The "I" Word

I recently learned that infertile women experience the same grief cycle as someone dealing with a terminal illness. This probably would have been helpful to know while I was in the midst of it, for one of the hardest parts of the whole process was feeling like I was the only one. I knew, of course, that there were infertile women and couples all around us, but I didn't know any of them personally. I had no family or close friends who could relate. They had no idea what it felt like, so it was impossible for them to comfort me. I know that I would have liked to read something like this a couple years ago. May it bring you some peace, weary, broken soul. You are not alone. It is normal and ok to feel what you are feeling.

Shock/Denial: I stayed in this stage for about two years, feeling crushing disappointment month after month. I was simply not ready to hear that we had a problem. Living with the unknown was a special kind of mental torture and after two years, I spoke to my doctor. As I sat in the exam room, learning about the first test she would do, hearing about the possibility of being referred to a fertility specialist, I remember thinking, " I cannot believe we are having this conversation. I am healthy. I am only 26 years old. This shouldn't be happening"

Anger/Guilt: What a dark time in my life. I did not feel guilty, but oh boy, was I angry. I was consumed with anger, self-pity, bitterness and jealousy. They suffocated me, blackening and hardening my heart. My journal entries from this time are not pretty. I didn't want to attend church and listen to sermons about a loving God when I felt that he had abandoned me. I couldn't sing worship songs about a God who answers prayers when I felt like He was ignoring mine. I didn't want to see the babies that people brought into the sanctuary or the woman caressing her pregnant belly. There was no escape from the things that set me off. Facebook, family gatherings, the baby section at Target, baby showers, playgrounds, TV shows. It was so much easier to just hunker down in my despair and feel sorry for myself. Which brings me to the next phase.

Depression/Despair: I don't know when one phase ended and the other began. I believe they were interwoven. Honestly, getting some medical answers helped immensely with the whole process. There was a renewed sense of hope. I am a list-maker, an action-taker. I needed a goal and way to get there. We pursued in vitro fertilization. The countless doctor appointments gave me something to do, somewhere to go. It wasn't pleasant. There were painful procedures, multiple shots every evening that marked and bruised my skin, burning as the medicine entered my body. Blood drawn every other day, internal ultrasounds, waiting and hoping and praying. We ended up with only three embryos to transfer. They showed us the picture of these embryos and the nurse said, "These are your babies." She shouldn't have said that. They never got the chance to be babies.  The doctor called me at work and I knew before the words left her mouth. It hadn't worked. I wasn't pregnant. And we were done. I didn't want to try again, even if we could afford it. So I waited to sink into the deepest depression I had ever known.

Acceptance: The depression didn't come. I waited for it. Day after day went by and I felt alright. At peace. You see, somewhere along the way, my prayers had changed. I stopped praying for a baby and started saying, "God, whatever You have for us; however this ends...help me accept it. Prepare my heart." And He did. He may not have answered my prayer for a baby, but He certainly answered this one. He had a different plan for us. I can look at it now from His perspective. Watching me banging on closed doors on every side of me, on the brink of completely falling apart, waiting patiently for me to see the door opened at the end of the hallway, leading us to South Africa.