The Story of our Hearts

During the waiting period, while we hoped that our IVF had been successful and our embryos implanted, the image of two hearts became very meaningful to us. I recognized how quickly these embryos–nothing in the eyes of many–had captured us, had become a piece of us in ways I didn't expect. Insignificant as they were, they had taken hold of our hearts!

When we found out we were not pregnant and our embryos didn't survive, we were broken.  I know not everyone can understand this, but we truly loved them, as much as we knew how. For two weeks, we had dreamed of a life with them, desperate for them to live so we could hold them and know them. When the bloodwork came confirming the negative result, the reality that they were gone, just like that, there and then gone, nothing to do to fix it, nothing to do to give them another chance with us, no way to go back and try it again, it all crushed us.

They are all we have ever had. Two tiny embryos less than two weeks old (perhaps only a couple of days old) are all we have ever had.

And so, we love them. We still love them. And we love thinking about them and those sweet days we had. As soon as they were gone, we knew we wanted a tangible way to remember them. I had an image of two heart-shaped stones that I wanted under our favorite elm tree. We began the search...and found nothing. 

And then a week later, two wonderful friends sent us on a trip to Yosemite. It was such a special time for us, filled with lots of healing tears, a few days to be free with our brokenness. There, at a final last stop, we found the perfect heart stones, the sweet memorial we were hoping to have. 

We returned home, and the next day was Mother's Day. That morning, Robby gave me a precious heart necklace, which he had ordered the day before our test result. I wear it nearly everyday. That same afternoon, his parents gave us a small smooth stone. One side has two tiny hearts carved, and the other side has the date they came alive. This sits on our dresser in our bedroom.

These three pieces are incredibly special to us. For us, our grieving process needed such memorials to recognize the importance of our embryos and their significance to us. They may have been the teeniest tiniest things ever, but they were, and still are, deeply loved.

All Eyes on the Infertile: Sarah's Laughter

As I have dealt with infertility, the stories in Scripture about barren women have become especially dear to my heart. I wonder what these heartbroken women would have thought had they known that their lives would encourage women like me thousands of years later? Oh how critical their stories and the stories of their children are to God's redemption plan! It was as if God wanted all eyes to be on them so all could see that He was doing something huge.

Sarah is the first woman we see in Scripture who is barren, and is she ever the epitome of desperation. Years before, God had called Abraham and promised him that he would be made into a great nation. Sounds like an amazing promise, but the problem was that Abraham and Sarah couldn't have children.  Out of her despair, Sarah finally gives her maidservant to her husband so she may have a child. It's crazy and a bit disturbing, but this is a desperate woman here, willing to do anything to have her baby. Of course, this fixes nothing and only results in more problems.

More time goes by, more heartbreaking days and nights, and finally God gives the sure promise that she would bear a child. Her response? Disbelief and laughter! And I get it! She's an old, worn, exhausted ninety-year-old woman! But she does indeed bear a son, Isaac. I smile every time I read her words after she has her son: "God has brought me laughter," she says. I think about the utter joy she must have had holding her baby for the first time. I mean, could she have even gotten through a single day without breaking down in grateful tears? I doubt it.

The thing is, even though God blessed Sarah and others with their babies eventually, it was never an easy path. There were real tears and real cries, genuine frustration and genuine desperation. And more often than not, it took many, many years for their hopes to become reality. As readers today, we may see it all resolved in a matter of chapters, but those of us in the land of barrenness know that those chapters can feel endless. Those women––just like many of us––had no clue that there would ever be a resolution. We may get to begin the story knowing the final picture of Sarah laughing out of joy, but she didn't have that luxury.

She couldn't see her laughter, and neither can I see mine. I wish I could. I wish I could flip forward a few chapters, to the page with the photograph I desperately desire, to the picture of me joyously laughing.

But I don't get that picture. None of us does. But God does give me countless other images to hold on to and carry with me. He gives me the picture of the shepherd who leaves the others to find the one wandering sheep; the Father who runs unashamedly to welcome His lost child; the Savior who willingly dies for a people who have rejected Him. He gives me the image of the slain Lamb, the risen and glorified King, the extravagant banquet table, and the never-ending River of Life.

And He gives me the image of Sarah's laughter. She may not have known that ending before the time came, but I do. I get to read her story, knowing that although some days were dark and desperate, light would come. Tears of sorrow and laughter of disbelief would turn to tears and laughter of joy and faith.

So today, I'm smiling at that picture of Sarah, knowing that the same God who worked mightily in her life cares for me, too. 

Breathe In, Breathe Out

I remember being a kid and having days when every second was spent swimming in my nan's pool. From the moment we were awake until it was time to come in for the evening, we would be outside soaking up the sun and water. And being a kid at the pool is so different than being an adult at the pool, isn't it? The whole time you're jumping in, climbing out, playing games, doing tricks. Quite a contrast from me with my chair and magazine now ;)

Not only do I remember the day spent in the water, but I remember what it felt like at night. My lungs would feel strangely stretched out and tired from holding my breath all day. There'd be a slight burn at the back of my throat from all the chlorine. And the exhaustion would be deep, all the way to my bones. Even though the day had been exhilarating, I couldn't have spent another moment in the water had I wanted to. I needed rest.

That's the best way I can explain how I feel right now, that night-time exhaustion that comes with a water-logged, sun-burned day at the pool. I feel like I've been holding my breath, and my lungs ache. It's not that the last year has been miserable. Even with our failed IVF and all the pain that accompanied that, I still have had a good, joyful year. But everything in me feels a bit worn, and it's time to catch my breath.

And so, we've decided to do just that. In the midst of talking about adoption and embryos and eggs and plans and everything else, we've realized we need to give ourselves a break. We need time to take big, deep breaths, in and out, again and again. We need to let go of the stress of taking the "next step" and allow God to fill our lungs today.

Two months and thoughts on lament

Today marks two months since the sad day we found out our little embryos were no longer with us on this earth. In many ways, life has moved on and we are back to "normal." I'm out of school for the summer, and our busy summer schedule is in full swing. We've had a number of sweet celebrations and a fantastic getaway, and we are looking forward to more. But in other ways, the loss feels fresh. The tears are right there, right behind a very thin layer of keeping-it-together. When I'm alone or when I'm in a place where tears are acceptable, they come. (Actually, they can come even when tears are not acceptable! Walking by the Target baby aisle can be downright cruel at times!)

Whenever we are in the midst of healing from a loss, we hear people remind us to be thankful. I appreciate that, but I'm learning something important for my own healing: Lament and thankfulness don't have to be mutually exclusive. We can be thankful for the blessings we have while still pouring out our tears to our God. We can recognize the wholeness around us while mourning the brokenness inside us.

Certainly having a heart full of gratitude reminds me of God's goodness and presence. But then again, lament and doubt do not necessarily go hand-in-hand. Psalms is full of lament, written by faithful believing followers of Yahweh. When we cry out to God, when we lay before Him our brokenness and fallenness, we are doing exactly what He wants us to do: We are recognizing our desperate need for Him. And in that place of vulnerability, our hearts will worship. Our hearts will cry out in thanks for His precious presence!

I know what the fear is, though. We fear we will never move on. We fear that if we don't start pulling it together, we'll remain a heaping mess of heartache. And who wants that, right?

But this is a fear that we may overcome with God's promises. We lament and cry out because we have a God who hears and who understands! God heals the broken-hearted and binds up their wounds (Ps 147:3), is close to them and saves them (Ps 34:18), bears their burdens (68:19, Mt 11:30), comforts them (Is 66:13), and one day will wipe every tear from their eye (Rev 21:4). Christ is the Word in flesh, Immanuel, God with us, and he says, "Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted" (Mt 5:4).

I praise God for His healing, for the mending that has already taken place. And I praise God for the tears through which I see my desperate need for Him. 

Follow-Up Appointment

On Monday, Robby and I went in for our IVF follow-up appointment. We were very emotional about it all, knowing that this was likely the last time we would meet with our doctor. We've tried to count how many times we think we've driven that drive to Clovis. Probably over a hundred. We were often full of hope and excitement because no matter how many months things hadn't worked out, an appointment meant a new opportunity.

We couldn't help but think about the last time we were at the office. It was the week of our IVF, and I had cried with joy when the nurse told me I had enough eggs to move forward. It feels like an eternity ago now. 

Our doctor started the appointment by saying he had spent time looking at my very thick file, and he believed we were at the point to make some difficult decisions. He explained our problem again, which clearly has to do with my eggs. My undetectable AMH levels, high FSH levels, and poor response to a very aggressive protocol all confirm that my little eggies are in bad shape. None of this was new to us, but it weighed heavily on me as I listened. We shared with him that we had already decided not to do another IVF. He did remind us that as a doctor who has done this for decades, he has seen women with seemingly no chance of conceiving become pregnant. He said we could sit there until the evening hearing the stories he has :) But, in the medical world, they have to give a realistic assessment, and my realistic assessment is slim to none to having my own biological baby.

We talked about my endometriosis, and he confirmed again that there are medications to treat the pain and delay the growth, but nothing cures endometriosis. Plus, those meds sound absolutely terrible and cause bone loss. There are add-back hormonal therapies to do afterward, but still, it's not something I'm going to pursue until I feel I have to. Surgery would only be done again if medications didn't work.

We brought up the inconclusive hysterosonogram done last fall. That was when one doctor thought there was something wrong with my uterus, but it didn't align with the HSG I had done in 2009. Because this is a potential septated uterus issue, we are waiting to hear if we can have an MRI of my pelvis done to check and make sure everything is okay. If it is a septate uterus, it needs to be fixed. Luckily, the surgery is an easy one.

Finally, we had a conversation about egg donation and embryo adoption. Our doctor has mentioned a number of times that in our situation, he would recommend using a donor egg. We aren't interested in that really, but we've recently been learning about embryo donation/adoption. Embryo donation/adoption is when couples choose to give leftover embryos up for adoption instead of having them discarded. He had just performed his first adopted embryo transfer a month ago, and the woman was pregnant! He told us a little bit about the experience and said it sounded like a good option to think about. 

Overall, I was so thankful with how the appointment went. Our doctor spent so much time with us, answering questions and offering helpful insights. It seemed like he had nowhere to be except there with us. I know that was an answer to our prayers.

On the way out, Robby said it felt like saying good-bye to friends, and I knew exactly what he meant. We've been seeing our same doctor for nearly four years now, the same two nurses, and the same office staff. They've been the ones to give us good news, and they've had to give us bad news. They've represented our hope for our own little one, and so walking out those doors hurt. It hurts right now even thinking about it. I know that there is a plan for us, and I know God has not forgotten us, but right now, our arms are empty, and I wish they weren't. 

I know that He is for me.

I've been singing this song lately, reminding myself that God is for me. We have truly felt peace in our hearts, but the sorrow still lingers at times. Robby says the hardest part is remembering just how happy we were that first week. He's so right - we were ecstatic. I had said I would enjoy the moments and experiences God was graciously giving us, and we did. It's difficult not to wish those days back. Such joy. Such hope. But I know that God is the giver of joy and the giver of hope, and He will fill our hearts again. He is for us -- isn't that something?

I know that you are for me,
I know that you are for me,
I know that you will never forsake me in my weaknesses.
I know that you have come now
even if to write upon my heart
to remind me who You are.

Gloria

I'm amazed how quickly God is bringing peace and healing into our lives. It's been just over a month since we had our IVF, and slightly over two weeks since we found out our negative results. At first, the disappointment was overwhelming. I would wake up, and before my mind had a chance to think of anything else, I was crying. Being with people helped, but the moment I was alone, the weight would fall upon me once again. Now, I feel a calm peace within me. I see glimmers of hope again. I'm still sad, of course, but not like before.

That first week was the hardest. Going back to work was especially tough, mostly because I wasn't ready to be "normal" again. I wanted more time, though I'm not sure time for what. Grief, perhaps? Tears? Questions?

We were so happy when a couple from church gifted us a weekend near Yosemite. We made it through a short work week knowing that we could retreat and be sad together. It seems strange, I know, almost morbid, but that's what we wanted.

The weekend was so perfect. We had a quaint cabin all to ourselves, and we spent a lot of time doing very little. On Friday we drove up to Yosemite and got to be completely overwhelmed in a different way with the breathtaking mountains, blooming dogwoods, and massive waterfalls. On Saturday, we spent time in the town there and found a nursery. We love our flowers, you know, and this place was great. Robby had wanted to get a little plant in honor of our teeny-tinies, as a remembrance. He ended up finding a lovely pink astilbe that had two feathery pink plumes poking up. (Oh yes. He was convinced both of them would be girls.)

It really couldn't have been a better way for the two of us to take the time we needed. We cried, talked, laughed, and then did really important things like watch hours of HGTV. We grieved like we needed to grieve, in our own way. He even told me that he had already named them in his heart. One name was our girl name we've loved for a long time, and the other name was Gloria. I can't say Gloria would have been my choice, but it seemed to fit. When I think of God's glory, I think of light, hope, radiance, and beauty. I think of all of His worth, all of His goodness.

On the way home, I looked back at the little plant Robby bought and was stunned as I read the tag. It said Pink Astilbe: 'Gloria'. 

"Did you choose this plant because of its name?" I asked Robby.

He had no clue what I was talking about.

"Its name is Gloria. Is that why you picked it?"

He's a sensitive man, so he couldn't say much, but just shook his head. No, he hadn't even read the tag. He just picked it out because he liked it. We had looked at dozens and dozens of plants to bring home, but he chose this one.

God has been present with us all along. I know that well. But there have been times throughout this journey, specific moments when the clouds have parted and God has spoken to us clearly, lovingly, uniquely. This was one of those moments. No, we did not get the joy of having our embryos become our babies to hold. We didn't get to have them very long at all, in fact. But in that moment, God was reminding us that He sees us, He loves us, and He has not forgotten us.

His light, hope, radiance, and beauty are all around us. He is with us. Even though we may not understand our circumstances or the events in our lives, He is still full of all glory and all goodness.