How I Survived Infertility

I have spent every Mother's Day in my life childless so far. I never used to mind because I wasn't "ready" for children yet. But a few years ago, my husband, Tom, and I decided that it was time to start a family. The initial excitement at the prospect of creating a life gave way to doubt as month after month passed with no pregnancy. Tom remained confident that we would become parents, but my doubt increased as the months turned into a year. I went to the doctor where they performed several tests and found nothing wrong - a frustrating diagnosis. The doctor prescribed Clomid, and we were hopeful. I held my breath as the day my period was to start came and went. Finally, I did a home pregnancy test. It was positive! Tom and I fell into each other's arms and cried with relief. Our pain was over.

Two weeks later, I went to the doctor's office for an ultrasound. The test revealed a blighted ovum. My baby was dead. Tom tried to comfort me - but no comfort could be found. Few people knew of our loss, but the ones who did tried to comfort us. "You wouldn't have wanted a defective baby." "At least you can get pregnant." I knew they meant well, but I felt as though they thought my pain was unjustified - after all, I wasn't completely barren. But my arms felt emptier than ever, and Mother's Day was only a week away.

I sat in church that day, watching as what seemed like every woman but me stood to be recognized as mothers. I had to leave when a soon-to-be father stood and talked about the miracle of seeing his wife's belly grow with their first daughter. Someone saw me crying and chastised me, saying that I shouldn't dwell on my pain when I could be rejoicing with others. I had never felt so alone before in my life.

My birthday arrived a few months later. It was another reminder of how much time we had spent trying to conceive. I looked back at the past year with sadness. I thought about how much time I had spent wondering if we would ever have kids. I was certain God understood my pain, but my relationship with Him had been replaced by our infertility. I also realized that I was so obsessed with getting pregnant that I was missing out on life. How many times had I avoided something because I "might" be pregnant? For two years, I had considered myself pregnant for the last two weeks of each month - avoiding anything that wasn't safe for pregnant women.

As I looked ahead to the next year of my life, I wondered if I would be pregnant soon. What if I wasn't? I knew that I couldn't live the rest of my life in sorrow if God chose not to give us children. I vowed to make a change. I literally forced myself to believe that I could be complete without children. However, it was easier to make a decision to live at peace than it was to follow through with it. So I started looking for advice on how to find peace despite my infertility. I found that most articles and books suggested the same basic ideas:

-Don't let getting pregnant control your thoughts.

-Believe that God is fair.

-Don't focus on infertility - focus on God.

-Don't let grief consume you after a loss.

I knew that the advice was sound. Still, I struggled with how I was supposed to actually follow it. How can I not let getting pregnant consume my thoughts? How am I supposed to believe that God is fair when prostitutes and alcoholics are conceiving and I - a Christian - am not? What else am I going to focus on when I feel like my breasts are exploding from all the hormones they've pumped me up with this month? And what am I supposed to do when my baby's due date comes and goes and my arms are still empty?

I struggled to find advice for actually keeping God first in my life. I knew I had already taken the first step - telling God that I wanted to change, but no change comes automatically. "God," I prayed, "Can't you just make me do the right thing?" His answer was always a gentle but firm, "No." Then I listened to a message from Joyce Meyer. She said that many people live in bondage because they are lazy. OUCH! Was I living in bondage to sadness because I was lazy? Had I spent all that time in sorrow because I didn't feel like working to get better?

A picture popped into my head. I saw myself repeating the same thoughts over and over again. "Why do you hate me, God? Why did you take our baby? Why can't we have kids? Why? Why? Why?" It was a depressing train of thoughts. I had the power to put the brakes on, but I didn't know how - or maybe I was too lazy to find out. But I was mourning, I reasoned, and grief is a process. Shouldn't God have to answer for my loss? I knew in my heart that God does not have to answer for anything; not only is He Almighty God, He is also good. Even though He allows pain, He will always take care of us. That's when it hit me: Even months after our loss, those same thoughts threatened to overwhelm me. Yet I had succeeded in stopping them. How? By stating the truth. Just like that, I had made progress.

Still, I had a hard time believing that God is fair. I knew I could stop bad thoughts by telling myself the truth. But what happened when I didn't believe the truth? Every time I heard a tragic story of a mother who had hurt or even killed her own children, I felt as though God had made a mistake by giving them a child and not me. After I asked for advice, an uncle told me that God is not sitting up in heaven with a basket of babies, handing them out to people who "deserve" them. The fact is that having children is a result of having sex - whether you love God or not. In the same way, infertility is not "given" to those who don't deserve children. So why would God let other people - good and bad - get pregnant and not me? The answer, though hard to accept, lies in a verse that I've read many times: "My thoughts are not your thoughts, and my ways are not your ways." (Isaiah 58:8) In other words, I may never know. I just have to trust that God knows what He's doing.

One suggestion I had read in an article about infertility was that I should pamper myself when I felt down. Yet, infertility by nature caused me to be selfish; charting temperatures, counting days until an insemination and even side effects from medications made it nearly impossible to think of anything but me. Then I discovered that I'm not the only person who is hurting; others have had miscarriages, lost loved ones, and struggled in ways I can't understand. This discovery enabled me to realize that maybe I could stop thinking about my own pain by helping others. I searched God's Word for scriptures that spoke of His love and faithfulness and wrote them down with a personal note to send to others who were hurting. It felt good to know that I had done something for someone else - and I'd focused on God's Word at the same time.

One of the biggest steps I took toward healing was to stop thinking I would be pregnant soon. Instead, I began to make decisions with no thought of what might happen. Tom and I went on a wonderful vacation to Jamaica. I redecorated the dining room. I started taking a class on writing. And I let myself enjoy the last two weeks of every month instead of counting down the days until my "doom." It felt great to be alive again!

Another year has gone by now and Mother's Day is coming. Even though I still won't be holding a baby, I think I'll handle it better this year. I "might" cry because it still hurts. But instead of looking around me at all the mothers who are standing to be recognized, I'll be sitting in the pew with my eyes closed. I'll direct my thoughts toward my Father, who loves me. If I am crying, I'll let Him comfort me. And when my birthday comes this year, no matter what happens, I know one thing: I'll be glad for all the things I accomplished this year. I have taken back what infertility stole from me and I won't let it go again.