Before I formed you in the womb I knew you, before you were born I set you apart; I appointed you as a prophet to the nations. Jeremiah 1:5
So, this week I made it to church. I was so proud of myself that I nearly twisted my arm out of the socket to pat myself on the back. Until I got there that is. . . . I was sitting by myself, enjoying the space, when a young couple came in during the praise and worship singing and sat next to me. They have a beautiful baby girl, maybe around a year old (I am bad at guessing baby ages - you know, probably because I don't have one or something like that. . . .). She is precious and adorable and was wiggly and inquisitive today. She cooed and talked to herself, grabbing her mothers cell phone and delightfully dropping it to the floor repetitively. And she was sitting right next to me. Smiling at me intently. It took everything I had not to start sobbing at every glance. I love babies! But, for my own sanity I find myself tuning them out, ignoring their baby talk, and just generally not paying any attention to any baby in my midst. I suppose that is slightly better than breaking down into a slobbering, sobbing, mess every time a baby looks at me. Slightly.
I listed the Bible verse from Jeremiah above because it was mentioned during the service today. And of course, at this point I ceased to hear the sermon, but rather began thinking about destiny and how God has a plan for each one of us before we are even born. This is something I have always struggled to understand, now more than ever. My poor finite brain cannot grasp how God can have a plan for everyone, how the journey can be all mapped out, yet we are all given free choice and can make our own decisions at every fork in the road. God knew, when my mother conceived me (after 5 years of trying and then giving up - I guess it runs in the family), God knew I would be sitting here today pondering my own infertility, waiting for my own baby. Perhaps it is not for me to know, but I do wonder why this would be part of the plan. Is there something I have to learn in enduring this trial of infertility? Is it because I am not ready to be a mother? Is there something we need to do before we are prepared to be parents? Like perhaps win the lottery or something . . . Maybe, it is just to make me more grateful when I have that baby in my arms; to know the tortuous wait and worry so I can truly understand the miracle that is having a baby. I will never take my baby for granted, never think fertility is a given.
This lead me to thinking about the Bible verse I used as the title of this post. I have always held a certain disdain for my own body because I am a large Marge and was teased mercifully in school (this could be a whole blog in and of itself by the way. . . . ). My sister is like Barbie, all skinny and perfect. So, no surprise that I haven't been terribly praisefull about how I have been made. Now, however, I have plummeted to new depths of self-deprecation. I start at the beginning of the month sweet talking my body into ovulating and snatching up a little swimmer. I try to cajole, bribe, threaten, and convince my uterus to accept the egg-sperm conglomerate. When this does not work and I am faced with my period and the cramps, moodiness, and general uncomfortableness that comes with it, then I begin berating my body. Why can't it just "work" like a normal female body? As the reality of another failed month settles upon me, I begin the self-flagellation of wondering why I have done wrong in my life that my body is so against me. I don't believe enough or I am not deserving enough. I wobble between the two. And I curse my inability to reproduce. I rebuke my broken lady parts and lament my predicament.
I suppose all of my doubting does not help my sanity. I want to stay positive and I want to let myself go; go over-the-top, crazy-lady, ridiculously hopeful that this month is my month! But, the higher I soar in hope the deeper the crash and let-down; it is sheer torture. Therefore, I keep my hope small, like a mustard seed, and temper it with reality, that it might not happen. Before I started Clomid for the first time in August, I prayed with my pastor and his wife that God might open my womb and accept new life. I thought for sure this would be it! God would certainly want to showcase this conception in such a miraculous manner! Right before I am scheduled to start infertility treatments, viola!, I am a pregnant! After three months of not ovulating, God reached down and flipped the switch, releasing an egg which met with some sperm and resulted in our baby. The estimated date of my period ticked by and with each day I let hope grow. I took a home pregnancy test and it was negative. But, I had HOPE and I BELIEVED wholeheartedly that is must be some fluke. I went to see my doctor and got a blood test. This too was negative. Hope deflated, leaving me alone with despair, weeping for the audacity to think it could be that easy. I had to take progesterone to start my period and then the Clomid,. And here I am today. My arms are still empty, my heart is still broken and I am tucking that little, tiny minuscule of hope deep down into my heart of hearts to keep it from dropping me to the depths of despair yet again. . . .
I love your line at the end about hope. I was just thinking about this today, myself. Hope brings such highs, such bright eyes. Yet, when it is shattered, it can also bring you so, so low. It is hard to hold to the highs of hope when you remember the lows it has brought in the past. But, I wouldn't ever want to give up hope, I suppose. Here's to keeping your hope and belief strong!
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