First of all, I hate to make people feel badly. Even though I come across with an I-Don't-Care attitude, I am truly bothered if I think I've insulted someone or put them in an awkward position. An even more *awkward turtle* situation is to put them in an awkward position just by virtue of what you are.
There are few people who can swing through the monkey bars of understanding on one side while remaining unapologetic for their current life situations. I'm not one of those people. I feel guilty for things over which I have no control. So when you announce you are pregnant and I cry, I feel like a douchebag. And that's totally not your fault.
On the flip side, it's not my fault either. I didn't choose to cry. It has become a spontaneous reaction to an announcement I've come to anticipate from any other breeding human being on the face of the planet. I've even practiced my I'm-happy-for-you face in the mirror (it's scary). But the funny thing, and the thing I have the most difficulty understanding myself, is that I'm generally VERY happy for those announcements. I LOVE babies. I'm excited that people get the opportunity to move into this stage of life and I understand it's scary, exhilerating and wonderful all at the same time. I'm just sad for me.
I haven't shared this information, but I feel like it's practically starting to ooze out of my pores so it's easier to lay my feelings out on the table instead of trying to bottle them in so they explode when I least expect it. That gets a little too messy...especially in public...and it never happens when a restroom is available.
A year ago today I had one of those moments. There were angels singing, shining spotlights and dozens of rainbows. I was wearing a gorgeous sparkly gown and my husband danced into the house in a beautiful tuxedo and dipped me just before...Ok. Wait. It didn't really go down like that. But there was a stick. And that stick said "Pregnant." So there might as well have been spotlights, rainbows and singing.
I've always wanted to be a mom. I naturally believed it would come not long after Favorite and I married. But it took more than five years for us to get that stick to show in our favor.
We had our first ultrasound at 7 weeks and heard a perfect little heartbeat. Our twitterpated brains believed the baby to be a boy so we anticipated baby boy names and primary colored nurseries.
Our next ultrasound, at 10 weeks, showed a perfect baby head and arms, but no heartbeat.
I'm not sharing this story on my blog for sympathy or dozens of comments that indicate love and support. I'm sharing it because I don't feel like it's something I should be ashamed of enduring. I've felt guilty because I want children. I've felt guilty because I cry even though I'm happy for my friends. I've felt guilty because I'm terrified of pregnancy announcements and excited for them at the same time. And, sometimes, I feel guilty for hoping that this would happen to me, too.
I've complained about it quite a bit in the past. Obviously, little of that has made it on here. But I don't want this post to be about complaining or whining or anything of the sort.
I read some old journal entries the other day and I was shocked to see how far God has brought us in this journey. We haven't just survived. Favorite and I have thrived together. We've learned to function as a team and support one another. Of course we cry. Of course we get frustrated. There are even months when I feel completely forgotten by God.
Recently, that's how I felt--forgotten. That's when I found those entries. That's when God showed me how far we've come. Waves of gratitude, ya'll. Waves.
Sometimes I travel down the "What If I Would've Carried Him" road. The newest roadside sign there is that my son would be three months old this month. It doesn't make me angry as often as it used to. It mostly makes me sad. But there are also road signs on the "What If I Didn't Have God" path. They are much more grim than my current circumstances.
I hope I won't have to do this for six more years. Favorite and I know our limits and I'm not sure if that will affect our overall outcome. Actually, there are a ton of things I don't know. And I'm not coming through this experience with some sort of weird serene expression on my face. I'm scarred. I'm generally tear-stained. Sometimes I scream just because I have no words for my frustration (But I'm thinking of taking up boxing. Anyone want to join?).
I think I've just realized that this is life--you know, what happens while you're busy trying to overcome loss and infertility (a sort-of quote from John Lennon with my apologies). Mostly, I want to live that life as honestly as possible so others can see Christ in the here and now.
When you pass through the waters,
I will be with you;
and when you pass through the rivers,
they will not sweep over you.
When you walk through the fire,
you will not be burned;
the flames will not set you ablaze.