I’m a linear person, borderline OCD about organizing
things. I like to plan and
research. Data is fascinating to
me. The majority of my writing happens
in the form of elaborate to do lists- grouped by themes and timelines.
In my professional life, I am a teacher and technical
writer. I literally get paid to organize
text and people. In my private life, I
often wield a label maker and lament the fact that we have junk drawers.
I’m not great with ambiguity. Even when I’m relying on my ‘gut feeling’ or ‘following
my heart’, there’s always a plan brewing in the back of my brain.
Ironically, I’ve spent the past few years without a clear,
linear plan. Living in the land of infertility is not exactly a vacation for
anyone, but I think it’s particularly taxing for the ‘planner personality’.
This month marks our third year traveling along the crooked
path of infertility. So far, our journey has included more meetings doctors,
specialists, tests and co-pays than I can count. We’ve racked up multiple diagnoses along the
way. Researching options and running
data has become second nature to me. At
times, we’ve strained our patience, our budget and even our sanity. I’ve walked
away and then come back again.
You would think over 36 months, your tolerance would
grow. You would learn to- if not
embrace, then at least tolerate the bumps in the road. Gain perspective. Sometimes
that works. Often it doesn’t. And every once in a while hope bubbles up and
sends things spiraling out of control all over again.
Last month, the hubs and I met with a new reproductive endocrinologist. I wanted to see if we had any new options now
that the celiac & autoimmune disease were being managed.
What a difference a year makes! This doctor was wonderful.
Picture a calm, older fellow sporting yellow Crocs
and a big smile. Add in a thick Swedish
accent and a contagious chortling laugh.
It was obvious why his staff and patients all adored him.
He kindly tackled my 6 pages of notes without even
blinking. He was respectful and in
accordance with my concerns about medications and side effects. We came up with a practical plan to run some
additional tests and repeat some others.
This would give us current data to make decisions with- did I mention
how much I love data? I knew we were in
the right place.
As we left the appointment, I was so ebullient I was practically
skipping. My heart had committed to this
process and my mind knew that this made sense.
Over a celebratory lunch that afternoon, we even had a long awaited
update on a potential birthmother. She
was still a long shot, but we had more information and hoped to hear from her
or her family very soon.
Giddy from all the good news, we toasted each other and
dared to daydream out loud about what life with two new people would be like. No detail was too small to relish and we
talked about everything from birthday parties to schools to camping trips. We drove home holding hands with hope in our
hearts.
Over the next few weeks, I squeezed in tests and collected
more data. Hoped. Daydreamed. Waited.
And then it all came crashing down. You know that saying ‘what goes up,
must come down’? May was the month it
all came down.
With about 3 ½ weeks left until her due date, we have not
heard a peep from this potential birthmother. Her family has never contacted us
and I don’t think they will. She is
young and in crisis and I wish her well on her journey. This was a long shot at best, but it was
still an avenue for hope.
And after weeks of butting heads, the hubs abruptly decided
to back out of fertility treatments.
Over the past few days, we’ve had some long and insightful conversations.
I’m very grateful for the chance to connect
with him and hear where his heart is leading him. It seems he has already made peace with moving
forward and living child free. Not only
has he made peace with it, it seems the most likely outcome to him. From a practical point of view, he doesn’t
think that we will be parents. It
bothers him to put so much energy and emotion into something that won’t have a
good outcome.
With love and time and space, we will find our way. We’ll keep walking down this crooked path-
often together, sometimes apart, until we reach the same stopping point. It will (eventually) be ok, because it has to
be. In one way or another, we will both
find peace.
At the beginning of the year, I wrote about my intention for
peace. Sometimes, the gift of peace
comes to us in small, unremarkable moments.
Tonight, I had a giant piece of chocolate cake and breezed through a
series of social media updates about mother’s day…smiling babies, birth announcements,
tributes to moms and to motherhood- it was all there.
I took my time with the cake, pausing to lick the extra
frosting off my fork. I eyeballed all
the happy families with surprisingly little reaction. This many years in and some things are just
not as hard as they used to be.
Last year, I spent mother’s day alone- miserable and hiding
from the world. This year, I went
grocery shopping and took my dogs for a run by the lake. It felt like any other sunny, spring
Sunday. I am thankful for the respite.
For a small slice of peace.
I’ve learned so many (too many?) things about infertility
over the past 3 years. The greatest
lesson has been how to co-exist with pain.
Heartbreaking, breathless, aching pain.
Not only how to co-exist with it, but how to thrive in spite of it.
One of my very favorite songs has a lyric that has also become my
mantra. “The darkness has a hunger that’s insatiable and the lightness has a call
that’s hard to hear”. It’s simple, beautiful and true. As I continue on this crooked path, I willfully choose
to acknowledge the darkness but listen carefully for lightness. It's always there. Sometimes hidden. But always, always there.
