I have a journal entry from the exact middle of this past July. The tone of it feels like I’m out of breath, like a giant run on sentence, like my mind won’t turn quiet, and that I’m gulping for a plan, a revival, a new coming.
It may sound preposterous to some but in it I’m terrified of thirty. Of that benchmark- at what it will make me stop and look in at. It makes me feel like I am in a race against myself, my heart pounding, my thoughts self deprecating. What did I think thirty would be? A house, a husband, a job, a baby; maybe two, success, health. Okay, reality you win again. Expectations they are great but sometimes they’re simply just that.
But for me it’s not the lack of the American Dream. I don’t need to be “comfortable.” I just am not sure if I can handle here. And here is different from the middle of July. I no longer feel like I’m out of breath and gulping for a plan. Instead, the air has been sucked out of me and I simply feel crushed like there are no plans at all.
My health is probably the worst it has ever been. At the end of July we were told we might never be able to conceive without the help of a fertility specialist. That in fact, if we wanted children we would need to consider IVF and I would need to have yet another operation to take care of some masses that were making their home in my pelvis. The plan was to have surgery, try to find money for IVF (miracle in itself), go through IVF while I’m clean from surgery, have baby(ies), and then schedule premature hysterectomy. While a hysterectomy will not cure me, it is the best chance we have of some help in the pain department.
Surgery was scheduled for the end of August. And it was probably the most invasive and complicated one I have ever had but it seemed successful, or so the doctor relayed to us. Recovering appeared to be going well into 2 weeks out I ended up back in the hospital and in incredible pain. After being released from hospital we visit with our Fertility doctor who tells us that we may not even be capable of being IVF candidates based on my disease and my history. She says one round will most certainly not work (all we can afford with the cost being $20,000). Says if we want greater than 1% chance we will need 5 rounds totally $100,000 and is almost trying to talk us out of it. She encourages us to run three preliminary trial tests, which will give us a better look at my body. We go home feeling defeated.
First test comes back. Normal number is higher than 2. IVF candidate needs to be great than 0.5. My number comes back as 0.21. All the while I have been home and bed/couch ridden in major pain trying to recover from a major surgery.
The Dream is Over.
There have been tears. Tears that have caused physical pain. More tears than I would wish upon anyone. These wide hips that I always complained about and this hour glass shaped body I thought was always a miserable curse- my mom promised I’d be thankful for one day because “those hips are made to carry babies” will never in fact nestle a beautiful growing baby belly. The words of doctors since I was 19, “you know getting pregnant would help your condition,” was always so frustrating because I never had a husband or the heart and human condition to throw morals and values out the window and hop into bed with whomever I could find. And now when I have my Nate, my love, someone I want to make a family with, someone I want a baby to come out being just like- getting pregnant can’t help this disease because I can’t get pregnant. And my dream of having my own little red head or looking across the table 10-15 years from now and whispering into Nate’s ear, “you know the way he shrugs his shoulders, that’s all you baby. He gets that from you.” Gone.
Romans 12 says, we are all a part of the Body. We all have a gift He has given us and He asks us to use it so that we speak out on behalf of our God. Live out our faith. Sing our life song. Live our lives with intention and God’s intended purpose.
I was reminded of this passage last week and it struck a major chord. It broke me into pieces. Because if I let you in a bit closer, past the walls, and any shred of “I’m doing alright-ness” I’m clasping to by the finest piece of tethered thread, I’d tell you the hard bitter truth that I’m not sure I have a purpose or a life. So of course I’m certainly not singing. I’m here, day to day, in an intense amount of pain, not sure of my purpose, of His intentions, or gifts for me.
And now its not even about thirty approaching its about wondering if I’m even living. If I even have a life song that I can sing. I feel crushed. I’ve been sick for seventeen years. I have yet to accomplish a career. I’m terrified when any conversation is about me and where I’m at in life. I was ready for my 30s and 40s to be about child-raising and family traditions and now I am mourning the loss and adding barren to the list of my many realities.
These hips may never nourish a growing baby belly but they carry a heavy load. In between them lay a great amount of physical pain and I believe they have caught my heart from falling out beneath me more pennies to the dollar. They mark failure to dreams that still burn so heavily in my heart and in the mirror stare back at me with harsh realities of what we least want life to look like as it approaches us and lurks up behind us in dark alley ways and abandoned streets. And for the last many days they have cradled my pain ridden body, both physically, mentally, spiritually, and emotionally. One that is unsure of how to live intentionally when she is not sure if she even has a purpose, one that feels let down and downright discouraged and who tends to shrink up and shy away from anything and anyone when the pain becomes too intense, and one that can’t imagine singing a song because she’s not sure what life really looks like. At least not right now. When the pain is so raw, so tender, so very real and up close.