A Trial of Faith

Normally, I don't write about deeply personal experiences of faith. I share them with people in my life through conversation, but sometimes sharing them online to a potentially wide audience seems strange and almost disrespectful. But I know that I need to share this, for all of the other women and men who may read this who are struggling with fertility, or perhaps any other crisis of faith or timing in their lives. I took a break from blogging over the past six weeks or so. Sometimes, baring your soul and struggles can be really difficult and very tiring. So I went on a blog-cation and then, today, I felt like I needed to write again.

On the positive front of Operation Baby-cute husband's testing all came back normal, and our fertility consultation is scheduled for July 17, a day after our second anniversary. That day feels like a light on the horizon for me, and I am remaining nervously optimistic for that meeting. 

But to be totally honest, I am struggling hard right now. As I have been temperature charting for a long period of time, I have felt like maybe, just maybe, I had pinpointed the optimal time for baby creation. I was so optimistic this month, even after taking three pregnancy tests that all came back negative. I left for a four day camp-out with the young women from my church, hopeful that I would return home and another test would be positive. Then, BAM, the need to take that test disappeared. I stood in the bathroom, crushed (but cognizant enough to resist the urge to curl up on the floor of the scary state park campground bathroom), then retreated to my tent to cry for a while. After I used every tissue I had to soak up the tears, I prayed. 

I have been struggling with praying for help with my fertility. Part of me feels like it is silly to pray about it-my body is my body, and it is going to do what it is going to do. The part of me that knows better, knows that I must pray about this. Prayer will bring comfort, guidance, peace, and purpose. But sometimes I am afraid of the knowledge that can come from prayer, because I have learned from experience that sometimes, prayer gives us God's answer, and not the answer we want for ourselves. And God's answer is always the right answer, but it can be a hard answer and a painful answer. My prayer (and it is a constant prayer that lives in my heart), did not give me the answer that I wanted. I did not feel like, "you will get pregnant," or, "this is the date that you will have your baby." I did feel something else.

After I prayed, I sat and reflected for a long time. I recorded some thoughts in my journal, and others were etched upon my heart. I thought about Abraham and Sarah. If Heavenly Father can help Sarah conceive, he will help me conceive. I thought about Isaac and Rebekah, and that she was "barren," and Isaac pleaded for their children, and they were blessed with twins. I thought about Rachel, and God "opening" her womb. I thought about Elisabeth and Zachariah, and how in old age, they were blessed with John the Baptist, who prepared the way for the work of the Savior. All of these women were righteous, dedicated, and covenant-keeping women. All of them were blessed. For some of them, it took many years.

In my journal, I wrote, "Even if my faith in my ability to conceive is weak, my faith in Christ can be strong."  We are asked to have faith as small as a mustard seed, and Heavenly Father will create miracles out of that faith. I may not be able to create a baby out of sheer will. My husband and I may need to be patient. We may need to seek more medical assistance. We may need to explore adoption. There are any number of possibilities. But I received, as an answer to my prayer, an assurance that, if I can exercise my faith in Christ,  Heavenly Father will work a miracle in my life. 

In the Bible Dictionary that comes as a reference in my scriptures (as part of the LDS canon of scripture-it references the Old and New Testaments), it says "Faith carries an assurance of the fulfillment of things hoped for...when there is true faith, there are miracles, visions, dreams and healings." I cannot describe the comfort that has come from reading those words. Faith, no matter how small, can bring miracles. 

Sometimes I feel that my faith may not even be that of a mustard seed. As I prayed, I remembered the account of the apostles in Luke 17. As the Savior teaches them about repentance and forgiveness, the apostles ask, "Lord, increase our faith." The apostles asked for an increase in their faith. Christ gave them the parable of the unprofitable servant and taught them greater lessons than they could have ever hoped for. If the apostles can ask for an increase in their faith and be taught and guided, any of His children can ask for an increase in their faith. I am praying for an increase in faith. I am praying for guidance. I am praying for understanding. I am praying for peace. In the midst of confusion, of turmoil, of deep anxiety and pain, I will stretch forth my hand to walk on the water to Him, my Savior, and when I feel as if I am to sink or be lost, He will reach for me and help me the rest of the way, as he did with Peter. " And he said, Come. And when Peter was come down out of the ship, he walked on the water, to go to Jesus. But when he saw the wind boisterous, he was afraid, and he began to sink, he cried, saying, Lord, save me. And immediately Jesus stretched forth His hand, and caught him." If I reach, He will take me by the hand. Whatever happens will be His will, and I will walk His path in faith.

After I finished praying and reflecting, I flipped back to an earlier entry in my journal. This entry contained only a scripture that I had written down on August 26, 2012. It spoke peace to my soul as I read it. The scripture is from the Book of Alma, from the Book of Mormon. For those who read this who are not of my faith, I ask you to examine the meaning and teaching of this scripture for yourself-it teaches a powerful truth consistent with the truths of the Bible, and testifies powerfully of Christ.

"And thou didst bear all these things with patience because the Lord was with thee, and thou knowest that the Lord did deliver thee...I would that ye would remember, that as much as ye shall put your trust in God, even so much ye shall be delivered out of your trials, and your troubles, and your afflictions, and ye shall be lifted up at the last day." (Alma 38: 3-5). 

I do not know exactly what is going to happen. I do not know the direction that our journey along the path of infertility will take us. But I am blessed to know and be reassured that if I have faith of even the smallest amount, that Christ will help me to be patient, understanding, and comforted. He will guide me and hold my hand as the storms rage around me. He will not take my trials and opportunities for growth and progression from me, but He will help me to walk through them with an open heart. He will help me to be like Rebekah and Elisabeth and Rachel and Sarah. He will open the way for us to have a family. And when I feel like I can't go on any longer, he will increase my faith. 

I don't know that I am much further along the path of understanding and progress than I was on Friday night when my period started and I wanted to lay on the floor of a scary state park campground bathroom and cry my eyes out, but I do know that I have felt Christ's companionship and love in these past few days that I haven't felt for a long time. I know that He was there with me in my tent as I cried, and that He was there as I prayed. And I know that the Son of God and the King of Kings and the Worker of Miracles is my friend, my comfort, and my brother, and that I will never be alone. And I know that through Him, we will someday have a family.

Learning to Breathe

This past week has been awful. The Boston Marathon bombings and subsequent manhunt in the place that will always truly be home to me. Massive explosions and fires in Texas. Earthquakes. The general tumult of the world. I can't even form words that adequately articulate the deep ache in the pit of my stomach. I swear, the world is screaming for relief and my utter inability to soothe the wounds that seem to grow larger each day makes me suck in my breath and lose the capacity to breathe.

Not being able to breathe has been a motif in my life over these past few weeks. I'm still waiting on test results from the OBGYN and losing my breath every time I think about it. Making peace with the idea of going back to work in August, while acknowledging that this job is a reminder each day that I don't have a baby makes me feel winded. Hearing the heartbreaking yet triumphant story of a friend's journey through adoption over yummy salads and gentle pinches of chocolate-skinned baby legs just about knocked the wind out of me. My last breath felt like it was stolen from my lungs when I dreamed of my babies again.

One of the things I believe in so profoundly and deeply that it roots me to the very earth is the power of divine inspiration. There are times in our lives when we can feel the precious powers of heaven descend upon us to provide inspiration, comfort, guidance and healing. I have a deep testimony of the power of God to communicate with His beloved children and help them to understand and accept the challenges and opportunities of their lives. I have had those experiences personally, and one of them has been tied to the children that I know will someday be mine.

I think this is one of the reasons that infertility has been so difficult for me. Because I know who my children will be. Nearly two years ago, I sat in a beautiful room, a room filled with the Spirit of the Lord, communing with my Heavenly Father, thanking Him and praising Him, and I knew in my heart with the deepest of conviction who my children would be. I know this probably sounds completely crazy and that I need a one-way ticket to the nuthouse, but I have never been so sure of anything in my entire life. I know their names, their genders, and what they will look like. In this amazingly pure and inspired moment in my life, I felt my deep, eternal love for them, a love unlike anything else. I haven't met them, but I know them, and I love them fiercely and wonderfully. And waiting for them is literally taking my breath from me. I want them to come into this world, and to hold them tightly to me while I tell them about the uncle and great-great grandmother that they will be named for. I want them to grow up knowing that they were wanted with a desire unlike anything else that I have ever experienced. I want to take my babies in my arms and be with them every moment of every day, wiping noses, cleaning messes, kissing cheeks, and inhaling the scent of their divine little souls. I know who they are.

Yesterday I doubled over from not being able to breathe. I sat in church and watched newborn babies all around me snuggle and burrow into their beautiful mothers. I watched toddlers giggle and make a general ruckus and be caught, comforted and loved intensely by their wonderful fathers. I watched older children sink into their parents gentle embraces and share a deep bond of heavenly love that seemed to fly in the face of their adolescent independence. And my arms felt so very empty. 

Last night, I dreamed of them. Of what it will feel like to hold them for the first time. To nourish them with life and love from the very first moment of their creation. To smooth their hair back when they are sick or hurt. To bandage a scraped knee when they fall down. To lift them back up again. I dreamed of what it will feel like to watch them go to school for the first time. I caught a glimpse of the deep and unshakable love the Heavenly Father has for each of his children. I want that so intensely. And I cried and cried as it stole what little breath I had left. 

I know who my babies are. I know they will come to me somehow, perhaps through me and my husband, perhaps in a more unconventional way. But oh my freaking heck, I can't breathe anymore. 

The Empty Room

There is an empty room in my house. Ok, so it’s not exactly empty.  It’s the room my husband conceived and created on his own when he lived in our condo by himself. The walls are a dark blue. The décor is composed of primary colors. The visages that stare out from the border lining the walls are those of…superheroes. Yes, we have a superhero room in our house. Captain America, Spiderman and Batman grace this room with their presence. For now. Someday, this room will be our baby room. And because of that, the room is empty.

This room is a holding pen, literally and figuratively. It’s the room we use for storage-Christmas decorations, craft supplies, workout clothes that we hold on to and never use. It’s the catch-all room for everything that doesn't have a place to go, which seriously makes me laugh, because I know exactly what I would put in that room if I had a choice. The room holds nothing of real value and at the same time, contains the essence of everything that I dream of. In my life, I feel like it is the height of irony.

To extend this empty room irony a bit further, I have been bombarded with a pile of free baby stuff. I am beyond grateful for all of this-swings, vibrating bouncy chairs, a pack and play, high-chair, glider, bags of baby clothes, maternity clothes, bottles, and nursing equipment. It is seriously amazing. It will be a huge blessing down the road. But oh.my.gosh. every time I see these amazing blessings disguised as knives in my heart, I cannot help but cry. So I have an empty womb, an empty room, and a massive collection of stuff for a baby that doesn't exist. If it weren't able to laugh about how weirdly twisted this all is, I would probably never get out of bed in the morning.

I formulated an attack plan last weekend. BJ and I spring-cleaned the house from top to bottom. The first room I tackled was the empty room. I sorted through the clutter and got rid of everything that wasn't absolutely essential. Everything is organized and packed into boxes. I put the baby swings, pack and play and high chair in the closet and closed the door. I placed the glider by the window. I put the clothes, bottles and other small items in a tote and closed the lid. I thought it would all make me feel better. After I was finished, I didn't feel better. It felt like I packed up my dream and hid it in the closet. Out of sight and locked up tight.

I don’t know what I am going to do about the empty room. I think it’s a work in progress, a lot like me. The OCD and hyper-vigilant part of me hates this idea of being unfinished and unresolved. The part of me that is trying to be more open and honest about how much this hurts is whispering to me that it’s ok to let the room be empty, and that just because it is empty, and things are packed into the closet, it doesn't mean that I have packed away my dream.

Sometimes I go in the empty room to sit quietly and think about what it will be like when there is a baby to fill it. You know, when I haven’t showered in days, and the diaper pail is overflowing, and there is spit-up all over my yoga pants, and there is a perfect, precious, tiny soul swaddled in my arms. There is a palpable ache in the core of my body and soul, a psychosomatic manifestation of how much I want this little angel. At times like these, for a moment, the room doesn't feel so empty. Then I start fantasizing about painting the walls and removing the superhero border, and ridding the room of all traces of the Justice League, Christmas decorations and piles of displaced minutiae, and a smile plays across my face. Just breathe, and learn to keep breathing.

There is an empty room in my house.  Ok, so it’s not exactly empty. It’s full of hope and promise, fear and anticipation, boundless love and fierce desire. And baby stuff. Lots of baby stuff.

The Unholy Alliance of Fear and Shame

I was, and in a lot of ways, still am, afraid to blog about the things closest to my heart. Will I be able to authentically portray my feelings without masking them for public consumption? Even if nobody reads it, will it he helpful and therapeutic for me as a processing tool? All valid concerns. This last worry is the kicker, and at the root of my anxiety: Is my struggle difficult enough to warrant telling other people? Somewhere along the path of my life, I put up some thick defenses and walls. Often, I believe that if I can just get through everything on my own, then I won't need to depend on anyone else, and I will never have to open up about "weak" things, like those uncomfortable emotions I tend to cover up with sarcasm and wit.  Fear of not being "damaged" enough or "sad" enough, or truly "challenged" enough kept me from opening up to others for support as I have struggled with fertility. As a sort of experiment in the power of vulnerability, I am putting it out there, whatever the outcome. But it is seriously hard, because on some level, I still feel like I am admitting failure, and I am ashamed of that.

I have always considered myself to be a strong person. A woman who knew what she wanted, went ahead and got it, and still felt all womanly and empowered while doing so. I wanted to go to college, get a first-rate education, be a leader on my campus and in my community. I did that. For a while, I wanted to work as a savvy political staffer (that's me at my college graduation), impacting the country by helping to shape policy and steering the national dialogue. So I did that, and then changed my mind about that particular career path. Then, I wanted to be a teacher, and I got my master's degree and became a really good educator. I wanted to get married, and it took a little longer than I thought it would, but eventually, I got that too. For a long time, I really felt like I could have everything. So when I didn't get pregnant the first month that we tried, I felt like the floor dropped out from under me. I had failed.

I have failed before. More times than I would like to admit. But those failures have been things I have been able to overcome by just pulling myself up by my bootstraps and soldiering on. I studied more. I put in more hours. I invested my heart in whatever needed to be done. As much as I would like to think that the attitude of, "I will just work harder and the fruits of my labor will be rewarded," will yield me a result and a gold star, I cannot will a baby into existence. I fundamentally believe that God can work miracles, and that I could have a miracle happen in my life, but that is in His hands and on His time. I can't control that. And as someone with major control issues, not being able to create a baby out of sheer will and determination sucks. Sucks, sucks, sucks. Times a million. So much that I just want to scream.

It didn't start out this way. I had been married for about two months, when I had a sudden surge of panic. I felt the bile rise in my throat. I frantically ran to the calendar and counted backwards. I was late. By a week. I called my best friend and my mom. I freaked out. I wasn't ready for a baby! We were newlyweds. I wanted time to enjoy each other and go on trips and stay up late and enjoy all the general benefits of marriage that come after a chaste courtship (very Downton Abbey-ish, all lingering gazes and passionate hand-holding). I obsessed over things for a few days, and decided that when my best friend arrived for a visit at the end of the week, I would buck up, buy a pregnancy test, and seal my fate. Just my luck, I would know for sure that I was baking a little bun in my overachieving oven by the time the weekend rolled around. Friday arrived. I bought the test. I figured out how to use it. It was negative. And I was surprisingly heartbroken.

BJ came home from work and I immediately greeted him with this announcement: "I peed on the stick and it was negative." Best friend and husband knew me well enough to know that the casual sarcasm meant that I was devastated. So, we started trying.

We have approached this in countless ways. Try with vigor! Try with nonchalance. Try with hopeful enthusiasm. Count days. Track cycles. Take temperatures. Check physical signs for ovulation. Alternate days. Spend money on ovulation kits to discover that I am not having an LH surge. Eventually end up resenting the amazing gift of marital intimacy. Every month when my period doesn't come when I think it should come, run to the store and buy more tests. Throw them away and cry for days when there is only one pink line. Decide that the test was wrong, it was too early, and take another. Cry some more. I usually feel this major surge of relief when my period does come, so that I get a few blessed days of peace before the cycle begins all over again.

I lash out at people who I feel don't want children as much as I do, even if I love them with all of my heart. I strike out at my husband as he is infinitely patient with me, because my baby-deprived brain screams at me that there is no possible way he could ever want a baby as much as I do. And I fall deeper and deeper into the pit of despair created by the unholy alliance of fear and shame.

Fear and shame are downright evil. Ugh. I hate them so much I wish I could blow them up with some sort of large C4-laced explosive. I haven't figured all of this out yet, but I know these things for sure: I feel ashamed that I haven't been able to get pregnant, because I believe it is what I should be able to do as a woman. I fear that I will never be a mother because I  am terrified at the prospect of never being able to have a deep, maternal, chemically, genetically and emotionally bonded relationship with a divinely created soul that has been prepared just for my husband and I to raise, love and nurture. This shame and fear is paralyzing at times.

I am not as studied in the work of Brene Brown (all-around amazing researcher, doctor, and social worker) as I would like to be, but something that I love that she has developed is a definition of shame. She wrote in her book, I Thought It Was Just Me (But It Isn't), and made it the focus of her new book, Daring Greatly. "Shame is the intensely painful feeling or experience of believing we are flawed and therefore unworthy of acceptance and belonging. Women often experience shame when they are entangled in a web of layered, conflicting and competing social-community expectations. Shame creates feelings of fear, blame and disconnection." I love this definition. It helps me to process and break down how I am feeling, and to dissect some of my behaviors and emotions that feel so irrational.

I don't understand everything about my challenge-not by a long shot, but I do know this (at least with my head, if not yet with my heart): Difficulty conceiving is not failure. It may never happen for me, but it is not failure. There is no shame in my challenge. It is not shameful for me to feel sad, discouraged, disappointed, or even, at times, like a failure. My fear comes from a place of love and a desire for the most deep, meaningful and important form of connection possible-that of a parent and child. What matters is what I do with the fear. Some days, I might let it beat me back into a corner and spend my time crying. Other days, I might learn a lot of new information about effective diets for fertility, or research treatments, or talk to a good friend, or pray for strength. If I can recognize that I feel it, embrace that it comes from a real place, and decide what I want to do with these feelings on any given day, I am one step closer to true learning and growth. I don't have to be a warrior who never reveals the chink in her armor. I don't have to shove my misguided feelings of fear and shame away. I can process these emotions, discover their roots, open myself to feeling and learning from the pain, and as the brilliant Brene Brown says, "lean into the discomfort."

So I'm learning to lean in. Sometimes on chocolate. Or Cherry Coke. Or Netflix. On my husband. On friends. Always on Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ. And I will learn to lean into the discomfort with whatever measure of grace I can muster, and for now, that is enough. Sometimes, even on days where it hurts so much I can't breathe, I feel like I catch a glimpse of the person I am becoming, and that helps the hard days to pass a little more easily. I am still a college graduate, a teacher, a friend, a sister, a daughter, and a wife. I can find joy in where I am now, even if there is a whole lot of discomfort and pain. And even if it takes me a long time to work through it, and even if I never have a baby, I don't have to let the unholy alliance of fear and shame rule my life. Hallelujah.