The Aftermath

There's always one day out of the month - sometimes more, but always at least one - when the dam breaks. All of the longing and the pain and the emptiness come crashing down, most often at the time of the month that exposes our inability to conceive - once again.  Every month, this day looks different. Some days, I am able to carry on as normal. Most days there is a handful of tears shed into a pillow when the bedroom is dark and sleep is distant. And some days, well, some days it's a flood that overwhelms and crushes and threatens to drown and leaves a trail of destruction in its wake.

This month, the tidal wave hit in the shower and I could barely stand. I like to think of myself as a strong person, not prone to emotional outbursts and able to keep my feelings relatively under control. This month, I have never felt so weak, so empty. My sobs muffled by the gurgle of the drain, I sat in the shower and let the hot water pour over me. I picked myself up and dried myself off and stumbled my way back to bed to deliver the news that I hated to have to deliver month after month after aching month.

"I have some bad news," was all I could choke out. And he wrapped his knowing arms around me while my tears soaked his shirt. He curled his body around mine and spoke truth over me to combat the lies he knew I'd be thinking.
"Your body is not broken."
"I'd never want to be with anyone else in a million years."
"You are my family."
"It's not your fault."

"I hate hope," I told him. "It's just too hard." And he held me tighter.

I can't see through my puffy eyes. I didn't even bother with mascara today. For the first time in my career, I took a "Metal Health Day," although he will tell everyone in the office that it's a headache. (which is also - always - true.)

Every month, when the cycle restarts, I am undone, turned inside out - literally and figuratively. While my body aches with the tearing away that feels like a certain kind of death, my heart is similarly being rent in two.

Recently, I sat with a friend who was having trouble at work. I explained to her how difficulties like that are opportunities to extend grace. When that was met with a questioning look, I explained further how, in infertility, I have had to begun to view my interactions with other people as opportunities to extend grace. Choosing to extend the benefit of the doubt that her cutting remark was not intended to deliver the harsh blow that it did; choosing to just "take it" when people offer callous advice; choosing to simply smile and nod in feigned agreement when people remind you that you should be thankful or just relax; choosing to extend grace over and over and over again and bottle up the pain that every single well-intended but oh-so-hurtful comment caused.

I know the right answers. I know the right things to say. I know the truth that God is good and his timing is perfect and he is - at all times and in all ways - working for our good and for his glory. I know that if this is the greatest suffering I ever have to endure, then my life is pretty easy. I know that I should be thankful for what I have: a loving husband, a warm house, a good job, salvation. I know the truth. And the truth is supposed to set you free. But sometimes, the truth is suffocating. Sometimes, extending grace costs greatly. Sometimes, it is so weary to bear the burden of extending grace to others so they don't have to bear the burden.

I am tired and I am weary and I feel empty and so very alone. And I just don't know what to do in the aftermath.

Last night, we moved the yet-unassembled crib out of the spare room and into our storage room. How appropriate.

October 3, 2016