Flying Standby

I'll never forget that March morning. I woke up before the alarm sounded, ready - so ready - to start our adventure. Over the course of the last six months, we had been talking about this trip. (If I'm honest, we'd probably been talking about and planning for the trip for over four years, since before we were married!) I had checked the calendar multiple times to make sure that we had the right day and time. We had spent the previous weeks meticulously packing our bags to ensure they were under the weight limit and would fit in the overhead compartment. We were so ready. We were so excited.

On our way to the airport, I double-checked and triple-checked that we had our tickets. We had seats reserved and we were ready. We were so excited.

I had been dreaming about a trip like this since I was a little girl. I would often make up stories and worlds and go there in my imagination. On and off throughout my teens and my college years, I dreamed of a trip like this - and somehow, I just knew I would go someday.  I had often thought about what it would be like once I was there, how I would feel, what I might encounter. There were days when the mere preparation for the trip felt a bit overwhelming. But I was determined. We were determined. We were ready. We were so excited.

We got to the airport, tickets in hand, and made our way through security. It was no small feat, but we managed it - our excitement buoyed us through the long, winding lines. We were a little early for our flight so we decided to grab a bite to eat at a nearby eatery. But I was too excited to eat. It was finally time. I was so excited.  He finished his meal just as I thought I heard the first call to board over the loud speakers. We rushed to pay, grabbed our bags, and headed to the gate.

There were people everywhere. Apparently, everyone our age had decided to take this trip too. Every visible seat in the waiting area was occupied. Laptops and cell phones were charging in all electrical outlets. Man, this must be a popular destination! The flight was sold out. Oversold, in fact. And our names were ringing through the speaker. (I've never been called to the ticketing counter over the loud speaker before.)  Alarmed that something could possibly be wrong, we hurried to the counter to get things figured out before we boarded.

"Overbooked," she said. "Bumped to the stand-by list," she informed us.

"How long will we have to wait?" we inquired.

"Hard to say," was the only answer we received.

Hopeful to be rebooked on the afternoon flight, we settled comfortably into a pair of chairs a short distance from our gate. We plugged in our electronics and did our best to make the best of the situation. Undeterred by the delay, we excitedly talked about what we'd do as soon as we landed and made dinner plans.  The second call for boarding sounded, and we watched as another large group of people handed over boarding passes and pulled their carry-on bags aboard. Third and final call yielded a small handful of stragglers.

"An overbooked flight?" I thought to myself as I watched the late arrivals board the plane, "I would be a bit more attentive if I were them." And I nestled my head in his shoulder for the rest of the afternoon. I figured if we stayed nearby, we'd be a sure bet to be on the next flight.

The waiting area had completely emptied. We were the only passengers who had not made the flight. I couldn't help but feel a tiny bit sorry for ourselves. How is it that we were the ones that got bumped, that wouldn't make it to the destination on time? How is it that, of all of the other passengers - including those slacking, late arrivals - we had been delayed?

"Oh well," I sighed, "At least there's another flight."

Before too long, the waiting area began filling up with other couples, most of whom were looking as excited as we were. The seats filled, the outlets plugged, the line began to form. We walked to the counter, proactively this time, to ensure that we would indeed be on this flight.  I watched the woman behind the counter scan the screen for our names...... scanning.... scanning.... "I'm sorry; you're not on this flight. You'll have to wait overnight. We may be able to offer you a voucher."

Defeated, we staggered away from the counter to consider our options. Should we just go home and try again another time? Should we keep waiting on the chance that our names might be on the next list called? What should we do?

We opted to stay and wait.

So, stay and wait we did. And we watched as each successive group of people boarded the plane and left - a plane we were supposed to be on to a destination we were supposed to visit for a trip we had been planning forever to take.  Instead, we were merely spectators.  We were spectators watching flights fill with excited passengers and take off, watching flights deplane as people returned, some travel-weary, some bright-eyed from the thrill of the adventure - all having had the same experience. We even watched a young girl - who didn't even have a ticket - walk up to the counter and straight onto the plane. No questions asked.

It was time to consider our options. It was beginning to feel as though we may never be placed on a flight.  Should we find a bus?  Maybe there was a train that could take us? Is there any other route we could take to get to our desired destination?

I felt a trickle of grief set in. Sure, we could take another form of transportation, but it would take so.much.longer. It wouldn't be the same, would it?  It seemed simple enough: just hop on a plane and go. Literally everyone else was able to do it. Why couldn't we? Why did we have to be relegated to bus travel, roadtripping, and the like? We had been responsible - we had bought our tickets early, we had arrived to the gate on time. Why were we the ones who didn't make the flight?

In his wisdom he said, "It doesn't matter how we get there, as long as we get there eventually, right?" I tried to agree; I tried to believe him. But, deep down, I longed to take the trip, be a part of the club that everyone else belonged to. Suddenly, in the middle of a bustling airport terminal, I felt so very alone.

******

This, my friends, is infertility.

Tired

I'm tired. Tired of waiting, tired of timing, tired of temperature-taking, tired of scheduling, tired of hoping. This whole thing is exhausting.

I'm tired. Tired of cramping, tired of bleeding, tired of trying, tired of hoping, tired of crying.

I'm tired. Tired of being gracious in the face of probing questions. I'm tired of coming up with socially-acceptable excuses. I'm tired of baby showers and pacifiers. I'm tired of this big house that swallows us whole.

I'm tired. Tired of baby talk, tired of being everyone's infertile friend, tired of always being on the outside.

I'm tired of the longing. I'm tired of the pain. I'm tired of this roller coaster we can't seem to escape.

I'm just so very tired.

When God Says, "No"

But what if God says, "No"? I cried into his shirt. I couldn't hold back the sobs. It was like the realization had suddenly dawned on me and the floodgates that had been so strong for so long just broke. I had just finished scrolling through a litany of pastel-clad family photos on social media, and the ever-present ache was ever-present-er.  But this one surprised me. I get Christmas and I totally understand on Mother's Day, but Easter? That's a new one. This Easter did me in.

It's been two years, and I really feel the door closing. I feel like it may be time to accept God's answer that we may have been denying for quite awhile now. We've exhausted the foreseeable options. We've scheduled and tried and prayed and cried. I'm tired, I'm weary, and I'm done trying. And I just don't know where to go from here.

I read this the other day and want to post it here so I never forget it:

"God often has to pry my fingers off my desired outcome. Though I’ve felt devastated by his “no’s,” as I submit to his will—often with disappointment and tears—he assures me he’s working for my good. I see only part of the picture. He has a purpose in his denials.  The Father said “no” to the Son. And that “no” brought about the greatest good in all of history."

There is a very real chance that God is saying, "no" to biological children for us. The grief at that thought is inexplicably overwhelming. And I know that God will have to pry my fingers off this particular desired outcome. I don't want this road, I don't want this burden, I don't want this story. I'm trying to trust that He is working for my good and for His glory, but it's so very hard. I know I only see part of the picture, but I want to see a different part. I want to see the part where my husband is a father and our nursery is full and our house is noisy and my heart doesn't hurt like this.

******
Yesterday, we found out that we won't have a baby in 2016. We will celebrate the holidays childless, again. We will both turn 29 childless. We will ring in 2017 with an empty nursery. Again.
God has said, "No," to a child this year, and today I'm feeling the weight of that.

March 29, 2016

Missing

I miss someone who's never there
Whose presence I've never known.
Whose absence leaves me emptier still
And makes me feel alone.

I miss someone I've never met
Whose face I've never seen.
I miss his smell and smile and laugh,
All that has never been.

I miss someone I've never met
His room stays ever bare.
It eats away at me inside
With sorrow and despair.

I miss someone who's never been
This weight, my heart can't bear.
I miss what could have, should have been.
I miss the baby that's not there.

The Most Dangerous Side-Effect

She gave me five white pills with specific instructions on when to take them. They were small, these white pills. One morning, I almost forgot to take one; another morning, I almost dropped one down the drain as I wrestled it from its packaging.  They were little, these white pills, but they had a big job. They were supposed to right the hormones and balance things out and make my body do what it is supposed to do. They were supposed to slant the odds in our favor.

They came with a list of possible side-effects, these small, white pills. You know the ones: headache, nausea, dry-mouth, dizziness, heart attack and death... Yeah, those kind. I had researched and read about stories of these side-effects, and I hoped I'd be part of the lucky few who escaped unscathed. Well, no such luck.

It was the day that I took the fourth pill that the side-effects started. For thirteen days in a row, I battled headaches from the moment I woke up until the time I could finally go to bed again. The nausea came in waves; I cramped at times when I shouldn't have cramped; I was unrecognizably irritable; I cried at commercials and got unreasonably frustrated at baked-on scum as I did dishes.  For over three weeks, I felt like I didn't know myself. The side-effects were strong, I only hoped it was worth it. But perhaps that which was the hardest of all, the most dangerous of all the side-effects, was that tiny sliver of hope that wormed its way into both of us. This month we had a reason to hope. And that was hardest of all.

After over two years of trying, our hope seems to be waning. After all, it does seem a bit ridiculous to continue doing the same thing over and over again and hoping for different results. So, even though every month is full of hope followed by disappointment, our hope is somehow tempered by a bit of reality that says, "You didn't do anything different this month. Don't expect too much." But, this month was different. Those tiny white pills changed everything. And, in an instant, the walls that we'd built around our hope came crashing down allowing hope to soar - that tender, delicate thing - making its crash landing all the more painful.

I can handle the nausea, the cramping, the headaches... but this hope? It's just too much for me.

Unfinished Business

I thought we were pregnant this month. I really did.  I know, I know... I say that every month; but this month had all the signs, all the symptoms, everything was adding up. It all made sense. That is, until the cramps started and we were sent spiraling back to square one.

Three or four nights ago, I asked Cole if he thought we had grown at all over the course of the last two years in regards to our infertility. As sure as I was that we were pregnant, I had this moment of panic: What if we finally got that which we had been praying for, hoping for, working towards for the last two years and we were no different than when we started? What if our "situation" gets resolved and we remain unchanged? Would these last two years have been for nothing?

After all, I still feel the same empty longing that I have felt every.single.month. for the last two years. I still feel the same disappointment that I have felt every.single.month. for the last two years. I still vacillate between high hope and apathy. I still try to manage our infertility on my own. My prayers are still so stifled.

There was a point about one year into this journey that I viewed this trial as an opportunity. I had hoped that this would blow my prayer life wide open and suddenly my dependence upon the Lord would be all-consuming and I would spend hours and hours in the Word. And yet, here I am, two years later, still limping along two weeks by two weeks.

And so, God, in His unending grace, has given me more time rather than a baby.  He has given me more time to turn to Him, more time to learn to rely on Him. He has given me more time with just the two of us so He can finish His unfinished business in me.  What a good, good Father.

Sit in the Pain

In high school, my entire world fell apart. Granted, when one is in high school, her world is ridiculously small.  My two best friends left my school – leaving me friendless and questioning everything.  I felt empty and sad and lonely and hurt. So much sophomore pain.  In an effort to survive, I threw myself into any and every activity that school provided – both within the classroom and without.  Knowledge Bowl, Golf Team, ASB, Worship Team – you name it, I was on it. I found a new circle of friends and I moved on. Though a large part of me still felt lost, I chose to ignore the pain.

I graduated and headed to college. Somehow, even with this brand new start, the empty, sad, lonely hurt found me there too. So, I explored the big city, found a job at the library, played the piano for hours - but I could not shake the pain. So I moved home.

I lived with my parents while attending a local university. I was sad, lonely, empty. I was at a new university and felt completely on the outside. So, I threw myself into church activities and Bible studies and game nights. I smiled and laughed and forced my feet into running shoes in the name of cheap therapy. The pain was stuffed away, left to be dealt with another day.

When I look back over my life, I have seen a pattern of running. Running away from the uncomfortable, running away from the pain.  If I can distract myself with other things, it is almost as though I can deny the pain exists.  Rather than face the pain, I either attempt to fix it or I flee it. A few months ago, in the midst of this crazy, heart-wrenching journey, a phrase came to mind that has stuck with me:

Sit in the pain.

I am a fixer. I am a mover and a shaker. And I get things done. If it's broken, I'll find a way to fix it. If it runs inefficiently, I'll change the process. If it hurts, I run, I distract myself, I numb it away. I don't let pain wash over me. Rather, I jump the waves and pretend like it's not splashing my ankles.

In this season of infertility, I find myself falling into those same tendencies. I could just "fix it" by continuing to run every test known to mankind or by jumping into the adoption process. I could run from it by continuing to immerse myself in work and ministry. But, lately, I've sensed that God is calling me to a third alternative: Rest. Sit. Stay. Feel.

Like gold refined, I want to force my hand to the fire to allow the heat of this trial to incinerate those human parts of me that cling so fiercely. I want the heat of suffering to build in me the character of Jesus for the glory of God. I want this pain to have purpose.