(Please excuse the typos, I’m still waiting on internet.)
I’ve written two books now. The first I bled my heart on the page as I wrote my story of infertility and foster adoption. The second is a novel that tackles the issues of abortion and faith. Both are near to me. Both tell tales of loss and love. But the first, it is raw. I don’t apologize for that, though I do warn the reader.
I recently read a review of No Maybe and while the reviewer ultimately recomends the book as well as this little spot of mine (for which I am eternally greatful to her) she initially likens my tale to that of a cancer patient who lets the diagnosis take over.
This got me thinking. Did/does infertility take a precidence over a huge chunk of my life? Yes it did. Is that not okay? That for a time in my life there was intense pain, and while I never shared the story publicly until I had worked through most of it, does that make me a negative person? Because the reality is this:its not just me. The research is starting to show this same fact that others with ingertility are expressing:it is all consuming. I can see her correlation to cancer in that similar to cancer it is a betrayal of your body. However that does not touch on the societal implications or the way it makes you feel as a woman. As a wife. I’ve tried to offer support. I’ve attempted to extend an olive branch to other women out there in this situation because I know they feel that pain. So yes, that part of my life is messy. It’s not pretty. It’s full of jagged edges and deep wounds. But it’s the truth.
And I survived.
And there is redemption. But to get there you have to travel through that valley of the shadow. And that shadow is darker some days more than others.
I guess what bothered me is it seems like she’s saying should have chinned it up and not let it get me down. And if that’s the case, then there’s no redemption. There’s no grace and fight that won out. There was no choosing hope.
I wrote truth. Truth is dangerous. But truth is necessary.