Sunday, August 14, 2011


This past Friday we had yet another confirmation that we cannot have children. Our last hope, medically speaking, was a doctor who studied and worked under Dr. Hilgers (the man who developed the NFP method we follow). The hope is almost gone. This doctor was very polite and very upbeat when he first introduced himself. After seeing our NFP chart and my history, he was at a loss for words. Before I had a chance to fully digest his reaction, he was saying that adoption should be considered. Though very polite, it annoyed me that he kept saying, "this is very tough, guys. Very, very tough". I understand that he just didn't know what to say, but it felt like rubbing my nose on my infertility over and over. Even if we would've been in favor of IVF, I wouldn't have been a candidate because my hormone levels are so off the charts. Even the exploratory surgeries that Dr. Hilgers likes to perform would be pointless.

Now I know how Michael felt right after his first wife died. He told Sam he hated the pity looks, the "time heals wounds" comments that people would give him. I know that feeling exactly now. I HATE the pity comments. I hate them. I'm thankful that my faith has been strong enough that I have not become angry with God, yet I hate the "we're praying for you" comments. That does not alleviate pain. I think it's because "we're praying for you", along with the equally popular "our thoughts and prayers go out to you", has become one of those Hallmark-type things everyone says when they don't know, or don't care, to come up with something better to say. Yes, we appreciate the prayers. At this point, prayer is the only thing that can pull us out of this. But I HATE hearing, "we're praying for you". Half the time, the words are empty.

At times I envision myself with my eyes tightly shut, holding my head with both hands and screaming with my mouth wide open as strongly as I can, yet no sound comes out. It's a deaf cry. Sometimes I envision an arm extended up, pleading for help at the bottom of a jet-black pit. But no help comes. When I think about what's happened during the past couple of months, I have a knot in my throat. It feels like I can't get enough air, I cannot speak. My heart shrinks. I have this heart which was so ready to give our child all the love I could give him or her. I was so ready to feel life inside. Been ready for over a year.

Sometimes I feel like just posting it on Facebook for EVERYBODY to see: "Dear everybody: we CANNOT have children. Ask us one more time when we're going to have kids and I'll punch you in the face".

Thankfully, the rest of the weekend was better. We spent it in Austin, going to McKinney Falls (which should be more aptly called "McKinney trickles", at least until they get some good rain), the Austin Zoo, several local food joints. I like Austin. It wouldn't be the end of the world to live in Longhorn county; the natural beauty of the area, tied with the quirkiness of everything you see, makes it a very special place and makes up for the abundance of burned orange we'd see everywhere. Sam was... unbelievably amazing. Supportive and kind. Gentle. Exactly what I needed. Sometimes I'm truly amazed at how God knew exactly who I needed to cross paths with, because without Sam I truly do not know where I would be.

Now we're home, and it's back to the grind. We have discussed our options (or lack thereof), and have decided to proceed with adoption. We need to educate ourselves more about it all. As a couple, we're ready to be mom and dad. I'm so ready to be a mom. In a way, it's better to be messed up enough that there are no other options. If I would be a more typical messed up case, we'd probably consider other routes before thinking about adopting. Sam's reading a book titled "What to Expect when she's not Expecting", and the author talks about how he and his wife spent about $250,000 in in vitro treatments ALONE, and never got pregnant. They also tried hormone replacement therapy, surgeries, you name it. Sam even said the lady had a procedure where somehow her cervix was slowly stretched artificially. Nothing worked; they had to resort to surrogacy. So, my lack of eggs and everything else messed up with me keeps us from considering anything else. Adoption it is.

I've said it before: one day I will be better. It will take time though.