Me vs. Infertility, Round 4. Winner: To Be Determined

4 years ago


I've struggled with this post - what to say, when to say it, how much to say.  I've been putting it off, waiting for something concrete, certain, specific, before I went public.

I'm realizing that day might never come. (What is concrete, certain, specific, when you are dealing with infertility?) This blog has been something of free therapy for me - so, I think keeping quiet has maybe hurt me in the process.

So, here goes:

First, I'm pregnant. My fertility updates have been conspicuously absent over the past few weeks - again, wanting to share the news, scared to share the news, wanting to get out of the woods before I shared the news...

This isn't really how I wanted to announce it, but so much has happened since my BFP that to announce it like I actually had written it (yes, I already wrote the post) would feel a little misleading and end up being anti-climactic.

My last update rant was all about how I was late, spotting and getting BFNs. Well, the next day after I posted my frustration, I got my BFP. That was September 19th, about three weeks ago.  So happy, but fear was the immediate secondary emotion, just below the surface.

I had all the usual concerns, especially wondering if I had implanted late (my BFP came a week after AF was due) and if that might be a risk.  But my first round of bloodwork showed all my hormones and levels spot-on, and my first sonogram a week after that showed the sac was the exact size, in the exact location that it should be. All good signs, and I started breathing a little easier. Maybe everything would be okay after all.

My next sonogram (which was last week, at just about 7 weeks) showed that my sack had grown, but there was no fetal pole. No heartbeat. The doctor said that if my days were off by just a few, that would explain it.  The odds were 50/50 chance- not a gloom-and-doom report, but he was concerned. Time would tell, he said, and it would be a long week until my next sonogram. Yeah. No kidding.

So, I rallied the troops to pray -- the same people who rallied around me the first time I miscarried. I started praying every Scripture I could find that related to this. We even went to our pastor and elders to pray for us and anoint us with oil, just like the Bible says.

I honestly felt like my faith was up and strong through most of that torturous week-long wait.  But as my appointment came closer, I could feel the fear closing in.  But I was praying it through, believing/hoping/praying/begging for good outcome. Today was my follow-up sonogram. Well, there was a fetal pole, and there was a heartbeat; last week there wasn't, so I was encouraged and relieved. That was good news.

But I am measuring at 6 weeks. We are fairly certain I am just about 8 weeks. That was not good news.

After meeting with the doctor, his professional opinion was that he is about 95% sure that I will miscarry. Again.

And I felt like my heart cracked in half. For the second time.

It took all my energy and reserve and self-control to keep my composure at school until the end of the day. I did it but barely made it to the car before the tears I had held back all day would not be stopped. And I cried the whole way home behind my sunglasses.

So that brings me to tonight. I am all over the place, and I'm not quite sure where to land. So badly, we are hanging on to every shred of hope we have left. Nothing was there last week, and this week, something was.  There is a heartbeat.

But I feel like all of my faith and hope has been wrung out of me like a worn-out dishrag. I feel like there is nothing left to be squeezed out, and I am desperately trying to dig deep and pull out some remnant of belief that this could work out.

But honestly? I am so afraid to hope. I feel like this is deja vu: the nebulous sonograms, the bad reports with just a little bitty hope, the excruciating waiting from week-to-week to see the final verdict.  It wasn't even a year ago that I was in this same situation. Really? I feel like it is Groundhog's Day. And there is a part of me that cannot believe I am going through this. Again.

There is a part of my heart that, in raw emotion, just wants to scream and cry and ask God, 'Why this? Why again? Why everyone else? Why not me? Why do some people get to have a bunch of kids and I can't even have one?" There is a part of me that feels like I can't do this again.

But there is a deeper part of my heart that knows, when my raw emotions subside, that I truly, truly trust that God is not torturing me. That He is not holding out on me. That somehow, even though it hurts, if there were any more loving course of action, He would take it. That there really, really is a good reason for all of this. 

And that is all my heart knows. It doesn't know if there will be a miracle, although I would stake my life on the fact that I know God can do the impossible. It doesn't know if God will give me the outcome we so desperately want. It doesn't know if there is any more miracle-working faith inside there.

But there might be some mustard-seed faith. Is there even just a little? Yes. There is a little. It is barely visible, barely there, barely hanging on - much like my little baby - but in both cases, it is there.

It is exhausting to hang on to hope. I admit it: if this is going to end, I just want this to be done. I don't know if my heart can hang on.

But it will. As long as there is life, I have to believe something good can happen. I don't know if it will, but it can. And even if there less than a 5% chance, I have to hang on to that. If my baby is teeny-tiny and hanging on, then my faith, though teeny-tiny, will hang on, too.

So, to the very end of this road, wherever it leads, I will believe that God can do a miracle and I will ask Him for one.

Little baby, we are in this together. If you are still fighting, then so will I.


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