In this new series, we are sharing insights into those times on an infertility journey where we are granted a glimpse or a wave of hope. In part 1, we are beginning with the following topics:
My God, how great thou art (by Mary W.)
Hope has a home here (by Lauren Allen)
My God, how great thou art
By Mary W.
During the height of our infertility journey, my husband and I had the opportunity to travel to one of the most beautiful places in the country on a family vacation. I felt very grateful to leave behind the stifling heat and humidity of the East coast for the majesty and cooler temperatures of the West coast. More profoundly, I was looking forward to seeking refuge from the storm of infertility in the mountains, which has always been a place of peace and restoration for me. I traveled with an aching heart, wounded from our fertility struggles, but hopeful that I would encounter the Lord in a special way at a time I sorely needed it.
The night we arrived, after a joyful dinner all together, my brother-in-law and sister-in-law, pregnant with their first child, revealed the gender of their baby and proudly passed around their sonogram pictures and videos of his beating heart. I felt sincere joy for them and unbelievable gratitude for the gift of this little life, my sweet nephew, but inside my heart shattered. Witnessing firsthand what we had lost, what was not to be for us, caused indescribable agony deep within. Frequent negative pregnancy tests, getting back test results and difficult news at endless doctor’s appointments, did not compare to the pain I felt that night. I fought back tears and a lump in my throat by telling myself repeatedly, “Lord, you have something else for us. Something different. You are calling us to something else.” It didn’t take away the hurt, but it kept me from breaking down until later that night when, alone with my husband, the tears came like a flood.
That pain stayed in my heart throughout the trip. I prayed the Lord would meet me here, in the mountains, in my suffering, but I felt crushingly alone. One afternoon I went by myself to sit by the river where I had an unobstructed view of the mountains. I didn’t want my grief to be the last word of my time here, but I was struggling to see a way out of it. As I sat there, all I could muster was the cry of my heart that had been welling all week: “This hurts, Jesus. It hurts in my being, deep in my soul, in the recesses of my heart that only you know. It hurts.” As I prayed, I looked up through tears and saw the mountains, in all their grandeur, and was taken aback by the sheer beauty of them. In that feeling of being seized by beauty, I found my hope. It struck me that amidst all the suffering and confusion of infertility, I could still see the beauty of the mountains before me and experience the goodness of being with family and genuinely rejoice in the gift of new life for others. All of this pointed me away from myself toward God, the creator and giver of it all. I knew He was good, He had not abandoned me, and that I could move forward in confidence with Him in control. And in that newfound trust, there was the hope I so greatly needed.
Hope has a home here
By Lauren Allen
“Sean will be here shortly…. Oh wait, here he is.”
My eyes fluttered open and the reality of what I had just undergone came racing back to my mind. The room was blurry as I looked down and remembered I had just undergone surgery. I was alive. I survived.
“What did they find?” Sean handed three pages of pictures to me and explained that the surgeon said I did have endometriosis, but it was stage 1 and she had been able to remove it. My tubes were completely open. She performed the ovarian wedge resection. One of my ovaries was three times bigger than it should have been. But there was more. “She found something she wasn’t expecting… over 7 polyps were located inside of your uterus. She removed them all.” I rested and recovered over the next few days in an Airbnb with my husband by my side. Recovery was actually easier than I had anticipated. We had a follow-up appointment where the surgeon said to my face, “I can tell you right now why you’ve never been pregnant. There was no way a baby could implant and grow.”
Deciding to undergo surgery gave me so many answers; answers that I wasn’t expecting. Answers that I’m still processing. She also validated me in a way that I didn’t know I needed validation: “You’ve had at least two ovarian cyst ruptures. When a cyst ruptures, it causes this film-like substance… I was able to clean that all up for you.” She took photo evidence of the film-like substance inside of me. I know exactly when each of those ruptures happened.
One was actually during Christmas Eve Mass last year: as I managed to kneel with tears streaming down my face during the consecration, I remember internally asking myself if I was just being overdramatic. It was extremely validating that she was able to see remnants from that event that I had questioned the validity of. With the amount of pain we experience in infertility, isn’t it sad that we second guess our reality? Now I was holding in my hands physical evidence.
I’m now three months post-surgery and have found immense peace with our current circumstances; even with my frustration that a pregnancy has not occurred. I was told to give my body about three or so months to heal and then I could visit my NaPro doctor back home to get an ultrasound series going. Having reached that point, I’m not sure I’m ready to walk down the road of trigger shots and ultrasound series.
Finding validation has brought me more peace than I can formulate. The cross we carry is heavy and often so unseen. Our bodies tell the story. Mine now has three visible scars that will never fully disappear, but I know that today my body is in a better space to carry life than it was three months ago. I’ve done what I can and now I open our future up to God. For the first time in a very long time, hope has a home here.
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