Infertility has always been to me a spiritual battle. One fought in my body yes, but also in my heart, in my head and in my soul. I have called out to God in anguish and heartache. I have wrestled with him in bitterness and anger. I have begged. I have pleaded. I have cursed and I have fallen to my knees.
For nearly twelve years I tried to get pregnant. For twelve years I was told no. There was a constant why in my life. The answer was always no. Then I reached a point where I couldn’t take the “no” anymore. Each one was another rip to my heart, a burden to my spirit that I knew I could no longer take. At thirty one years old I signed all the waivers and laid myself on a hospital bed. The nurse became the patient. The dreamer said goodbye to the one dream that never would take hold. I closed my eyes a woman who struggled with infertility and woke up, the anesthesia still clouding my vision, as a woman who would never get pregnant. No amount of medical intervention would make it so. No prayers would be sent asking for the feeling of life within me. No more whispers of hope would escape my soul. It was done. I would carry this blazing letter of infertility like a banner over my head for the rest of my life.
Some people thought I was crazy for taking this step. All I can say to that is that they have never walked in my shoes. We are so quick to judge, us humans. So fast do we impart our own beliefs and opinions on others. One woman I know told me shortly after my surgery that she was sorry I had lost. She was a fellow infertility fighter. One whom I thought would love and support me, having understood what this battle does to you as a woman. I was hurt by this. Deeply. Then I was angry, and finally I realized that all suffer our own way. I’m sure my steps towards permanency frightened her, so she lashed out in fear.
It has been almost three years now since I said goodbye to that hope. Three years to get used to the realization that I, without a doubt, will never carry a child. For the most part this part of my journey has been the most peaceful. There is something to be said of certainty. Of knowing an answer without a doubt in your mind. I found answers in that surgery. I found out that I had endometreosis so advanced that my physician questioned how I had lived day to day for so long in such a state. I learned that in my husbands eyes I am brave and I am strong and that he will do nearly anything to put a smile on my face. I have learned that Jesus comforts those who call to him. I have learned that he holds us when we cry. I have learned that the answer is sometimes no, and we may never know why, but that he knows and that is what matters.
Saying my last goodbye to those hopes and dreams did not end the pain. There are still days when I feel crippled by it. But I also know, looking back, that I am stronger than it. And you are too. Whatever it is that you are feeling today as you walk your own journey, be it infertility or something else, you are stronger than the pain. And Jesus is stronger than it all. He is with you, even when you’re angry. He is there, even when you feel alone. He hurts with you. He cries with you. He loves you. And so do I.
Where are you in your journey? I would love to walk it with you.