Surviving the descent

I have to find the silver linings, the good things, about this. Because if I don’t, I’m doomed to live a life of regret and sorrow. Thing is, I never really thought about the alternative. Sure, maybe I tossed the idea around in my head that maybe this would never happen, but I didn’t dwell on it, and I really didn’t think it wouldn’t happen.

I don’t know if I’m still actively grieving. I spend a lot of time in my head as my own psychologist, even though I don’t have any credentials. I try to masterfully meta the crap out of my feelings, thoughts, outbursts. I have to just feel, let it be. Just let it be.

Something like this inevitably drives an annoying and awkward wedge, whether large or small, into relationships. Thankfully we, the only ‘we’ that really matters, have enveloped that chasm with our love and affection for each other that’s not dependent on the outcome.

Here I go, metathinking again. But maybe this is a reason I love adventure and mountaineering literature. People choose to go through hard trials of all sorts… climbing Everest without oxygen, trying to be the first woman to reach the summit of K2, setting out on a voyage to reach the top of the world. It’s not like any of us were forced into this; we all partook at will.

Some people perish, posthumously granted an all-access pass into the heart of mountains and seas. Some people survive, broken, missing fingers and toes, a brutal reminder of the peril they endured. Some people come out of it refreshed and renewed for the next adventure.

I think I’ve been a little of all of those kinds of people. A part of me has died, quite literally. Month after month, now year after year. There’s nothing tangible to determine this end, but I’m still missing something, someone, that seemed just within reach at one time. That for over ten years just hovered above the troposphere, waiting for me to call it, him, her, down to existence with me. I guess that someone will no longer hover; that someone will be taken away by the jet stream, out into space, forever.

A part of me has survived, no doubt about it, but a little bit broken. Fingers, toes, a bit frostbitten, but nothing that won’t heal, albeit damaged, after some time has passed. I still function. I still contribute. I still will thrive.

I cannot say that a part of me is refreshed and renewed, not yet. I’m getting there, ever so slowly. Looking back, I think I was grieving before I knew I was grieving. The mountain climber knows that if he has survived the descent and the long trip home, he will most likely live to climb again. With each prayer, meditation, embrace, air in my lungs, feet on the pavement, I will too.

K2, the second highest and arguably deadliest mountain in the world.

 

Hope never hurts.

The journey of infertility, at least for me, is not a test for my body to do biologically what it’s designed to do. I know that sounds counterintuitive. It’s a test of faith, much like other journeys we all go through.

I’m not making light of this journey. It’s difficult. It’s uncertain (especially if your diagnosis is “unexplained infertility”.. so scientific, right?). It’s lonely. When you get right down to it, it’s a stripped-to-the-bone roller coaster of elation, hope, disappointment, and depression.

In the year and a half we’ve been dealing with this journey, I’ve experienced all of those emotions. This summer was especially difficult. The baby announcements and family pictures posted by friends and family just did not relent. Even after cutting down my time on social media, I still felt the sting of comparison just thinking about how I did not have something that I, we, desperately want.

So I pushed it down. I threw my hands up in the face of hope and actually told my husband that we should just not have kids. Maybe that would be easier. Maybe that would be less painful. Then I could continue in my profession with few interruptions. Because DINK (double income no kids). Right, because money and trips and careers and things would fill in the gap in my heart for biological children, a perfect alchemy of genes from my husband and me.

Looking back on the long, hot, seemingly hopeless and emotional summer, I realize I wanted to not have kids so I could spare myself and my husband from the pain that is lost hope. I was tired of keeping my circle of family and friends updated, and wading through their comments, all well meaning, but just a real-life reminder of the place I was in. I was tired of being vulnerable, of being on the verge of tears more often than not, of pouring my heart out during worship and prayer times. I was rife with grief about asking over and over. Even though we continued to be faithful in attending church, I found myself pulling back and not wanting to get close to people because of the possibility of having to talk about this.

After vacation, I posted this entry, privately, and started really getting serious about training for a half marathon. I started back to work, no different physically than when I left in May. But something changed in my heart. I had that desire again for my own children, and I had the wherewithal to keep going. God has started to heal my heart.

In late July, my parents came to visit and towed a U-Haul carrying my most precious worldly possession: my great-grandmother’s piano. I started playing a little, and my hands flew over the keys as if we’d never been apart. That was part of the healing. I started playing keys and singing alto on the worship team at my church, and there I’ve been discovering more healing.

I’ve been able to talk to a few more people about this journey, and for once I don’t stiffen with offense with people ask me, So, do you guys want kids? Instead, I answer truthfully that Yes, we do. We’ve been trying for awhile and nothing yet. But we have hope.

More often than not, people have a similar story. Maybe they were never able to have their own children. Maybe they are suffering from secondary infertility. Maybe they’re considering the long arduous road to fostering or adoption.

This journey that the enemy has tagged to steal, kill, and destroy our hearts and hope actually can be a bright spot in the world for people with like circumstances to come together and support each other. And that’s why I’m “coming out” with our infertility. Not because I want pity or accolades or any of that. But because there’s no reason for it to be secret. It’s not shameful; we did nothing wrong. It’s an unfortunate circumstance, but in the midst of it I’ve found peace and hope and contentment, and I want others to know that they can, too.

I won’t lie: I have wished that when I finally shared this, I would be pregnant and therefore have “overcome” infertility. I’ve been waiting to get some family pictures done (none since 2009) until I have a “baby makes three” announcement to show off as a physical reminder of our love.

Life goes on. We keep praying and hoping and pursuing answers to the “unexplained.” We cry, we grieve the children that we actually may never bear biologically. There is one thing that is for sure: I will come out of this journey with my faith intact. The loss of hope, the wound of depression, the panic of anxiety, none of these things will take away my faith in an all-powerful, all-knowing, all-loving God, who through it all, refines us to make us more like Christ.

And that is the mercy for every mile of the journey.

Humble yourselves, therefore, under the mighty hand of God, that He may exalt you at the proper time, casting all your anxiety upon Him, because he cares for you.

I Peter 5:6-7