My Infertility Story

Every time a delivery arrives at your door in the mail, there is about an 11% chance that the item will be defective or broken.  What you choose to do with the item goes into 3 categories: repairable, returnable, or refundable. What you don’t know is whether the item was broken from the manufacturing process or something happened to it along the way.  Regardless of the reason, it wasn’t what you expected when it arrived. Apply this to people: imperfect, broken, defective people.  According to the CDC, 12% of people in this country struggle with the ability to get pregnant or carry a pregnancy to term. That number is equal to 1/8 couples, or about 7.8 million people. For even more numbers, there is about 1/3 of this attributed to male factor, 1/3 attributed to female factor, and a little less than 1/3 is a combination. Take that last category, and about 5% of the infertile population is labeled as “unexplained infertility”.  (I like facts and statistics). Now that we are tired of reading statistics, lets talk about being that statistic. It is something that no one wants to be. Something small and unexplainable, but plays a huge part in your life. You always ask yourself what is the chance of being that percentage? You always say it will never happen to you.  What do you do when you are the defective and broken one? It is a constant struggle to figure out why. Was I broken or defective from the factory? Or did something happened along the way that changed me? Is it my fault? Can I be repaired? Should my spouse just return me for another like what he wanted all along? Warning: this contains awkwardness, science, feelings, faith, and many other things that make the general population uncomfortable. Most importantly, what you are about to read is blunt, honest, not “PC”, but it is very true and very purely human. This is my story of my journey through infertility and how God used it to change my life.

No one ever expects there to be a problem. It seems like the easiest thing in the world for a woman to do. Have a baby. And let’s be completely honest, idiots have babies.  Drug addicts have babies. Unwed teenagers have babies. Crazy and irresponsible people have babies. Complete strangers have babies. You would think it should be no problem for a successful, Christian, married couple to have a baby, right? Life can be funny sometimes. I gave my life to Jesus. I graduated college. I had been in the same relationship for years. Got married to that man. Got an “adult job” as a Trauma/Surgical ICU nurse in one of the busiest and most well-known hospitals in the country. My husband was a successful engineer. We traveled. We got a dog (2 actually). We saved money. We bought and renovated a home in a great neighborhood. I never did drugs. Heck, I had never even had a speeding ticket. I ate my vegetables and even flossed.  We did everything right in my eyes before trying for a child. And it seems like the people who work so hard to achieve something so good, get shot down. The human side of me always said that we were doing everything right and we had earned this. I think that made it even harder. I was trying to earn my version of God’s plan for my life. I was trying to make it happen when I wanted it to happen.

Getting pregnant is supposed to be fun and enjoyable. But what about when you’ve tried for a year and nothing has happened? Just trying to be optimistic, we tell ourselves that we’re still young and have plenty of time. Now do that another year. And another. It gets a little hard when the years you spend trying to get pregnant outnumber the years you were trying not to. As time goes by your heart gets a little bit heavier and the job of “trying” loses all of its romance and becomes a job. Every month, using every trick and method in the book, same result of a pile of negative pregnancy tests. The same difficult conversation, equaling the same heartbreak as the first time.

            You go about it doing everything you can think of with apps, Google searches, etc. Heck, I even lost almost 25 lbs. by giving up bread, dairy, alcohol, sugar and working out for hours everyday. All of this done in secret, to not have the added pressure of those around you or the shame of when it doesn’t work. And its not until you go through it yourself do you realize the pressure that we are under. As soon as you get married, even at the wedding, people ask about having kids. You can put it off a few years, but it only grows and grows as society’s expectation for you to procreate increases. Even worse than that is the pressure from loved ones. My parents especially were a source of this. I know that they love me dearly, but being constantly asked where their grandchildren were was like a cut from a knife. Knowing I was a failure was only adding to my frustration. When this was all I was asked, I became cold to it. I always just pretended that I didn’t want kids, trying to convince them and myself, because it was easier that way. I even had the same phrase I would come back with every time, “I would rather have my dogs than kids, because it’s better to ruin your carpet than your life.” (Humor is a great defense mechanism of mine). I never realized how often this was said or how many times I have said it to others. It can easily become someone’s most dreaded topic. As if I wasn’t constantly reminded enough of how I am cursed with inability to do a basic biological function.

It was a shame that I decided to bare in private. I didn’t want the judgement. I didn’t want the advice. I didn’t want the pity. Because to be perfectly honest, they wouldn’t understand. Until you have walked in these shoes it can be impossible to know what it is like. It is both a pain and a weight that you can’t just put on to know what it feels like. These feelings and the fear of what others would think caused me extreme anxiety. It seemed terrifying the idea that the thoughts I told myself would be heard out loud from others. It was something that the enemy used as a stronghold in my spirit. The devil loves to tell you lies to make you feel constantly living in defeat. The voices inside would tell me that I was being punished for something I didn’t know I did. Told me that God must not love me as much as others.  They would tell me to just give up on my dreams to avoid the disappointment. All of this pushing me further into isolation, bitter and cold to others around me and my situation. To be completely transparent, there were days I would believe it. I am completely human and at times I felt like God wasn’t there. As a Christian, it’s hard to admit my faith was challenged. One thing I have learned is that the battle inside can be even more difficult than the problems you face.

            At a certain point, it’s time to admit there is a problem. Even if there isn’t a solution, we always want to know why. The weight of infertility comes into play when the tests and treatment start. It begins to consume your entire life. When my husband was tested and cleared, it now focused on me. Even though I was already covered in shame, I was now even more under a microscope. My spare time became filled with being poked and prodded like a lab specimen. Painful tests and procedures, along with having no such thing as privacy anymore. The most personal and intimate details about your life are no longer personal or private. All of these medical steps begin to become robotic. Robotic, but still just as tiring and stressful.

Being a nurse that worked nights, I was lucky if I could schedule my fertility specialist appointments and tests right after my shift ended. However, when going through testing and treatment for fertility issues, you don’t always get much of a say in the plan. Sometimes blood had to be drawn every other day. If I didn’t have to work, I would wake up and be there between 7 and 9 a.m. since that’s when they have to test your hormone levels. It was even worse if I didn’t have to work the night before and would have to drive an hour each way to the doctor, just to turn around and go back into work that night for 12 plus hours. It was exhausting. I just wanted to roll my eyes at people who would judge me for being tired. Especially when they would say, “You’re tired?! Just wait until you have kids!” If only they knew I would trade any day for that.

            I couldn’t even go to the 11 baby showers I was invited to in 9 months. All to be told, “You’re next!” and know in my heart it couldn’t be true.  As happy I was for my friends, co-workers, and loved ones, the emotional strain that it put on me was too much. It was not a spirit of bitterness or jealousy towards them, it was fear that one moment I might just randomly snap. I felt so isolated and alone. All the “mom groups” and “mom lunches” just reminded me of what I would never be and how I would be excluded. Baby dedications at church were something I would plan on missing, because sometimes I felt like it was almost cruel to sit through them. Mother’s Day was just as bad, knowing my heart wanted nothing more than to be just that. Even my husband knew this, and would be just fine with missing these days. During the holiday season, it would become extremely easy to become depressed. A time when an empty room in your house was just that. I remember sitting in church for one Christmas Eve service just praying for the one gift I would give anything in the world for. Sometimes in moments like this, God chooses to speak when I thought he only wanted to be silent towards me. “Next year, things will be different.” One phrase. Six words. Nothing else. I didn’t know what that meant, but I felt it. If only I knew what was to come.

            After that, fertility treatment picked up, but sometimes it still felt like we weren’t getting anywhere. I remember going in some weeks hoping my body would cooperate just to be shot down. There were months when I would develop cysts or other hormonal problems, and have to get back on birth control for a month to try and “reset”. Talk about being frustrated and feeling like you’re going backwards. And my hormones and stress level? Through the roof. I remember going to the pharmacy and Kroger to pick up a new prescription after a disappointing doctor appointment, and the greeter telling me to have a nice day sent me spiraling into tears in the middle of the parking lot. I literally looked like a crazy person. God Bless my patient husband. There were days when my mind, body, and heart couldn’t take anymore of it. There were days I called into work because it was just too much to give anything else of myself.

This went on for months. Every month you get another, “No”, after all your hard work. I am thoroughly convinced that it was like going through the 5 stages of grief every month. Each time dealing with another emotion to God. I would try to deny it, by taking 10 tests (as if he made some sort of mistake). I would get angry with him. I would then try to bargain with him, seeing if I could earn his favor. I would get depressed, crying myself to sleep or on the bathroom floor. I would eventually have to accept it, and pick myself up and start again for another month of hope. Fall apart, start again. Fall apart, start again. Rinse, repeat.  Since we are all human, I can admit that it was so hard to stay positive. I just don’t “candy coat” things as a realistic person. I was angry and frustrated with God. I do all the things, with no results and being met with silence. In my prayer time I would tell him just that. We should have that relationship with God. A real one. To which he would reply, “I’m not going to fall off of my throne just because you’re mad.” (I think sometimes he has a sense of humor.) Not to sound cliché or anything, but I had to realize that it’s okay to not be okay. Sometimes you have to just be upset.

            Infertility consumed my life. The weight, the burden, the disappointment. The fear in the back of my mind that my husband would one day leave me because I couldn’t give him the family he had always dreamed about. Always having a missing piece and an unfulfilled joy. Eventually, something had to change. That change had to be within me. I had to learn peace. We always talk about peace, but I don’t think we always know what it is. I started changing the way I prayed. I started praying for God’s will in my life, whatever that may be. I prayed for a baby, the only desire of my heart. But I started adding onto it that I needed peace, and to take the desire of being a mother away from me, if it’s not his will. I had to let it go, and quit doing things my way. I decided to give it to him, and make God the desire of my heart. I began to separate my faith from my feelings and circumstances.

            Time marched on. I felt the push to keep seeking treatment, until he told me otherwise. Like Joshua marching around the walls of Jericho, I had to learn to take another lap on another month. On one particularly hard day after another disappointing doctor visit, I was frustrated and decided to try a more healthy coping mechanism, so I went for a 3 mile run to spend time with God. I came back and checked the mail. In it was a handwritten card from my pastor, saying a sweet message and scripture, and just a friendly reminder of his prayers for us. It was this gesture that made me feel an indescribable feeling of what I call “a hug from Jesus” right there in my kitchen.  I then decided to write him and his wife a message thanking them for all they do and ended up telling them what we had been through. I felt awkward in my boldness and spilling my mess to them when I had always been so private about it. The support and love I felt from them at the moment was overwhelming. It gave me just enough strength to get through another Mother’s Day church service. I went and sat in the very back row just in case I needed a quick escape. As the typical Mother’s Day introduction was started, our pastor’s wife said a prayer to include everyone who believes to be a mother. The lump in my throat was there the entire time, as well as a feeling 100x warmer than before from Jesus that he was there beside me. At the end of service, I went up to her with tears in my eyes and all I could do was hug her and thank her for remembering me today. Her words filled my heart with hope, and I know she was placed there to inspire me and pray for me.

From there, my faith got bolder. Everyday, at the same time of day, no matter what, I went into that empty room in my house that was going to be the nursery. Everyday I felt led to go in there. I would literally get on my knees, thank God and pray harder than I ever have before, thanking him for being good. I would declare his promise for a baby and read a scripture. I found a devotional for infertility and wrote down every scripture for two weeks.

The week after Mother’s Day I went in for my usual doctor appointment, I didn’t expect anything to be different from the last several months. However, as we sat there looking at the ultra sound machine and the image of my ovaries, the doctor says, I think it’s time we go for it and see what happens. This was a place we had never gotten to before in our infertility journey. It was hard to contain my excitement and nervousness as I was trying not jinx it. I began taking my medications more aggressively, and prayed and prayed. The next ultra sound and blood work showed that I had responded to the medication. Within 2 days, I would give myself the (cough… 300 dollar a dose) injection and it would happen. The last day I went into that nursery and prayed was the day of my procedure. 

            I had the procedure, and now came the worse part of every month, the two-week wait. Time creeps by. I found myself clinging to hope that I never had before. Eventually, the days go by. I take a test, hold my breath…Negative. It was like every other month.  I was trying my hardest to fight the stinging emotions I always had. Maybe it was too early I thought. I waited 2 days, and took another test before going to work that Wednesday night. One line. I close my eyes an extra minute longer, still one line. I quickly threw it in the trash with anger and told my husband the same disappointment I always gave him. I messaged my doctor and told his nurse the news of my past two results. I drove to work just confused. Confused and questioning everything I had felt and done.

I put on my poker face as I go into work. My phone dings with a text. It’s Jonathan texting me a picture of a positive pregnancy test in our trashcan. I quickly call him saying it’s not funny. He is completely serious as he explains to me how he just happened to look. My heart is racing! Could it be? Is it just a fluke? Maybe I took my billionth test wrong somehow this time. Maybe some elf with a pink sharpie lives in my bathroom. These 12 hours could not go by any slower. The next morning, I buy 3 different brands of tests. I pee on all 6. All positive. Tears began to fill my eyes for a completely different reason this time. I message my doctor with a “Just kidding….” Subject line. His nurse who I gotten to know very well over months and months, was excited and quickly scheduled for my blood work to make sure that it wasn’t just a hormonal thing. It was the next day. I had never been so excited to get blood drawn in my life. The hours I had to wait for the results were longer than those 2 weeks before. I check all day to see if the results are in. That afternoon, low and behold my levels were posted with a congratulations…. YOU ARE PREGNANT!

            As I sit here and look at my new baby girl, all I can do is be amazed without explanation. The journey I went on was the hardest thing I could imagine. As I think back through my experience, I can’t help but notice infertility sprinkled several places throughout the Bible. There is nothing broken with me. Elizabeth was righteous. Sarah was faithful. Hannah was bold. I never could think to compare myself to these women. But I serve the same amazing God. A God who never stopped seeing me. His answer to my prayer was wait. And if I had to wait for something, it goes to show I was in good company. Maybe I had to wait to have her because of God’s calling on her life. So she can be the right girl, at the right place, at the right time. We never can see the big picture. Who knows? All I know is that my waiting season wasn’t wasted. I grew closer to God than ever before, and feel new purpose in my life. I have never felt more loved.  I am no longer ashamed of the story he gave me. God is real, Faith is real. And God, he likes to show off. Just because my gift wasn’t delivered how I wanted, it was perfect in every way.