When Ted and I decided to start trying to have children, I ordered an infant’s onesie in Astros blue and orange from Amazon. I decided that once I got a positive pregnancy test, I would hide it in a big pile of laundry and then bug him until he came to help me fold and put all of it away. I’d avoid the onesie and wait for him to pick it up and figure it out. And then we’d laugh and cry and laugh and forget the laundry.
For the last twenty months, the onesie has lived in several different hiding spots, wadded up into a wrinkled ball: the glovebox of my car; my purse; on a shelf in our laundry room. Now it’s in my bedside table drawer, stuffed underneath the binder we got from the infertility specialist’s office to hold all of our lab results.
I don’t really personally know any women who are currently dealing with infertility. A few months ago, a couple girls kindly and bravely opened up about how they were also struggling, but both have since become pregnant.
I wish I could say that the news that these couples were able to conceive encouraged me, but it only felt like that sensation you get when you miss a step on the staircase and you land badly on your ankle. I’ve watched dozens of families announce their first, second, third, fourth, and fifth children over the last few years, but these two specific announcements particularly felt like utter abandonment by God.
Because it doesn’t feel like a punishment, this never-ending cycle of waiting and disappointment. It just feels pointless. It feels like my heavenly Father is looking down at me from on high to say, “Oh, sorry, I forgot you were there. Tell me your name again?
We had a hellish spring this year. We spent more money and time than I want to think about fixing my car and undergoing tests at a doctor’s office. We were also trying to buy a house at the same time and it all just got way too overwhelming and expensive. I remember leaving the doctor’s office in Ted’s truck (because my car was in the shop for the fourth time that month), sobbing and holding on to his arm.
We eased into the Austin traffic and I finally said it out loud: “I can’t do this anymore.”