained away as implantation spotting. “Sure it should have been earlier but maybe the kid is a procrastinator.” Finally, with the end of the eleven day trip nearing, the bottom dropped out. At the time it didn’t cross my mind that I could be having a miscarriage. I simply thought that my body had played a very, very mean trick on me. I thought the food aversions were because I was eating a Mediterranean diet. (Although, that diet was the healthiest I have ever eaten). I thought the emotions were because of the hormones. I thought the hormones were normal, though I had never in my life been brimming with quite so much estrogen. Perhaps it really was all those things. Or perhaps, since I felt the exact same way early in my pregnancy with Garrett, I lost a very tiny, very young, baby. I don’t mourn the possibility of that child because it never crossed my mind that I was miscarrying. But whether or not I actually was pregnant, I thought I was. For one week. In that hotel room, when I knew for sure that I wasn’t, I hit my infertility rock bottom. It’s different now that I have I child, but the knowledge of that lowest of low is why I try not to get my hopes up each and every month. I can’t feel that depleted of energy and life again, not if there is anything I can do to help it.

The next morning I contemplated staying at the hotel that day instead of heading out with our tour group. Troy said it was my decision and eventually I decided not to be all alone in the middle of Jerusalem, while my group gallivanted around. I skipped breakfast and I tried to compose myself. I managed to get on the bus. I even appeared in pictures. When I look at our scrapbook, it is ridiculous. I’m beaming on so many days of that trip, believing that I was, just maybe, finally, pregnant. But on that day I am the embodiment of the statement, “You look like hell.” Maybe no one else from our trip can see it but I sure can. I have absolutely no color. Literally, my face is almost ashen. Every smile is so obviously counterfeit and I look like, in an instant, my face might crack and bleed tears and estrogen. I thought I was being weak and ridiculous. "So I thought I was pregnant and I’m not, what’s the big deal?" Although, in retrospect, I suppose if I’d had a miscarriage, the loss of HCG could have caused the completely unstable crazy woman. I had never wanted my mommy so badly as I did when, for really the first time in my life, I couldn’t have her. She was halfway around the world. I mumbled something about being on the verge of a meltdown—though, truthfully, I had already jumped off the edge into full emotional collapse. But no one within earshot really seemed overly concerned. And really, what was I going to do, ruin everyone else’s vacation with the news that lo and behold, the infertile woman is still infertile? I've never really mentioned this before because I am not defined by it. It was only after the conception of my son that it dawned on me that I was probably pregnant back then. It’s simply a moment in time, and there were many low moments during our first struggle with infertility, where I sat, for awhile, at rock bottom.

I mentioned at the beginning of the month that today is The National Infertility Association’s Advocacy Day. I’m mentioning it again because, while that day in Israel does not define me, the nightmare of infertility does. I have met so many wonderful couples who struggle with this demon. I sat in the specialist’s office and tried not to stare at the other women who were trying not to stare at me. We all kept our eyes fixed on the wall because, for some asinine reason they had Maternity magazines in there and if we accidentally saw one, well, the world might end. Some days I wonder why God blessed me with my miracle when so many others remain childless and some days I wonder why God hasn’t blessed me with another miracle when so many take for granted the miracles that they have. I have watched the ultrasound screen for any evidence of ovulation and been told, numerous times, that, “no, not this month.” And I have watched the ultrasound screen and seen my child’s heart beating furiously. I have been to the rock bottom and I have been sky high and I’ve been somewhere in between. I know the importance of the issue. I realize that society’s ignorance about the subject makes it worth fighting for. If ten percent of the population started flopping over dead, I think it would be a major concern. But when ten percent of the population walks around with the inability to conceive, it’s considered a superfluous desire. So please pray that the specialized issues we care about would be taken seriously. And, if you do not struggle with infertility, please don’t ever-EVER--take your own fertility for granted.

National Infertility Association Advocacy Day

A rare second post in one day from me because I just think THIS IS SO IMPORTANT.

Resolve, the National Infertility Association is having an advocacy day on April 10. I'm not suggesting that you hop on a plane and head to Washington DC because even I can't do that and everyone knows that I have a vested interest in this infertility business. But what I ask you to do, whether you have been effected by infertility or not, is to pray. Constituents will meet with staff members of Senators and Representatives to discuss the following:

Co-sponsorship of The Family Building Act of 2007 (HR2892), federal legislation mandating insurance coverage for infertility diagnosis and treatment. Currently, most insurance companies will not cover infertility diagnosis or treatment because they view childbearing as an optional choice. While I agree that having children is a choice, for my husband and myself (and countless other couples in the nation) becoming parents was not optional. It was something that we longed for with every fiber of our beings. For me, it was as natural and necessary to seek fertility treatment as it would be to seek mental health treatment.

Make permanent the adoption tax credit. This would help (in major ways) couples who desire to add to their families through adoption. It would essentially lower the costs of adoption and help unite children in need of parents with parents in need of children.

Increased funding for medical research for the National Institutes of Health (NIH). 1 in 10 couples struggle with infertility. That means that 10% of women that you walk past in the grocery store, mall, church, etc, are probably longing for a child and 10% of men are longing for a child AND consoling their hormonal wife. Medical research is imperative to correctly diagnose and treat infertility.

Please join me in praying for this day of advocacy.

Juno, I'd Like My Tears Back Please. Right Now!

* Possible spoilers ahead

So I've been a little under the weather lately. Feeling sick, on top of the fact that my grandma died and I live in Utah and my whole family lives in California and I'm like the only person I know without a master's degree and I've been cold for three months straight, prompted my wonderful husband to give me the afternoon off yesterday. He came home just a little early from work and sent me over to the movies to see Juno because I'd been pretty much doing nothing but talking about it for the last four days straight. I'd never been to the movies by myself before. I was afraid that I'd be viewed as, I don't know, pathetic. I was under the impression that, perhaps, a group of teenagers would throw popcorn at my poor, lonely, little head. And you know what? It was so not a big deal. Turns out there are a lot of people at the movies alone on a Wednesday afternoon.

So Juno had come highly recommended by several friends with opinions that I generally agree with. Plus, you know, it won an Oscar for Best Original Screenplay. It should be noted that for the past few days I have been stressing out about whether or not Diablo Cody is her given name. I mean, it can't be. Right? No one names their daughter "Devil" and gets away with it. Am I right? Of course I'm right. I just looked it up and her birth name is Brook Busey-Hunt. She must have changed it to Diablo when she was stripping. No, for real. She's a stripper turned screenwriter. I wonder, like, was she writing by day and stripping by night? It almost makes me tired just thinking about it. So anyway, highly recommended blah blah blah.

And I hated it. And by hated it I mean that my life is more than likely richer simply by experiencing the dialogue. And by hated it I mean that there were several times when I laughed out loud even though I was alone. (I've realized that I very rarely laugh out loud when in solitude. I think laughter is designed to be shared.) And by hated it I mean that the stupid film had me sitting in my dern stadium seating chair sobbing like a frickin' baby. I hate when I do that. I'm chalking it up to living 750 miles from my mommy and, maybe, like, the fact that produce looks really gross right now and I don't know if it's because I shop at WalMart or what. No but really. I don't usually cry in the movie theatre. Occasionally I'll let a tear slip out before quickly removing it because it's a war movie and all the soldiers are dying or whatever. But I so do not allow my shoulders to quiver in the movie theatre. Praise God I was alone and praise God there was no one even in my vicinity. So basically I hated it in a "I'm very glad I saw this movie but maybe I should have been forewarned that I would sob" kind of way.

If you've seen it, undoubtedly you did not sob and are wondering why I am a lunatic who saw fit to let out five or six years of emotion in a movie theatre. But then I would have to ask, first of all, if you're a mother and secondly if you're a mother who has struggled and or are struggling with infertility. In a nutshell a pregnant teenager decides to give her baby to a couple who has struggled with infertility for five years. I mean, the story is more about the pregnant teen than the adoptive couple but leave it to me to relate to them as opposed to the teenager who winds up with child after one random sexual encounter. Oh how I wish. I mean, not the random part but--nevermind. The reviews that I read labeled Vanessa (the woman in the adoptive couple) as so uptight that you wonder if you would really leave your baby with her. I never got that vibe. I always felt so much compassion for her and thought that Jennifer Garner did an amazing job of playing an infertile woman. And then I realized that I was scared. I was scared that Juno would back out. I was scared that something would go wrong. I was scared that Vanessa's hopes and dreams would be dashed again. When Vanessa puts her hands on Juno's expanding middle and feels her baby kicking for the first time, I almost commanded Juno to give Vanessa her child. But it really did frighten me. To think that, in all likelihood, we will be adding to our family not through biology but through adoption. And there is just so much that can happen. So many factors that can fall through. So much risk. Such little control.

Because I've had a baby. I know how impossibly hard it would be to give it up. I know that I couldn't do it. And, at the end of the film, when that little baby slipped into the world, I cried again, in remembrance of the birth of my own miraculous son. It pulled on every emotion I have as a mother, as an Infertile Myrtle, a Barren Karen, a girl who so very often feels like a teenager dealing with things well beyond her maturity level, a woman who sometimes longs to live in life's moments and rarely in the grease and grind of daily toilet cleaning. A girl who should have known that a movie about teen pregnancy and adoption would be her giant emotional downfall.

Stupid Juno. I hate you.

One More

I'm a horrible Christian.

No, really. It's true. I'm always trying to make bargains with God. As a kid I was a huge test negotiator. Oh crap, I'm not ready for this exam. Dear God, if you help me get an A on this test, I will never ask you for another thing as long as I shall live. Of course, as an adult I realize the foolishness of such a prayer and, most definitely, the stupidity of telling God that I was never going to ask him for another thing as long as I lived. When I managed to escape the evil confines of the Ex Fiance Who Shall Remain Unnamed, and found myself, miraculously held by the arms of Troy, I praised His holy name. (God's, that is. I live with Troy, I see his cluttery messes and they are anything but holy.) Thank you so much for this incredible man. If I never receive another blessing as long as I live, this wonderful love should be enough. At least as a wise, spiritually mature, and, of course, all knowing 21 year-old, I had the good sense not to tell God that I would never ask for anything else. Because then the bargaining really began. Dear God, I want to be a mother in the worst way and you know the desires of my heart and if you give me a child I won't ask for another one. One biological blessing will be enough and please grant me this petition. It was the prayer of a woman completely terrified about the prospect of giving birth. One time through the stretching and mutilating and sheer, unworldly pain would be enough. Thanks. I am so blessed to be able to say that infertility has been my darkest hour. So many people my age have experienced so much worse. And I know that the blackest moments of my life are still to come, but thus far, the barren demon has been the one thing that has shaken me to my very core. I truly believed, with every fiber of my being, that if the Lord blessed us with a child, one child, I would be satisfied.

And then Garrett was born. From the moment I saw that child's face, it was as though my own soul was somehow existing outside of my body. I remember, in a few seconds of sheer insanity, not wanting his umbilical cord cut, because he would be severed from me, forever. Thankfully I didn't express this thought as I'm sure the doctors and nurses would have exchanged glances and started me, right there and then, on Prozac, Wellbutrin and Nardil all at the same time. Every single day with that child makes my heart swell a little more with pride and love and sheer joy. Each night I thank God for answering my prayers. Often, I praise him for the months of waiting that we endured. I am sure that they made me a more patient mother. It took approximately three months, two days, 118 minutes and six seconds before I began desperately wanting another child. Dear God, remember how I told you that one would be enough? Well, um, turns out that other than those four unbearable hours, the other 21 hours of my labor weren't so bad. Turns out that the months of sleep I lost worrying about the giant needle that was going to go through my spine were for nothing. Turns out that, when numb from the waist down, I actually enjoy the experience of giving birth. And now, being a mother is my greatest joy. Could I have another one? Just one more. Please?

So far He hasn't answered my prayer, and it has officially been nine months. And yes, I realize that is long enough for most women to conceive, incubate and then spew forth a child. But I'm trying not to focus on that. I'm trying to remember the lessons I learned from the first time around. I'm trying not to waste tears or Garrett's life worrying about the blessing that may or may not come with the next month. I'm trying to believe, with every fiber of my being, that whether or not we are blessed with another biological child, this is all part of His perfect plan.

I've never had a Quiverfull mindset, I don't have a problem with people who do, it's just that I want two or three, if we adopt. It is at this point in my life that I am so very thankful that it never crossed my mind to have ten or twelve. If I'd wanted even seven, I'd be heartbroken and devastated and on the fast track to the insane asylum where I would happily pull paint from the wall and recite Shakespeare while picking lint from between my toes. Wikipedia says that a quiver can hold between 25 and 30. And I always believe everything I read on the Internet. This is off topic but, that's too many kids, dude. Speaking of a lot of kids, sometimes, living here and passing the grocery carts full of three or four or sixteen children, I have an overwhelming sense of inadequacy. It's a common feeling, this one that my ovaries are hopelessly broken.

So since adopting a quiverfull attitude would mean imminent psychiatric hospitalization, I really do only want one more to come from within. On account of the fact that dealing with this a third time would send me into the loony bin for sure, all others will be bought and paid for. (I have a JetBlue credit card now so, potentially, I could earn plane tickets by adding to my family. Now that's killing two birds with one stone!) But I desperately want that one more. That one more positive pregnancy test, that one more baby moving inside me, that one more warm body laid on my exhausted one, that one more flesh of my flesh. The thought consumes me almost as much as it did when I yearned for the child that became Garrett. I know that I may not receive the blessing again, may not get that one more. Many of the barren in the Bible received only one. Sarah had Issac. Elizabeth had John. When Rachel had Benjamin after having Joseph, she died in childbirth and, really, no thanks. And when I dare to consider myself in the company of these woman, I am honored. I pray that Garrett may, one day, be a John, proclaiming the Messiah, or an Issac, laying himself down upon the altar without so much as a murmur, or a Joseph, showing himself to be a godly man of exemplary character.

The fact of the matter remains, every night and part of the day, I pray for just one more. But here is the truth of it, I have met so many couples along this road of infertility that are still waiting for their miracle. Still waiting for their John or their Issac or their Joseph or their Samuel or their Samson. I know where they are. I know that these women do not want to be Michal. So, if you only have time in your day to pray for one extra thing, do not pray for us to conceive another child, we accept that this may not be the Lord's will. Instead, please pray that these childless couples would receive their blessing.

Top Five Things

Top Five Things I Feel The Need To Discuss:

1. This just in, the boy hates hot dogs. So far, in his young little life, I thought this was a result of the aversion to textures he's been having. I mean, let's face it, you've gotta bite into the tube steak to get the explosion of warm meaty goodness that comes from eating, well, something that we all try not to think of while we're eating it. I, myself, am not even sure what a hot dog is. I've heard everything from left over bits of the animal to ground up innards to piggy willy. For awhile, in high school, I boycotted them altogether. And by awhile I mean a few months until I realized that while it may, in fact, be piggy willy--hence the lovable nickname wiener--it is darn good tasting and I vowed never to uncover the true source of its goodness. I digress. Garrett hates 'em. Today I made him one for lunch thinking, yah they cause brain cancer but I think you have to eat like 92,000 of them, not, you know, one. And I held it in his mouth like we do with all the foods that he has a texture aversion, and not a taste aversion, to. The poor little guy made the worst face ever and, when I let go, promptly gagged it out. So I ask you, what kid hates hot dog? Mine will be the four-year-old at the birthday party who rudely turns his nose up at dinner. "Excuse me, could you make me filet mignon? I detest tube steak."

2. Grey's Anatomy is getting on my nerves this year. I'm still going to watch it tonight but let's get real. As my good friend pointed out, if any of the doctors at Seattle Grace took on Callie Torres, they'd be crunched in a matter of seconds. With the one exception of Dr. Bailey. And maybe Alex. Maybe.

3. I have an unhealthy obsession with my gynecologist. I mentioned in my last post that I was going to desperately miss her when we move. Actually, I said that I was going to make her come with me. Well, I had my annual intrusion this week and, turns out, she's not coming. I mean, I didn't come right out and ask. That would be...well...she's not supposed to know I'm her stalker. Inside I pleaded, "Come with me come with me come with me come with me puhlease!" What I actually said was, "I'm not looking forward to getting a new hairstylist and a new gynecologist. So, I'm just going to get my hair cut when I visit my parents but, I don't suppose Kaiser will let me keep seeing you." She thought about it for a minute and then said, "Probably not." She did tell me that I could call her anytime and that Salt Lake has wonderful doctors and that goodness knows they're in the business of babies there and blahblahblah. "Yes. It might be true. Give me a hug. Hold me. Don't ever let me go." I...um...didn't...actually...say...that...last...part...I'm...not...truly...insane. But oh how I love her. Okay. I am. I am indeed, truly, insane.

4. I'm shifting through memories and trying to figure out which ones are worth keeping and which ones can be sold at a garage sale. It makes me nauseated. Even things like old green chairs that were long used when we acquired them. Nostalgic Me: But we used them in the MVA shows last year! Declutterer Me: Get rid of them, pack rat! And things like t-shirts from when we were going to adopt a kid from Ukraine. Nostalgic Me: Oh, remember how we were going to get a kid from Ukraine and how it was going to cost $32,000 and we had $1,000 and we were just praying and praying that God would provide? Declutterer Me: He did provide. He gave you a beautiful biological son and even though you want to adopt some day in the future you are not going to use America World because once you were pregnant and you tried to get your deposit back they were really rude and kept it all even though no services had been rendered so sell the shirt, stupid.

5. I want another baby. Now. Please. Actually, immediately. Just for the information of anyone who has been dying to know but hasn't asked--I think there are still a few of you out there. Yes, we would like another one. Yes, we have been trying to have another one. Yes, we have, in fact, been doing so for 6.5 months. Yes, many people have no trouble getting pregnant again once they have a child. No, I am not those people. No, it is not even a little bit close to the horror it was the first time. Yes, it is still horrible. Yes, I am still besidemyselfjealousofwomenwhocanjustsmilesweetlyattheirhusbandsandgetpregnant. No, I do not wish these same people dead. No, I do not want Garrett to be 35 years older than his sibling. Yes, I am a little concerned about what it will be like to be infertile in the land of 20 billion babies. No, I am not going to try to steal your baby. I promise. Any questions?

Chucking Cheese

I wrote the following back in 2005--a year after Troy and I started trying to have a baby...

Inane Ramblings of a Cheese Chucker

This morning, I contemplated throwing a block of cheese through my kitchen window. It isn’t that I actually want to pay for a replacement pane, or that there is something fundamentally wrong with my cheese. There’s no mold, I can’t even see any of that flaky white stuff that I judge to be some type of pre-fungus phenomenon. It is, in fact, a delectable hunk of Tillamook’s finest. Yet, with my entire being I ached to hurl the cheddar through the window. I know it’s asinine. The logic is flawed. But that is what this has reduced me to, a pathetic heap of cheese chucking estrogen. And I had these thoughts before nine am.

Later, I got to contemplate whose bright idea it was to put the diapers directly across the aisle from the tampons and the rest of the feminine hygiene menagerie. It wasn’t the work of the barren, that’s for certain. It’s like, there you are, passing mother after mother with baby after baby. You’re barely holding it together as it is. You turn the corner to throw your loathed tampons into the cart, mad at anyone and everyone who celebrates Mother’s Day, when wham—the Pampers baby screams at you with her bright blue eyes. It’s a conspiracy. Someone watching the camera for shoplifters gets a kick out of the occasional woman who unsuspectingly turns the corner and is instantly reduced to a puddle of hormonal tears. Personally, I want to pop that baby right in the jaw. Never mind that she’s adorable. Forget the fact that if someone left her on my porch I’d love her in a heartbeat. This morning, as I stood in the grocery store, I hated her. I despised her because some idiot put her across from my tampons. The tampons I don’t want in the first place. I don’t want to be looking at this side of the aisle; I want to be looking at that side—the side with the too-cute-for-her-own-good Pampers baby. Can the grocery store just maybe…move the baby section? Is that really too much to ask? Can it just get put in a corner? Maybe back where all the hard liquor is? Then all the drunks and all the mothers can just do their shopping together. Or perhaps, since that might perpetuate the notion of under aged drinking, we could put it in the back, behind a door that reads Employees and Mothers only. Or since that is probably some form of discrimination, maybe we could put it in the aisle with the matches and the Duraflame Fireplace Logs? Because really, how often do infertile women need to buy fire accouterments? I’ll even help move it all—well, no, for the safety of Pampers baby’s little jaw, I’ll send my husband to help. The point is that I really don’t care where it goes, just so long as it isn’t directly across from my tampons. Because really, think about it for five seconds. That’s just cruel and unusual punishment.

I did manage to escape the grocery store fairly unscathed, despite the fact that not one, not two, but every single magazine I saw in the checkout line had a baby story on its cover. From Ben and Jennifer; It’s a Girl! to Britney, with just weeks to go the mom-to-be celebrates with a baby shower! And as I shoved my cart quickly toward the door I had to dodge Mother-with-twins. I considered asking, “You have two. Mind if I take one off your hands?” I even contemplated just yanking one of them when she turned her back, but decided I didn’t particularly want to do jail time. I may be adopting my children. I don’t think an agency would just smile and say, “So, I see here that you were imprisoned for attempted kidnapping. Neat. That shows a real dedication.” So I forced a grin in their general direction and kept on toward the door. Personally, I think I showed a great deal of restraint. Perhaps a medal or special button is in order.

Once I got home, however, I had to use some serious control. I turned on my television and there were commercials for Home Pregnancy Tests, Johnson & Johnson No More Tears Baby Shampoo, even Chase financial services depicting love and then marriage followed very quickly by the baby in the baby carriage. Now, I’m not going to say that every channel needs to be infant free, even I know that would be asking way too much, but can we just have one? I don’t think there is anything on channel 87. Barren women unite! Children free TV. We bring you round the clock programming uncontrolled by baby paraphernalia. Featuring the new reality shows, “So Your Treatment Failed Again!” And “What The Heck Is Wrong With You Anyway?” In any case, as I do not currently own station 87 and cannot institute my policies, I had to keep my hand on the channel button so that at the appearance of any of these inconsiderate commercials, I could quickly rid myself of any impending evil thoughts. I considered calling the cable company and asking them to just turn it off—put me out of my misery—but I figured that then I would be childless and divorced. Instead, I decided to play computer Solitaire. Near as I can tell there are no babies in card games.

As afternoon drew to a close I decided to elect myself President of the I Hate Menstruating Club, ate a Little Debbie Fudge Round, got angry that she’s “Little Debbie” and not “Young Adult Debbie”, took an Excedrin for my pounding headache, scheduled my next appointment with my reproductive endocrinologist, and made a list of all the things I can do now that I know I’m not pregnant once again. The list includes, but is not limited to, getting drunk. Now, I very rarely drink at all and have never been drunk but I figure maybe you shouldn’t knock it until you try it? Bungee jumping. Buying a ticket to a major theme park and only riding the attractions that say, “Pregnant women should not ride.” Wearing nothing but a skimpy bikini for at least a week so that all the mothers in the world are jealous of me for a minute. Instead of the other way around.

And today was a pretty good day. You should see me on a bad one.

I'm kind of starting to think that I will always be that infertile woman...or, I will at least always process things like her...or maybe it's just that I will always think it's my personal crusade to enlighten the world about just how much it hurts. I mean for crying out-freaking-loud, I have one now. So why am I still so sensitive to the asinine comments and the questions? Why do I feel like it's my job to somehow telepathically distribute awareness? Why can I sometimes lose hours of sleep thinking about how some people should maybe have less and my dear friends should have ONE. And, obviously, God knows what He's doing. I know that implicitly in my soul. But my heart still breaks and my head still questions and I find myself growing but so far from grown. And I still dread the, "when are you going to have another one?" question. Because if I have learned anything through this journey it is that God's not in the business of letting me in on that specific information. So, just for the record, for all of cyberspace and anyone who happens upon my blog, if by "trying" you people mean "not doing anything in the wide world to stop it" than we're in the process, and we have been for longer than it takes most people to conceive and then get out of the first trimester. And no, I'm not losing sleep over it...yet...because I have my amazing son and, if anything, I've learned that the really great ones are on back order (please also realize that is a joke and I'm not calling your kid a dud). But I really have discovered that God's timing is perfect and I hope that this time around I can trust Him better. But I still hate the question. It still makes me feel like a failure. And I wonder if the other 12% of couples affected by this demon feel the same way...