The Bitter Cup

I have drunk from my fair share of bitter cups in life. We all have. Plans are made. Expectations established. Hearts are set on hopes and dreams. And then the very dregs of bitterness must be swallowed as dreams shatter and hope explodes into a million tiny pieces. Broken friendships. Familial strife. Failed relationships. Financial stress. I have experienced all of these things before. But nothing compares to the bitterness I have swallowed in the past thirty six hours. We all have our cross to bear and our challis of sorrow to endure. Mine is yet another failed attempt at becoming a mother.

A little over two weeks ago, we had our first IUI procedure. It was quick, easy, and filled us with hope and a renewed sense of promise. After the IUI came daily hormone supplements which gave me every pregnancy-like side effect known to womankind. Nausea. Hot flashes. Wretched dizziness. Cramping. Sore breasts. Veins appearing in new and interesting places. Horrid constipation. Gas. Sore and bleeding gums. A cold. Absolutely everything. And then, early Sunday morning, after I was absolutely convinced I was pregnant, I peed on what must have been my 30th pregnancy test over two years, and it was negative. I sat on the bathroom floor crying, hating to wake my husband up to tell him the bad news. But when I crawled back into bed crying and shaking like a leaf, the cat was out of the bag. We cried together until we fell asleep and slept fitfully for several hours.

Sunday was a blur. We watched mind-numbing amounts of shows on DVD. BJ held my hand all day. I went through an entire roll of toilet paper as I cried and blew my nose. We stayed home from church, the thought of facing anyone we knew just too difficult to even bear. We even went to the movies just to escape from the house and the crushing sense of disappointment that sat on our chests all day. I accepted yesterday that I feel like absolute crap about the whole thing. I'd love to be all "there is a bigger plan," and "I'll just be patient." But I can't. Right now, I want to hurl my bitter cup off a cliff and scream every four-letter word in the book into the abyss. 

It is a special kind of hell to have your body and mind chemically convinced you are pregnant by hormone supplements, and then have it not be true. Biologically, everything for a pregnancy was in my system for at least twelve days after my procedure. Everything in me felt pregnant. But I'm not. And I can't do anything to change that. Every pill I swallowed, every time I was in pain, every moment I was hot-flashing, every minor twinge in my body, I became tied emotionally and physically more and more tightly to the idea of a pregnancy and a baby. And in the space of three minutes, all of that hope and promise was ripped away from me. Right now, I am furious about my cup being full of this bitter and horrifyingly painful trial.

We face an uphill battle. We can do more IUI rounds with fertility drugs. We plan to. Each one will cost at least $500. We can do up to four of these before the options become infinitely more expensive. We already have over $500 sunk into our first failed round. For two people on a single income, it's terrifying. I start work tomorrow as a long-term sub for at least 12 weeks, and that will help, but it won't solve every problem.

I have been thinking about Christ and his acceptance of the bitter cup. We know that He took it willingly, but not without difficulty, pain and pleading that it pass from Him if it be at all possible. I know that there will be something on the other side of this for us, and that our cup must be consumed if we are to move forward. I am pleading that there is another way. I know that there likely is not. But I am tired of being tested. I am tired of being disappointed. I don't know how many months of this I can possibly withstand. I am frustrated with my Father in Heaven because I lack the knowledge and capacity to comprehend this on a grander scale. I know that it's ok to feel that way, because we are meant to experience the full spectrum of emotion, and because eventually I will and He will help me. But right now, I am angry. I have thought often of Jacob of the Old Testament, and of the significance of his new name, Israel, meaning "one who wrestles with God." There is some solace in knowing that on the path to truth and understanding, there is turmoil, heartbreak and trouble, and that we are meant to experience it. We all wrestle at some point. We all learn the bitter cup cannot pass.

But how I wish it could.

I still believe in the idea of bread being disguised as stones, but I think it's going to take me a while to digest and accept this particular stone/piece of ridiculously hard bread that might as well be a stone.

We are starting all over again, bitter cup in hand, and we drink on, choking it down, banking on the moment when the sweet overwhelms the bitter and the cup has passed from before us. So I drink it down freely as I begin another month of mourning the loss of a baby that I never had.

I don't think I'll raise my glass to that one.

The Flyer Comet

When I was twelve, the scariest thing in the world to me was the roller coaster at our local, historic amusement park. The star attraction at Whalom Park was The Flyer Comet, a classic wooden coaster, perched on the shore of a lake in central Massachusetts, and by the time I was old enough to ride it's rickety tracks and dilapidated cart train, had been in operation for nearly 60 years. The Flyer Comet was a hallmark of New England culture, and the fact that the entire structure shook as you whooshed around the curves, and that the paint flaked off in sheets as metal wheels clacked over the worn track wasn't enough to deter thrill-seekers from riding the ancient attraction. The scariest part of riding the Flyer Comet was a section they called "the black hole," which was a covered portion of track built over a steep drop (often rumored to cover faulty portions of the structure). For a few seconds, the darkness enveloped you, your heart raced, stomach churned, and mind spiraled, before you shot out the other side into brilliant sunlight over deep blue water, arms raised to touch the sky with outstretched fingertips, heart full of exultant joy and body buzzing with adrenaline. 

I feel like I am stuck on the Flyer Comet, trapped in the "black hole," and I can't get off the ride. 

In the past ten days, I have walked away from a full-time teaching opportunity less than a week before school started, created a new plan for employment wholly dependent on substitute teaching jobs, and found out that our problems having a baby may be more serious than we initially thought. I am spiraling, sometimes it feels like without direction, but banking on that moment of shooting out of the "black hole," hands raised joyously toward the heavens, lungs bursting and heart soaring as light overcomes darkness and hope fills my soul. 

For the first time on my life, I am running on nothing but faith. There is something exhilarating and liberating about turning control over to God and opening yourself to His goodness and glory to satisfy every possible need. There is something awesome and humbling about knowing that after doing everything in your power to satisfy your temporal and eternal needs, it will never be enough without His grace. So while I am terrified and stuck on what seems like an endless trip through the "black hole," I know with a faith that burns hotter than any earthly flame, that if we live our faith daily, commit ourselves to Him, see the needed specialists to help us have a baby, and work our hardest to meet our financial needs, He will help us achieve our eternal and paramount goal of a family. There is no way to meet that goal running on our old plan of working 65-70 hours a week teaching and commuting. So we have a new plan. 

The new plan is this-give it our all. Keep our heads up. Be flexible. Be receptive to the Holy Spirit. Move forward with faith. Steel ourselves. And wait for the sun to come back.

We need to find out if I have a misshapen uterus that could challenge carrying a healthy baby to term. We need to find out if I am able to ovulate at all. We are at a point of moving beyond the help that my OBGYN can give us. We are upping the ante. We have our first reproductive endocrinologist appointment on October 8th.  We need to find a way to meet our financial obligations on a reduced income. But I know that he will help us to do all of those things, because more than anything else, He wants us to have a family and to know the full spectrum of experience that raising children will bring us. And He and BJ and I will do whatever we need to do and are inspired to do to make that happen. 

I have a feeling the Flyer Comet and I have a few more rounds to go, but the moment of transformation from inky darkness to brilliant light will make every second of the experience worthwhile. 

So we soar on through the darkness just before dawn. Heads up. Hearts full of love. Hands stretched to the sky. 

The Gift of Taking "Pause"

Yesterday was Mother's Day.

I spent the past week dreading it's impending arrival. Yesterday morning, cocooned in my bed and down comforter, I talked myself in and out of going to church and attending our family Mother's Day celebration.

I love everyone in my family so much. I wanted to go celebrate and spend time with them. I wanted the spiritual uplift from attending church. But holy crap on a cracker, I did not want to get out of that bed and face the world with my empty uterus, tragically peanut butter and jelly-free hands, and conspicuously child-free hips. 

At 8:05, while my husband was showering and getting ready for church, my phone vibrated. A sweet text from a friend at church who knew that I was probably going to spend the day blubbering like a walrus gave me just enough motivation to hop in the shower (though not enough to wash my hair) and put on a presentable outfit. I knew I could make it through the first hour of the meeting for the young women, and that we would be learning about a non-Mother's Day related topic. I went, and it was good, and then I hit the wall and left before Sunday School and Sacrament Meeting could commence. I knew that if sitting in Young Women's and seeing babies all over, being held and snuggled and cared for by their radiant mamas had almost sent me over the edge, the rest of the day would be an exercise in brinkmanship of the most dangerous kind. I had a very real fear that in the middle of a beautiful, spiritual talk about mothers and their divine roles, I would flip a nutty, start sobbing hysterically, and lob a hymnal at the pulpit. Which probably would just get me committed to the psych ward and not help me get an A+ on Project Baby. So we went home before I could use any hymnals as projectiles. 

We went to my in-law's for the rest of the day. There was something soothing about worshiping in the church of family yesterday. Surrounded by darling little nieces, nephews and cousins, I watched them discover, investigate, laugh, pout, and love. I have no doubt that Heavenly Father blessed me with positive feelings yesterday, helping me to focus on the pure love and joy of these sweet babies, instead of only the heartache and sense of incomplete that was gnawing around the edges of my spirit. I didn't feel resentful, or jealous, and losing those pangs of emotion made it easier to absorb the sadness I did feel and blot it out with the sweet experiences of being with family. And the great stories of cousins eating directly out of buckets of powdered sugar, and the antics of my brothers-in-law always brings a smile to my lips and heart. Just look at these darlings!

I missed my mom a lot yesterday. I wanted her to be with me, laughing and hugging and just spending time together. Living 2,000 miles away from home makes holidays like Mother's Day a little difficult to celebrate in the same city. But I know she was there for me, and as we spoke, I felt the very depth of how much we love and miss each other. Motherhood is an eternal bond, and I know that no matter how it comes about, I will someday experience that bond that stretches it's fingertips into the bright promise and shining hope of forever. 

I spoke with my mother-in-law about catching glimpses of our future that can help us make it through until our dreams become reality. I have had so many glimpses. They have been powerful-bright light piercing the choking and suffocating darkness. Sometimes, they don't feel like enough to get me to the next point, but yesterday, being with family was like drinking hungrily from a cool, desert oasis. Heavenly Father is letting me rest right now, and I have felt the touch of His hand upon my shoulders as He has allowed me to take pause. I never knew that "pause" could be such a beautiful and blessed word. 

Yesterday, surrounded by the love and laughter of people who love me and my sweet husband, and touched by the messages of some dear friends, I was buoyed up and given encouragement, and I haven't felt that for a long time. I am especially grateful that the divine hand restrained me and kept me from throwing hymnals at people. Talk about a tender mercy. Love and hugs to all of you mamas, mamas-to-be, and mamas to children that may not have been born of your own, beautiful selves. 

Baby...

This is one of the most beautiful children I have ever seen.

Yes, I will admit my bias. This is my precious niece, Ivie. She is 9 months old, and perfect in every way. When I look at her, I feel all mushy and lovey inside. I hold her, and I melt. Oxytocin floods my brain. I bond with her beautiful eyes, amazingly intoxicating baby smell, and smooth skin. Her giggle sends me over the edge and I cannot stop fawning over her. She has recently learned how to play peek-a-boo, crawl, take a few tottering steps, clap her hands, and wave goodbye to people. I love her so much it hurts. I love all of my nieces and nephews, deeply and truly, but right now, Ivie is like a chemical addiction. I spend time with her, get my fill, hand her back to my amazing sister-in-law, go home, and feel like I will not survive until I get another fix. I wish this were me just being melodramatic. Unfortunately, it's pretty much the real deal.

I want a baby. It is all I can think about. It is all I want. I have been trying to have one since September of 2011. Every month that passes, I lose more hope that it will ever happen for my husband and me.

I thought I knew what it felt like to experience loss, disappointment, heartache and hurt. I spent nine years in and out of crazy relationships, and then obsessing over the prospect of never getting married. Then, this amazing man came into my life and changed everything. We have been married for a year and a half, and are so happy. He is truly the cornerstone and rock of my life. But without a baby in our lives, something is missing. Something is unfulfilled. And each day gets harder.

It's not all doom and gloom on the baby front. We are taking some important steps to figure out what the problem is and pursue a variety of approaches to correcting it. My appointment for a baseline determination of what is going on is next week. That is something that really gives me hope. My husband and I know that children are in our future, in one way or another. But getting there is a journey that is proving to be painful and trying.

Each month of trying to get pregnant is this truly manic roller-coaster ride. The anticipation is exciting, thrilling, and scary. The letdown and free-fall to the bottom are gut-wrenching. And there is no recovery. I feel like I am on a constant loop of being jerked around, thrown over the edge, and coming up short. 

Living as an active participant in a faith-centered culture is the most amazing blessing. Sometimes, though, it exacerbates my anxiety and heartache about fertility challenges. People in my church have large families. They have them young. I am not naive enough to believe that everyone has their kids without any bumps along the road, but to spend the majority of your life floating around the edges of a community focused on children is exhausting in every possible way. I am 29. My husband is 31. People younger than us have multiple children. I am simultaneously jealous of them and in awe of all they have been able to create and handle. I spend most of my days envisioning my eggs drying up and crumbling away into dust. Or building the expectation of being a perpetual aunt or mother to only a furry golden retriever. I am so tired. My heart is tired. My spirit is tired.

As hard as it is so be surrounded by people with children and hordes of exquisitely pregnant women, the loneliest and hardest place to be is in my own mind. I feel like a massive failure, because I am not able to do the only thing that really matters to me-to be a mother. I used to think it hurt because I was basing my value on a label of being a mother. It isn't that. Ultimately, this heartache comes from knowing that the only desire of my heart is to have a baby and dedicate my life to raising, caring for and loving that little soul. 

There are days where I just feel angry. Yesterday, I was cruising through some pretty awful afternoon television, and landed on the Dr. Phil show. The husband and wife on the show made me want to put my fist through a wall. The wife has been pregnant twice, is a bulilimic, and was purging through her pregnancies, and drinking to the point of being arrested for assault on her husband after her first child was born. There is a part of me that is compassionate toward her personal struggle and addiction. But I cannot, for the life of me, understand why someone is given the gift of a child when they are not a fit parent. It is everywhere, all around me, as I watch parents swear at their kids in the store, or complain about their kids being a hassle. I walk around every day wishing that the child who is pitching a fit in the grocery store, or getting in trouble for sassing their parents, were mine. I am not under an illusion that children are nothing but sunshine and rainbows. It is that I am ready for all that comes with motherhood, the good and the bad, and yet I can't have it. In my hormone-infused and heartache riddled body, all that I can feel is the injustice of not being able to have the most righteous desire of my life.

Whenever I talk to people about these challenges (and there are not many that I have opened up to about this, so this blog is sort of shining some daylight into a dark corner of my life), I am greeted with "be patient" or "have faith" or "timing is everything." People tell me to relax and that it will happen when it is supposed to happen. I can't relax. I can't think about anything else. When people say these things, I want to burst into tears. Or punch them in the face, but just for a moment. It is lonely and a little irrational here in the world of childless heartache. 

So today, I am making a promise to myself that I will stop pretending everything is okay. I will be more open and honest about the way I feel. I will accept that there are days that I just want to curl up and cry. I will be alright with handing my niece back over to her mother, and going home to soak my pillow with tears. And I will get up the next day with a new resolve to pray to my Heavenly Father for strength, faith and guidance. I will continue going though this insane and pretty hellish roller-coaster ride, whatever the outcome. I will even keep spending money on those annoyingly expensive pregnancy tests and peeing on them to the point of absolutely hating them, which I really already do. The first step to dealing with whatever my outcome will be is being vulnerable. So here is to vulnerability, and to not knowing for sure, and to being okay with the fact that it hurts and makes me shed lots of tears. 

I want a baby. It is all I can think about. And that is okay.