Am I ready to talk about this? I’m not sure yet. Do I feel compelled and pressed by the Holy Spirit to do so anyway? Yes.
So here I am.
I’ll start off bluntly: we’ve been trying for our second baby, and it hasn’t happened yet. At the moment in time I’m writing this, it doesn’t seem like we ever will. I’m hopeful, but really more than that, I’m learning a heck of a lot about my faith. I haven’t really wanted to talk about our struggle, mostly because I know others have it worse, but also because I just don’t want to talk about it. I don’t want pity, I don’t want advice, and I don’t want your positive or negative stories. There’s a piece of me that even feels embarrassed, for some odd reason.
Embarrassed because I feel “less than” or like a “failure” in my body that won’t work as it was designed to work. Embarrassed for feeling any type of way when I already have a perfect daughter. Embarrassed because I know others who have it much worse than I do — and not just in the realm of infertility.
But I have felt convicted that God gave me this platform to share my testimony, and this is part of it. Maybe someone else can relate. I honestly believe more are struggling than we know — and it is a struggle — but people don’t talk about it enough, each for their own, understandable reasons. I just feel like I should share how God has been working hard on my heart, so I will, even though I don’t feel ready.
Let’s do it.
Before we had Reese, my OB explained that he believed I have PCOS (Polycystic Ovary Syndrome). We were getting ready to start diving further into that diagnosis when I — quite literally — miraculously conceived with Reese. So we, obviously, paused that process. My pregnancy with her was a rollercoaster of things, from almost miscarrying her, to finding my mishappen uterus (which makes it harder to carry a child), to having her early and dramatically with a c section (as he predicted I might). But all in all, it didn’t take medicine for her to get here, and in the chaos with my pregnancy and delivery, I took for granted what a gift that actually was.
Here we are, Round 2. The pieces aren’t falling together miraculously this time. The diagnosis that explained why. And several months of medication, ultrasounds, and at home testings. I wish this was a post rejoicing that Baby #2 is on the way, but it’s not.
Instead, it’s a post praising God for being my Joy despite the heartache.
Is the heartache still present? Yes. But the peace, contentment, unexplainable joy and thankfulness that I have experienced in spite of it is overwhelming. I never thought I’d be able to say that, and to mean it.
I had confided in a few close friends about our situation, seeking prayer, comfort, advice, thoughts, anything that might help my heart feel a little less pain. My friends are such a gift, and those conversations and assurances of prayer were so helpful. But what really got me was the way I woke up one morning, took a pregnancy test, received yet another negative, and felt….okay. For the first time.
I didn’t cry. I didn’t turn my nose up to the ceiling and ask God, “Why?” or “Why me?!” Instead, I just felt Him. I just knew He was there with me. And I let that consume me.
I spent the rest of the day in a spirit of….not really prayer, per say, but maybe mindfulness? I wouldn’t say I had dialogue with God (though I probably should have). Instead I just had these recurring thoughts from Him that everything was alright. Over and over again. Everything is alright, it felt like He was whispering. Hold out your hands to Me.
If you know me, you know that control isn’t something I hand over easily. That’s probably true for a lot of us. I like to hold all the cards, sit behind the wheel, whatever you want to call it. It helps me feel secure and safe, knowing that I hold the power. Hold out my hands?! I asked God. I knew that was going to be a challenge. But I also knew that I was growing weary in my worries and was eager for some relief.
God didn’t tell me “Everything is alright, you’ll be pregnant soon!” or “Everything is alright, one day you’ll look back and laugh that you were stressing over this!” No, definitely not. Just simply, Everything is alright. Hold out your hands. Let Me take this. And for the first time since my PCOS diagnosis, I was able to trust that promise whole-heartedly.
I thought about what my doctor had said at my latest appointment. Literally speaking, Reese is a miracle. I can’t believe you conceived without medical intervention. Me either. I still look at her and can’t believe it. And I realized that…gosh. She might really be my only child! The family I’ve always pictured in my head might not be the family I get to have. It really might never happen again for us. With PCOS, and other infertility issues, that is the very real and very raw reality.
She might really be my only child! I thought. I started envisioning our life and the years rolling by. Reese going off to school, college, her wedding day, etc and I thought again…she might be my only child. And I’d sure hate to waste her childhood, her teenage years, our life together, worried about having a second baby that ultimately never came. I don’t want to spend so much of our precious, fleeting time together worried about the things out of my control.
I’d sure hate to look back and see the dark cloud of my sorrows painted across every memory we have.
Then came my next thought. “But am I okay with that? Do I still love God if that’s the life He’s giving me?” I thought long and hard about this question.
I thought about my walk with Christ since surrendering my life to Him as a thirteen year old and all the trials He’s walked alongside me since then. My car accident, pending scoliosis surgery, where to go to college, family problems, break ups, nursing school, death, almost losing Reese, depression. I thought about how much I’ve learned about God over the years and how, with each trial, I understood little by little that it was actually Him I was seeking all along, not my temporary happiness.
I always wanted my problems erased, but instead I just found a deeper love with Him. And each time, that was more than enough. It was God who gave me peace then, and it is He who gives me peace now.
Everything is alright. Hold out your hands, He beckons. “Do I still love God if that’s the life He’s giving me?” My answer was, and is, yes. Trusting in God’s sovereignty isn’t something I just want to say; I want to mean it. I want to mean it when I tell you that I trust Him and whatever plan He’s got for me. It’s not “giving up” by refusing to worry about the things out of my control; it’s trusting that He sees me, He loves me, He wants good for my life, and He knows far more than I do about my situation.
It’s not fair (when is life ever fair for anyone?), and if I did stop to dwell on it, I know I could get sad and frustrated. I could live in a state of perpetual envy and jealousy whenever I see pregnancy announcements or attend baby showers. But I don’t want to live my life like that, and I certainly don’t want to teach it to my daughter. I really don’t want to waste my time envying others — I’ve got a pretty dang good life, too!
Their life is theirs, mine is mine, and I get to choose what I want to do with what I’ve been given. I get to choose how to act and respond. That much is still in my control.
So I will do my part; I’ll do what I can for my body. I will be be as healthy as I can, I will take the prescribed medication, I will thank God for what I do have, and then I’ll hold my hands up in surrender and let Him take on the rest. Everything is gonna be alright, He whispers to me still. Whether that’s another baby, like I want, or something totally different that I might not even know I need, I have no idea. But He can’t give me anything if I’m clinging to all my worries with my fists folded tightly.
So I’m holding out my hands, God, because I know everything is going to be alright either way.
With much love to my BloggerFam and anyone struggling with infertility,
Allie
seekin' out the happiness in all life's crappiness 