What is a dream deferred?
Though poet Langston Hughes wrote his poem about Harlem, people living with infertility can understand his imagery describing a dream deferred.
What happens when we've had this dream our whole lives, and then, out of nowhere, it doesn't come true? What do we do with a dream when, out of our control, it becomes delayed? What do we do with dreams put on hold? What if they're on hold indefinitely?
Do our dreams dry up? Do they turn to sores? Do they stink?
What happens to our dreams of children when we've tried for a year and the doctor tells us we're infertile?
When my husband I got married, he bought me a minivan. We knew we'd have so many children that the only way to transport them all was in the biggest minivan a person could buy. After nearly seven years of trying, undergoing medical treatments and surgeries, it became painfully clear that we wouldn't need the minivan. We sold it and bought a Jeep.
Each of has something called a "future story." It's when we create all these dreams for ourselves and write a story about how we want our future to unfold. My dream involved a big family, full of children. Maybe your dream is similar.
Maybe you dreamed of precious little baby booties. Or midnight lullabies. Or first steps. First words.
But what do we do when that dream is deferred, when that future story doesn't unfold? One result from a fractured future story is grief. We may lose our sense of identity; we definitely lose hope for our future.
So what do we do if our future story doesn't come to fruition?
The first thing we need to do is to acknowledge that broken future story.
My husband and I spent years of our marriage trying to get pregnant. Finally, after all the medical interventions and surgeries left my body feeling fragile and broken, we decided to stop treatment. That was a few years ago. I've done a lot of physical and emotional (and spiritual) healing since then, but recently I read a book about future stories. One day at lunch, I sat down with my husband at the kitchen table, and I started telling him about the concept of future stories.
What I realized is that I still had healing to do. So did my husband. We had never named our future stories. We never laid claim to the futures we'd hoped for and lost. We didn't ever describe our dreams deferred.
Rev. Dr. Luke A. Powery, preacher, author, professor at Duke Divinity School, and dean at Duke University Chapel, writes about "little deaths" in his book, Dem Dry Bones. He says that little deaths "foreshadow our last death and reveal how we are dying on a regular basis even in the midst of our living. These little deaths may be physical sickness or disabilities, moments of transitions or loss, failures, manifestations of violence, experiences and corrupt systems of injustice, and the like." Infertility is definitely a little death.
I experienced several "little deaths" along my own journey. Month after month, a new little death occurred. Each negative pregnancy test. A little death. Each time my period started. A little death. Each round of treatment that yielded no pregnancy. A little death.
Many people don't take infertility very seriously, perhaps because they don't see it as a big deal. But if we phrase it like Rev. Dr. Powery does, infertility carries a certain weight; it increases the gravity of the situation. I remember once, when my period starting after years of trying to get pregnant, I cried like I was attending the funeral of a loved one. In a way, I was. It was the death of a dream. I was mourning the life I couldn't create.
I encourage you, dear reader, to spend some time thinking about the future stories you had once written. Give yourself some time and space to think and process (and probably cry). Take the time to grieve the little deaths. When you're ready, talk to someone - your partner, your friend, your pastor, your doctor... It's an important step. And if you want to share with me, find the "connect" button on the mosaic page and send me a message.
Remember, you're not alone.
There's no need for that dream to dry out or fester. There's no need to mourn that little death alone. Go back to the mosaic page to learn more about writing a new future story.
What happens when we've had this dream our whole lives, and then, out of nowhere, it doesn't come true? What do we do with a dream when, out of our control, it becomes delayed? What do we do with dreams put on hold? What if they're on hold indefinitely?
Do our dreams dry up? Do they turn to sores? Do they stink?
What happens to our dreams of children when we've tried for a year and the doctor tells us we're infertile?
When my husband I got married, he bought me a minivan. We knew we'd have so many children that the only way to transport them all was in the biggest minivan a person could buy. After nearly seven years of trying, undergoing medical treatments and surgeries, it became painfully clear that we wouldn't need the minivan. We sold it and bought a Jeep.
Each of has something called a "future story." It's when we create all these dreams for ourselves and write a story about how we want our future to unfold. My dream involved a big family, full of children. Maybe your dream is similar.
Maybe you dreamed of precious little baby booties. Or midnight lullabies. Or first steps. First words.
But what do we do when that dream is deferred, when that future story doesn't unfold? One result from a fractured future story is grief. We may lose our sense of identity; we definitely lose hope for our future.
So what do we do if our future story doesn't come to fruition?
The first thing we need to do is to acknowledge that broken future story.
My husband and I spent years of our marriage trying to get pregnant. Finally, after all the medical interventions and surgeries left my body feeling fragile and broken, we decided to stop treatment. That was a few years ago. I've done a lot of physical and emotional (and spiritual) healing since then, but recently I read a book about future stories. One day at lunch, I sat down with my husband at the kitchen table, and I started telling him about the concept of future stories.
What I realized is that I still had healing to do. So did my husband. We had never named our future stories. We never laid claim to the futures we'd hoped for and lost. We didn't ever describe our dreams deferred.
Rev. Dr. Luke A. Powery, preacher, author, professor at Duke Divinity School, and dean at Duke University Chapel, writes about "little deaths" in his book, Dem Dry Bones. He says that little deaths "foreshadow our last death and reveal how we are dying on a regular basis even in the midst of our living. These little deaths may be physical sickness or disabilities, moments of transitions or loss, failures, manifestations of violence, experiences and corrupt systems of injustice, and the like." Infertility is definitely a little death.
I experienced several "little deaths" along my own journey. Month after month, a new little death occurred. Each negative pregnancy test. A little death. Each time my period started. A little death. Each round of treatment that yielded no pregnancy. A little death.
Many people don't take infertility very seriously, perhaps because they don't see it as a big deal. But if we phrase it like Rev. Dr. Powery does, infertility carries a certain weight; it increases the gravity of the situation. I remember once, when my period starting after years of trying to get pregnant, I cried like I was attending the funeral of a loved one. In a way, I was. It was the death of a dream. I was mourning the life I couldn't create.
I encourage you, dear reader, to spend some time thinking about the future stories you had once written. Give yourself some time and space to think and process (and probably cry). Take the time to grieve the little deaths. When you're ready, talk to someone - your partner, your friend, your pastor, your doctor... It's an important step. And if you want to share with me, find the "connect" button on the mosaic page and send me a message.
Remember, you're not alone.
There's no need for that dream to dry out or fester. There's no need to mourn that little death alone. Go back to the mosaic page to learn more about writing a new future story.