It was a year ago today. I spent roughly 12 hours in a car with my husband, Chris, driving home from spending time with my family for the holidays. When I wasn't driving, I sat in the back with our dog spontaneously crying, the kind of crying where you lose your breath and squeak because you don't want the other passenger to hear you. Why the tears? Two days prior I got "the news" that, yet again, I was not pregnant. It was our last month of fertility treatments and officially trying to get pregnant. After trying, on and off, for eight years, we were done, or at least taking a much needed break, from spending all of our emotions, money, time, and energy on this en-devour of trying to have a baby, something that comes so easily for most people.
I couldn't hold my disappointment in any longer. This month was different. So many other months I was left to think, "Well, we've always got next month." Or "Maybe it will work next month." But we had just experienced three months of absolute ideal criteria for getting pregnant. Everything was in order and if I were able to conceive, I should have sometime during those three months. There was no reason that we or our doctors knew of that would prevent us from getting pregnant.
The next day I was gearing up to go to our friends' New Year's party. I couldn't stop picturing myself walking into the party, making eye contact with my dear friend, and bursting into tears because she would know something was wrong purely from the look on my face. "Suck it up, Amanda." So I proceeded to do my hair, finish my make up, and get dressed. Chris and I drove over to their house, sat outside in the car, and debated whether or not I was going to be able to go into the party. I couldn't do it. I couldn't sit through an evening of fun pretending to be okay.
I felt terrible for Chris. He had to be tired of seeing me cry. Months and years of crying. I was tired of crying. Disappointment. "Hope deferred makes the heart sick." Proverbs 13:12. I had a broken heart. And had I gotten to the point where my joy had been stolen? Quite possibly, but I had learned way too much during these eight years to stay that way. My identity is not in whether or not I have a child. My joy cannot be based on my circumstances. My purpose in life is not to be a mother.
So then why have children? Why did I want this so bad? Chris asked me this the month before. He sweetly asked, "Help me understand why you want this so bad, because I would never put my body through everything you are for anything." I immediately knew my answer: a relationship. It's a relationship that I want to have. The same way a single lady knows she wants a husband, whether she gets one or not, I knew I wanted a child to invest my life into.
More to come,