Whew - vacation over, which means I've spent the last three days meaning to update this blog, but have instead been sorting my way out of the pile o' emails and other mail which arrived while I was on my 3-week break. YOWZA. Not a lot of extra time lately.
I have quite a few blogworthy (we hope) moments simmering away, but not nearly enough time - quite yet - to compose them, so I've made a list and hope I can manage to remember what ON EARTH I meant by these frenetic scribblings when the crazy time finally comes to an end. Which should be, I believe, sometime next week. Maybe.
For now, just a quick doctor-related update. I saw my RE last week and asked him for some advice about the timeline for IVF #2. For a variety of reasons - including some overseas travel this fall and a tax benefit for my generous parents who are giving us money to proceed- we'd rather wait until January to start treatments again. However, being a fully logical and cool-headed infertile woman, my desire to wait is accompanied by nightly visions of my ovaries drying up completely on December 31. Because, although I realize that fertility tapers off gradually as one ages, the idea that OH MY GOD I AM 36 AND THAT IS OLD AND WE HAD BETTER GET MOVING RIGHT DAMN NOW OR IT'S ALL OVER GIVE ME THE LUPRON TODAY is still pretty powerful.
My delightfully calm and kind doctor assured me that January would be fine. By which, I take it to mean that he was saying, "a few months more won't hurt you," not, "oh, you're screwed anyway, so who cares if you wait for the IRS?"
Also, I have this post brewing in me about Julie and Julia, but wow - I really have to get back to work. How terribly inconvenient. Thanks for hanging in there while I ignore my blog - I promise to get better. Really. I swear.
Thursday, September 10, 2009
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
on-the-road update
I am not dead. Or boycotting my own blog.
Just on vacation, mostly away from internet service (except for now - a brief techno-interlude at the in-laws). We spent a week in a fantastic National Park and now we're at the hubby's family cabin. Loving the time away.
Not much to report, except that I have an appointment with my RE on September 1. Otherwise, life is good - and I'll get back to blogging when we get home next week.
For now, viva la vacation!
(Clearly, I am Spanish-illiterate. My apologies.)
Monday, August 10, 2009
request
If you're the praying sort, please say a few for my friend A, who is enduring the pain of a non-viable pregnancy. Either a miscarriage or an ectopic - heartbreaking either way.
When she called today, I thought about a book I read not long ago, in which the author, a well-known theologian, wrote about the nine-year struggle he and his wife had to bring children into the world. After adopting two boys, he thought back on those years. "Since [infertility] gave me what I now can't imagine living without, poison was transmuted into a gift, God's strange gift. The pain of it remains, of course. But the poison is gone."
I am nowhere near saying the pain of our infertility is gone. It's not. Not even close. But today, when this friend called with her own story of reproductive grief, I caught a glimpse of how pain can sometimes open a space for connecting deeply with someone else. I am not glad for our struggle, but I am glad I shared it with her, because she had someone to call in her own pain.
Maybe someday the poison will be gone too. For both of us. For all of us.
Friday, August 7, 2009
feeling tense
Warning: English major nerd post ahead. (And disclaimer: this post is so, so NOT about anyone who comments regularly on this blog. At all.)
I’ve been thinking lately about the grammar of infertility. We all started, the Stirrup Queen Sisterhood, way back someplace where we realized that infertility might be in our future. We started saying things like, “I think I might be infertile.” “I think I might have a fertility problem.” “I’m worried that I might not be able to get pregnant.” “Might,” we said, carefully, or, “maybe,” as we worried about what lay ahead.
And then infertility became present tense. “I’m getting tested,” “I have endo,” “We have sperm problems,” “I’m starting Lupron,” “I’m waiting for my beta results.” I am infertile, we finally had to say. It’s a short sentence, but it took me nearly two years to say it out loud. Infertility moved out of the realm of possibility, out of the future tense, and it became the now. The present. A reality. A hard, painful reality.
And there we stay. For months, some of us for years. Sometimes we think we have put it in our past, and then it comes back again: a miscarriage, an ectopic pregnancy, a stillbirth, and we’re back to the painful present again.
Here’s my struggle: what happens when infertility becomes past-tense? Specifically, what happens when the past-tense and the present-tense collide? I’ve read a few comments on blogs lately wherein someone who has a child (past-tense infertility) says something like, “I completely understand” to a woman who is still present-tense infertility, and although I really hope you don’t hate me for saying this, I’m going to say it anyway:
comments like that really piss me off.
There’s a sisterhood among the tenses, of course. Those worried about future infertility can learn a lot from those who are enduring it now, and from those who have come through it. I know I did, when I was still a future-tense girl. And those in the present-tense can offer support to the future-ones, and can take great hope and gain great wisdom from the past-tensers.
But somehow, no matter how hard I try, I cannot erase the resentment I feel when someone with a child says they still consider themselves present-tense when it comes to infertility. I read this every once in awhile, and although it’s not my intent to offend anyone who feels that way, I do want to be honest about my perspective: that, no matter how hard we try, there is a gap between these tenses. And perhaps it is better to be honest about that than to try to pretend they don’t exist.
I, for example, don’t really understand what it’s like to be a parent. And although I remember the early days of struggling with infertility, the four years of that struggle have permanently altered the way I view those early days. I look back at myself, 6 months into the game, and I laugh gently at how I cried when my period came, all the money I spent on ovulation tests and pregnancy tests, how I stopped buying tampons at Cos.tco because certainly I would get pregnant this month, and then what would I do with the super-sized box of Ta.mpax?
I pity that future-tense girl, which means that I don’t really understand her anymore. I have forgotten her pain – or, perhaps the pain which came along the way has swallowed hers up, and I don’t see it accurately anymore. I think she was a fool, and she wasn’t – not really. She was hopeful. She was a bit in denial. And I can’t get back to her with all these years in the way.
I can’t get myself to the past-tense either. I’m stuck here in the present. And although I believe that surviving infertility does change you forever, does bond you with others who survived it too, there is still a gap between us. I know you thought you would never get there. I know you were me, once, perhaps not long ago. You endured the same treatments and tests and heartache and despondency. You cried the same tears and you felt the same despair and you resented the people on the other side, the parent side, who said that they “completely understood.”
If infertility has ever been a part of your life – past, present, or future – then we have more in common than that which separates us. But we are not the same. And, for myself, it’s better to acknowledge those separations than to ignore them. Because if infertility is in your past, then – like it or not – your claim to “completely understand” me falls pretty flat. It’s as if a bride, in her lovely white dress, says to her single bridesmaids right as she leaves for her honeymoon, “I’m still single! I’m still totally like you!” Which is much, much worse than the hideous dresses they agreed to wear for the day.
It’s just how I feel. You don’t have to feel the same. And if you’re on the other side, if infertility is in your past, then know this: I’m delighted for you, and any envy I feel is outweighed by gratitude that you still care, you still want to connect, and that you want to share your experiences with those of us in infertility-future-and-present. The gaps between us are real, and sometimes our words fall through them. But all we want – the thing we all want more than almost anything else – is for every single one of us to get to the other side. So forgive me if my words have fallen into the cracks and landed on a sore spot. It happens. I hope you can put it in your past.
I'm just feeling a little [present] tense today.
I’ve been thinking lately about the grammar of infertility. We all started, the Stirrup Queen Sisterhood, way back someplace where we realized that infertility might be in our future. We started saying things like, “I think I might be infertile.” “I think I might have a fertility problem.” “I’m worried that I might not be able to get pregnant.” “Might,” we said, carefully, or, “maybe,” as we worried about what lay ahead.
And then infertility became present tense. “I’m getting tested,” “I have endo,” “We have sperm problems,” “I’m starting Lupron,” “I’m waiting for my beta results.” I am infertile, we finally had to say. It’s a short sentence, but it took me nearly two years to say it out loud. Infertility moved out of the realm of possibility, out of the future tense, and it became the now. The present. A reality. A hard, painful reality.
And there we stay. For months, some of us for years. Sometimes we think we have put it in our past, and then it comes back again: a miscarriage, an ectopic pregnancy, a stillbirth, and we’re back to the painful present again.
Here’s my struggle: what happens when infertility becomes past-tense? Specifically, what happens when the past-tense and the present-tense collide? I’ve read a few comments on blogs lately wherein someone who has a child (past-tense infertility) says something like, “I completely understand” to a woman who is still present-tense infertility, and although I really hope you don’t hate me for saying this, I’m going to say it anyway:
comments like that really piss me off.
There’s a sisterhood among the tenses, of course. Those worried about future infertility can learn a lot from those who are enduring it now, and from those who have come through it. I know I did, when I was still a future-tense girl. And those in the present-tense can offer support to the future-ones, and can take great hope and gain great wisdom from the past-tensers.
But somehow, no matter how hard I try, I cannot erase the resentment I feel when someone with a child says they still consider themselves present-tense when it comes to infertility. I read this every once in awhile, and although it’s not my intent to offend anyone who feels that way, I do want to be honest about my perspective: that, no matter how hard we try, there is a gap between these tenses. And perhaps it is better to be honest about that than to try to pretend they don’t exist.
I, for example, don’t really understand what it’s like to be a parent. And although I remember the early days of struggling with infertility, the four years of that struggle have permanently altered the way I view those early days. I look back at myself, 6 months into the game, and I laugh gently at how I cried when my period came, all the money I spent on ovulation tests and pregnancy tests, how I stopped buying tampons at Cos.tco because certainly I would get pregnant this month, and then what would I do with the super-sized box of Ta.mpax?
I pity that future-tense girl, which means that I don’t really understand her anymore. I have forgotten her pain – or, perhaps the pain which came along the way has swallowed hers up, and I don’t see it accurately anymore. I think she was a fool, and she wasn’t – not really. She was hopeful. She was a bit in denial. And I can’t get back to her with all these years in the way.
I can’t get myself to the past-tense either. I’m stuck here in the present. And although I believe that surviving infertility does change you forever, does bond you with others who survived it too, there is still a gap between us. I know you thought you would never get there. I know you were me, once, perhaps not long ago. You endured the same treatments and tests and heartache and despondency. You cried the same tears and you felt the same despair and you resented the people on the other side, the parent side, who said that they “completely understood.”
If infertility has ever been a part of your life – past, present, or future – then we have more in common than that which separates us. But we are not the same. And, for myself, it’s better to acknowledge those separations than to ignore them. Because if infertility is in your past, then – like it or not – your claim to “completely understand” me falls pretty flat. It’s as if a bride, in her lovely white dress, says to her single bridesmaids right as she leaves for her honeymoon, “I’m still single! I’m still totally like you!” Which is much, much worse than the hideous dresses they agreed to wear for the day.
It’s just how I feel. You don’t have to feel the same. And if you’re on the other side, if infertility is in your past, then know this: I’m delighted for you, and any envy I feel is outweighed by gratitude that you still care, you still want to connect, and that you want to share your experiences with those of us in infertility-future-and-present. The gaps between us are real, and sometimes our words fall through them. But all we want – the thing we all want more than almost anything else – is for every single one of us to get to the other side. So forgive me if my words have fallen into the cracks and landed on a sore spot. It happens. I hope you can put it in your past.
I'm just feeling a little [present] tense today.
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
udpate
First and foremost, the most important update for today:
IT. IS. FREAKING. HOT.
It's forecasted to be 101 here, which would be no big deal for those of you in the Southwest, but up here in the Pacific Northwest, it is like entering the 9th circle of hell, given that almost no one has air conditioning. (Last night on the local news, a helpful policeman suggested that people go to air conditioned places, "like churches," he said, which made me laugh out loud because, DUDE, SERIOUSLY, churches are about the least likely places to be air conditioned in this here normally moderate climate. DO YOU KNOW HOW MUCH IT COSTS TO DO THAT? Can you guess that I work in a non-air-conditioned church?)
(One caveat: we do have a/c at home. Which we thought had gone defunct yesterday, until we realized that the filter was clogged. So hopefully it will be back up today.)
So. It is hot. But this pales in comparison to the fact that I spent the last few days in Baby Central, and (insert drum roll here) - had a fantastic time. After a family wedding on Saturday, we headed with my brother and his wife and The Cutest Niece in the World to a beach house for a few days. Where, unbeknownst to us, we also ended up staying with my cousin and his wife and their 10-month old son; my sister-in-law's cousin and his wife and their 4-week-old son; and my sister-in-law's sister, her 3-month-old, and her 2-year old daughters.
Let's tally that up, shall we?
1 infertile woman +
1 4-week old baby boy +
1 3-month old baby girl +
1 9-month old baby girl +
1 10-month old baby boy +
1 2-year old girl+
1 relatively small beach house
__________________
1 very bitter and pissed-off infertile woman
Under normal circumstances over the past six months, this would have been the equation. So I don't really know why that wasn't the case. Everybody slept pretty well, which helps enormously. And maybe the sea air cleared my head. Because, apart from a few frustrating moments here and there, we had a blast. We hung out with babies all day long; it was like being thrown into a language immersion class when you've been unsuccessful trying to learn the language for years, so you expect to be all irritated by the experience, but you end up having a fantastic time. Who knew?
So we're heading into the next phase of the Baby Quest in a better frame of mind, for which I am very grateful. I have an appointment with my doctor in a few weeks, and we'll see what happens from there. Probably more on this later, but the most amazing development of the past few weeks is that my parents would like to give us the money for the Shared Risk program (buy-2-IVF-cycles, get one free). So we're probably heading in that direction.
But for now, I think my fingers are about to swell right off, so perhaps I should stop typing. There haven't been many days like this, but as the thermometer soars today, I have to admit: I'm not terribly unhappy, right now, that I'm not pregnant. Don't get me wrong; I would suffer through gladly, but I'll take the silver lining of Summer Infertility and drink up another margarita while I lay on the bed in my underwear.
Because, in case you had forgotten, it. is. HOT.
IT. IS. FREAKING. HOT.
It's forecasted to be 101 here, which would be no big deal for those of you in the Southwest, but up here in the Pacific Northwest, it is like entering the 9th circle of hell, given that almost no one has air conditioning. (Last night on the local news, a helpful policeman suggested that people go to air conditioned places, "like churches," he said, which made me laugh out loud because, DUDE, SERIOUSLY, churches are about the least likely places to be air conditioned in this here normally moderate climate. DO YOU KNOW HOW MUCH IT COSTS TO DO THAT? Can you guess that I work in a non-air-conditioned church?)
(One caveat: we do have a/c at home. Which we thought had gone defunct yesterday, until we realized that the filter was clogged. So hopefully it will be back up today.)
So. It is hot. But this pales in comparison to the fact that I spent the last few days in Baby Central, and (insert drum roll here) - had a fantastic time. After a family wedding on Saturday, we headed with my brother and his wife and The Cutest Niece in the World to a beach house for a few days. Where, unbeknownst to us, we also ended up staying with my cousin and his wife and their 10-month old son; my sister-in-law's cousin and his wife and their 4-week-old son; and my sister-in-law's sister, her 3-month-old, and her 2-year old daughters.
Let's tally that up, shall we?
1 infertile woman +
1 4-week old baby boy +
1 3-month old baby girl +
1 9-month old baby girl +
1 10-month old baby boy +
1 2-year old girl+
1 relatively small beach house
__________________
1 very bitter and pissed-off infertile woman
Under normal circumstances over the past six months, this would have been the equation. So I don't really know why that wasn't the case. Everybody slept pretty well, which helps enormously. And maybe the sea air cleared my head. Because, apart from a few frustrating moments here and there, we had a blast. We hung out with babies all day long; it was like being thrown into a language immersion class when you've been unsuccessful trying to learn the language for years, so you expect to be all irritated by the experience, but you end up having a fantastic time. Who knew?
So we're heading into the next phase of the Baby Quest in a better frame of mind, for which I am very grateful. I have an appointment with my doctor in a few weeks, and we'll see what happens from there. Probably more on this later, but the most amazing development of the past few weeks is that my parents would like to give us the money for the Shared Risk program (buy-2-IVF-cycles, get one free). So we're probably heading in that direction.
But for now, I think my fingers are about to swell right off, so perhaps I should stop typing. There haven't been many days like this, but as the thermometer soars today, I have to admit: I'm not terribly unhappy, right now, that I'm not pregnant. Don't get me wrong; I would suffer through gladly, but I'll take the silver lining of Summer Infertility and drink up another margarita while I lay on the bed in my underwear.
Because, in case you had forgotten, it. is. HOT.
Friday, July 17, 2009
nerd alert
Apropos of nothing...
9 hours, 50 minutes and counting until I get to see Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince.
And 1 hour, 40 minutes until the 163 kids go home and Vacation Bible School comes to an end for the year. It's been great, the kids are wonderful, the volunteers are amazing; and I. am. wiped. out.
Happy weekend!
9 hours, 50 minutes and counting until I get to see Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince.
And 1 hour, 40 minutes until the 163 kids go home and Vacation Bible School comes to an end for the year. It's been great, the kids are wonderful, the volunteers are amazing; and I. am. wiped. out.
Happy weekend!
Monday, July 13, 2009
forbidden fruit
(Some context: this week is Vacation Bible School at my congregation, which means we have 163 little rug rats running around the building all week long. The nursery is right across from my office, which doesn't impact me much during a normal week, but it will be full all this week with happy, smiley children and their parents, who see me singing songs with them and say helpful things like, "you're so good with children - you should have some of your own!")
I've been trying to get through my Pile O' Books I Ordered All Year and Now Need to Read, which, by summertime, is always quite a large portion of my desk. In the middle of one of said books, in a discussion about the meaning of the garden of Eden story, I found this passage:
We all have something in the midst of our lives that is beyond our created reach. This is something we cannot freely take, something that reminds us that we are not gods who have it all. It may be a dream that will never be fulfilled, a desired relationship that remains only a desire, or a thorn in the flesh that's never removed. What the forbidden tree represents in a person's life is not as important as the realization that we humans were not created with the capacity to take whatever we desire. There can be 999 trees in our garden to which we can freely go and enjoy their fruit, but where do we pitch our tent? Under the one tree we cannot have.*
So. Here I am, surrounded all week by children in every nook and cranny of my workplace. I can shut my door and avoid seeing them, if I choose, but even then, I will hear them screaming and laughing and running through the halls. I'm considering this as I read my last two blog posts, which reflected a deep frustration and growing bitterness about infertility, and I wonder: what does it mean for my life that I cannot make a pregnancy happen for myself, no matter how hard I try? What am I doing here, sitting under the one tree in my garden which won't (pun intended) bear fruit?
I've read numerous confessions from infertile women who say something like, "we live in a society that tells you that you can be and do anything you want if you work hard enough, and so when you realize that you just can't get pregnant on your own, no matter how hard you try, you feel like a complete failure: both because you can't manage to do what so many women do by accident; and because you are failing at the American notion that hard work will always bring results." And I have certainly felt this way. This fertility thing is the first big, major, life-changing, hardcore thing I have EVER failed at in my life. I've had minor failures along the way, but this one - as the high schoolers in youth group would put it - is, "dude, epic fail." Epic is a very good word. This is indeed, dudes, an epic fail. And dude, it sucks.
But being a parent is not a right. And part of my problem, I think, is that I insist on forgetting this. How dare the universe interrupt my personal pregnancy plans? How dare it be that 16-year olds can get pregnant from some awkward fumbling in a backseat, whilst I - a masters' degree'ed, house-owning, tax-paying responsible citizen - can't, even with the most sophisticated science at my side?
The bare truth is, I do not have the right to be a parent. No one really does. And if I insist on sitting under the only tree in my garden which is not bearing fruit, then I am choosing to spend a whole lot of my life on something which may never happen. This is not good news. But it is the truth, and after several years of denying that very thing ("well, I haven't gotten pregnant in 18 months, but surely that's not a problem!"), I can't do it anymore.
I need to start actively making peace with this truth, or it is going to eat me alive. Surrounded by children all day every day this week, many of them with pregnant moms, will otherwise drive me off the ledge.
The hard truth is, I believe there is no purpose behind my infertility. And I may not be able to change it, no matter how hard I try. I do believe that God can help create some meaning and purpose even in this situation, but that is going to be some seriously hard work for both of us: for God, who is going to have to work overtime to convince me of this, and for me, who will have to find some way to listen.
But if I don't do this work, then we have two possibilities in front of us.
The first: that I will never get pregnant, and will spend the rest of my life being frustrated and angry about it, missing much of the other gifted-ness of my life in the meantime.
The second: that I will get pregnant, have a child (or two), and then will realize that long-cherished, worked-for dream is not everything I built it up to be. Kids are hard work. Parenthood is not inherently romantic. And if I dream about cute nurseries and the smell of baby powder all day long, I am not dreaming about the real thing. I am dreaming about Disney Parenthood, which is along the same lines as Disney Marriage - where the movie ends at the wedding, or the birth, and never deals with the reality that follows.
Everybody hits this truth at some point in life: that we are limited, we humans, and the only real joy we are ever going to find is living well within those limits. I'm making an appointment with my RE next month, but even as I look forward to another cycle, the truth remains: I need to learn to live within my limits too. Easier said than done.
*Quote is from The Pastor as Minor Poet, by M. Craig Barnes, page 94.
I've been trying to get through my Pile O' Books I Ordered All Year and Now Need to Read, which, by summertime, is always quite a large portion of my desk. In the middle of one of said books, in a discussion about the meaning of the garden of Eden story, I found this passage:
We all have something in the midst of our lives that is beyond our created reach. This is something we cannot freely take, something that reminds us that we are not gods who have it all. It may be a dream that will never be fulfilled, a desired relationship that remains only a desire, or a thorn in the flesh that's never removed. What the forbidden tree represents in a person's life is not as important as the realization that we humans were not created with the capacity to take whatever we desire. There can be 999 trees in our garden to which we can freely go and enjoy their fruit, but where do we pitch our tent? Under the one tree we cannot have.*
So. Here I am, surrounded all week by children in every nook and cranny of my workplace. I can shut my door and avoid seeing them, if I choose, but even then, I will hear them screaming and laughing and running through the halls. I'm considering this as I read my last two blog posts, which reflected a deep frustration and growing bitterness about infertility, and I wonder: what does it mean for my life that I cannot make a pregnancy happen for myself, no matter how hard I try? What am I doing here, sitting under the one tree in my garden which won't (pun intended) bear fruit?
I've read numerous confessions from infertile women who say something like, "we live in a society that tells you that you can be and do anything you want if you work hard enough, and so when you realize that you just can't get pregnant on your own, no matter how hard you try, you feel like a complete failure: both because you can't manage to do what so many women do by accident; and because you are failing at the American notion that hard work will always bring results." And I have certainly felt this way. This fertility thing is the first big, major, life-changing, hardcore thing I have EVER failed at in my life. I've had minor failures along the way, but this one - as the high schoolers in youth group would put it - is, "dude, epic fail." Epic is a very good word. This is indeed, dudes, an epic fail. And dude, it sucks.
I've said before, and I'll say it again for good measure, that I absolutely do not believe God is actively making me infertile to teach me some lesson. I have decided to call that sort of thing - the sort of theology which makes you believe that all the shit in your life is being handed to you directly from God as if you had made a really bad order at the drive-thru of life - that sort of thing is now called Monkey Underwear Theology, in honor of brilliant comic-strip-guy Stephan Pastis:
(I'm not sure if I'm allowed to reprint this stuff, but to try and make up for it, let me just put in a plug: if you have access to it, you should read Stephan's comic strip, Pearls Before Swine. It is the best thing since The Far Side and Calvin and Hobbes went kaput.)
Anyway. While avoiding Monkey Underwear Theology, I do continue to struggle with the meaning of infertility, this unchangeable thing in my life. When I see parents with children, in the grocery store, maybe, or elsewhere in public - when I see them and notice that the parents are not being particularly kind or compassionate to their children, I think (yes, with an edge of judgmentalism), "don't they know that being a parent is a privilege?" Our culture tells us to think of nearly everything in life as a right: you have the right to happiness, or to bear arms, or to make lots of money, or to get married, or to have children. And if you don't currently have the right to a few of those things, then you have the right to protest until you get them. Which, for the most part, I heartily believe in. (I'm not big on the whole 'bearing arms' thing, but that's a post for a different day.)
(I'm not sure if I'm allowed to reprint this stuff, but to try and make up for it, let me just put in a plug: if you have access to it, you should read Stephan's comic strip, Pearls Before Swine. It is the best thing since The Far Side and Calvin and Hobbes went kaput.)Anyway. While avoiding Monkey Underwear Theology, I do continue to struggle with the meaning of infertility, this unchangeable thing in my life. When I see parents with children, in the grocery store, maybe, or elsewhere in public - when I see them and notice that the parents are not being particularly kind or compassionate to their children, I think (yes, with an edge of judgmentalism), "don't they know that being a parent is a privilege?" Our culture tells us to think of nearly everything in life as a right: you have the right to happiness, or to bear arms, or to make lots of money, or to get married, or to have children. And if you don't currently have the right to a few of those things, then you have the right to protest until you get them. Which, for the most part, I heartily believe in. (I'm not big on the whole 'bearing arms' thing, but that's a post for a different day.)
But being a parent is not a right. And part of my problem, I think, is that I insist on forgetting this. How dare the universe interrupt my personal pregnancy plans? How dare it be that 16-year olds can get pregnant from some awkward fumbling in a backseat, whilst I - a masters' degree'ed, house-owning, tax-paying responsible citizen - can't, even with the most sophisticated science at my side?
The bare truth is, I do not have the right to be a parent. No one really does. And if I insist on sitting under the only tree in my garden which is not bearing fruit, then I am choosing to spend a whole lot of my life on something which may never happen. This is not good news. But it is the truth, and after several years of denying that very thing ("well, I haven't gotten pregnant in 18 months, but surely that's not a problem!"), I can't do it anymore.
I need to start actively making peace with this truth, or it is going to eat me alive. Surrounded by children all day every day this week, many of them with pregnant moms, will otherwise drive me off the ledge.
The hard truth is, I believe there is no purpose behind my infertility. And I may not be able to change it, no matter how hard I try. I do believe that God can help create some meaning and purpose even in this situation, but that is going to be some seriously hard work for both of us: for God, who is going to have to work overtime to convince me of this, and for me, who will have to find some way to listen.
But if I don't do this work, then we have two possibilities in front of us.
The first: that I will never get pregnant, and will spend the rest of my life being frustrated and angry about it, missing much of the other gifted-ness of my life in the meantime.
The second: that I will get pregnant, have a child (or two), and then will realize that long-cherished, worked-for dream is not everything I built it up to be. Kids are hard work. Parenthood is not inherently romantic. And if I dream about cute nurseries and the smell of baby powder all day long, I am not dreaming about the real thing. I am dreaming about Disney Parenthood, which is along the same lines as Disney Marriage - where the movie ends at the wedding, or the birth, and never deals with the reality that follows.
Everybody hits this truth at some point in life: that we are limited, we humans, and the only real joy we are ever going to find is living well within those limits. I'm making an appointment with my RE next month, but even as I look forward to another cycle, the truth remains: I need to learn to live within my limits too. Easier said than done.
*Quote is from The Pastor as Minor Poet, by M. Craig Barnes, page 94.
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