Josh and I married in 2006. In the summer of 2007, we decided we wanted to have a child of our own. (My son Ashton was born in 2004). Josh had never experienced pregnancy or childbirth, and we were so excited about doing this together. After about six months of trying, we got a little worried. I knew that birth control could have lasting effects, so we didn't get too worried at first. After a year, however, we were pretty worried. Before I went to see my OBGYN, I started reading up on pregnancy and ovulation. I started charting my temperature. I bought ovulation testing kits. (We probably could have purchased stock in pregnancy and ovulation kits. Holy cow. SO MANY TESTS.) In the meantime, every negative pregnancy test and every period was devastating. I cried each and every time my period started. I cried each and every time the pregnancy test came back negative. As I sat and wept in my bathroom, it was like I was attending a private funeral for one. I felt like I couldn't share my grief with anyone. It was even hard to share it with my husband. I felt like it was all my fault. After months of reading on ovulation and charting my temperature, I started to figure out that I wasn't ovulating. It was then that I finally went to visit my OBGYN. Josh and I both underwent testing, and it turns out that Josh is fully fertile. (Sorry if that embarrassed you, babe.) I, on the other hand, was the source of all the issues. My suspicions had been correct. I wasn't ovulating. It was all my fault. During this time period, I offered my husband a divorce - as I called it, "an easy way out," so he could marry a fertile woman if he wanted. I assumed that he cared more about producing a progeny more than he cared about me. His shock and being totally caught off-guard assured me that I was totally and completely wrong. (What a surprise - he loved me for me, and not for my ovaries.) I started taking an oral medication to increase my ovulation. OH MY WORD, THAT MEDICATION MADE ME FEEL INSANE. Y'all, I was on an emotional roller coaster, and it never was any fun. I felt angry and extremely depressed, I lashed out at anyone and everyone, and I was MISERABLE. I kept taking the medication, we kept "scheduling" sex, and I kept taking pregnancy tests. NEGATIVE. EVERY. TIME. More private funerals for one. I honestly do not even know how long I was on the oral medication. We finally got to the point where I couldn't stand how it made me feel, and under care of my OBGYN, I stopped taking it. A few years ago, I underwent a surgery to clear up complications from endometriosis. My doctor thought I might have scar tissue from that, and it could possibly be the culprit behind my lack of ovulation. The surgery was described as being successful for most people - many women, it seemed, got pregnant within months following the surgery! Well, the recovery from surgery was long and painful. And spoiler alert: I didn't get pregnant. It's 2018, and I still haven't. (You may be thinking, "This sounds more like a grief story, not a story of hope and inspiration!" Yeah, I get that. Keep on reading...) Not too long ago, we decided to stop treatment. It was hard and heart-breaking. I had to start taking hormones to "fix" the ways the oral medication ravaged my body. We've tried writing new future stories. It's been 11 years. Wow. I calculated the math this morning. How weird, that it's been that long. So where's the hope? We have one child - mine by biology, Josh's by step-parent adoption. While we give thanks for this child, we grieve the fact that we did not get to have a child together. We grieve the fact that we did not get to experience ultrasounds, first heartbeats, choosing a name together, partnering in birth... I grieve that he never got to put his hand on my belly and feel a baby kick. That he never got to drive furiously to the hospital while calling relatives to say, "It's time!" But here's the hope. We have written new future stories. The stories keep changing. Right now, I'm in seminary right now. It's a three-year program. I drive about three to four hours each day I commute. I spend all my time doing homework and preparing projects, while being a wife, mother, and youth director... If I had a baby, or a toddler, I might not have chosen to go to seminary. I might not be preaching. I might not be leading Sunday night youth prayers and mission trip. My son is entering his teen years and needs me now maybe more than ever. I'm able to devote my time and energy to him and not feel even more spread thin. My husband and I are learning new ways to carve out time for each other. You see, my hope didn't end with a baby. It didn't end with IVF or adoption or a biological break-through. My hope didn't actually end. My faith in God, and my ever-evolving understanding of who God is and how God works, is my hope. My understanding that God didn't "give me infertility" so that I might finally "learn something" gives me hope. My understanding that God weeps when we weep, and that my "private funerals for one" weren't that at all, but that God was with me in every single moment - that gives me hope. My understanding that I am not alone and that there are so many people out there who are living stories like mine, that gives me hope. So if your hope doesn't look like everyone else's, dear friends, please know that you are not alone. Hope is still there. My prayer is that you find it, and that peace accompanies you as you're looking. Love, Dallas
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