Keeping the faith through infertility

Early this morning I began flipping through the calendar, readjusting our plan. I counted out the days until our next shot at IUI. I will be out of town, on a girls' trip with family to celebrate my 30th birthday. I'm disappointed, but honestly, I'm more relieved to have a month without calculations and stress. 

By now, I should be well aware of the fact that things don't always go as planned - that life isn't easy and it's definitely not in our control. But I was so sure that I would be finished having babies by 30. I'd be on to the part of my life where I would be focused on the future and relishing every moment of my kids' youth, soaking up every minute with the benefit of knowing that this was the final time I'd experience their milestones.

Instead, I mourn the fact that I may not ever experience them again and curse myself that I didn't go through each day with that possibility in the back of my mind. 

The emotions on this journey are very unclear. I am definitely at a crossroads. I feel like giving up one minute - surrendering in exhaustion to being a family of four. And in the next moment I'm confident that the empty room upstairs will one day be transformed into one of the nurseries I've imagined in my mind. 

I suppose this is another one of God's life lessons. It is yet another trial we face as a couple and one that has both tested and strengthened our relationship as husband and wife. As we exited the fertility office after our consultation appointment, I noticed an old man in the parking lot sitting in a rickety lawn chair under the shade of a tree. He was at the foot of his car and his cane was propped against his seat. At first, it struck me as odd. And then, a wave of emotion caught me. 

I imagined he was there in support of his wife who must have been seeing one of the doctor's in the same building as ours (but for different reasons, no doubt). Maybe she was very ill and this was one of several appointments he accompanied her to. Perhaps she assured him she could go it alone - grasping on to her independence - but he insisted on being there, always going along. She had probably agreed, I thought, but only under the condition that he stayed in the car. And so he brought his lawn chair and sat patiently - and stubbornly - under the shade of that very same tree each time.

As our car drove past this man,  I thought how lucky the woman was to have someone support her in that way. And I realized, in that instant, that no matter what the outcome of this process, and after all the seasons of our life have come and gone, Ricky will be there. He'll be that man sitting in the chair out by the car as I tackle life's next obstacle with as much bravery as I can muster. We'll get through everything. 

We'll get through this.

Together.