Infertility isn’t like a fever or the flu, where your body heats unnaturally and your head pounds like it is being used as a kick drum in a rock band. It’s not a physical illness obvious to others like the red bumps of chickenpox or the dry, rashy skin of eczema.
The effects are more subtle, hidden, intertwined with deep emotional and mental battles. But similar to a fever or the flu, infertility can make you want to hole up in your home, driving you to stress-eat or lie on the couch for hours without moving.
Infertility requires a grieving process.
Why?
A secret of infertility is that it makes you second-guess your deepest desires, hopes, and dreams, the ones you have always had.
For me, infertility made me forget that I even wanted to become a mom.
You might wonder how I could possibly forget something so crucial to who I believe God made me to be. I understand that it doesn’t make sense; it confuses me too.
But let me explain how I felt robbed of the yearning for children.
Like the serpent in the Garden of Eden, infertility whispers lies. It snuck up behind me and gripped my shoulders, hissing deceit in my ears.
“You can’t get pregnant, so why dream of a family? You can’t waste your time thinking about being a mom when you are so obviously not. Give it up.”
“You don’t have kids, so you should dream and plan to do things that actually could come true if you try hard enough. Work for what’s right in front of you. Don’t be dumb and pine for something that’s not coming true.”
In the past four years and up to now, these voices have attacked me like a shark, biting chunks out of my heart and flesh until I am too weak to fight. The lies can be so loud, the whispers so intense that I struggle for the strength to stand up for myself.
So, to protect my heart, I built armor around me. It was too painful to recognize my empty womb, so I chose to be numb, to pretend that I haven’t dreamt of motherhood since I was 12 years old babysitting every kid in the neighborhood. The armor of self-protection helped me swear off any baby naming, wishful thinking, room decorating, and specific baby-begging prayers.
I let infertility convince me I might never have children and that maybe I didn’t even want them. Believing that was sometimes easier than dealing with the pain of wanting something I didn’t have.
So what happens when the armor slowly chips away as my husband and I pursue adoption? When I discover grants and scholarships available to adoptive parents? When I learn of a potential birth mother's first name? When through tears, I pray Proverbs 3:5-6 and begin to trust God for a baby?
Suddenly, I envision a crib in our guest room and a wriggly baby sleeping on the crook of my neck. My eyes are opened to the very real possibility of welcoming an infant into our home, and I am inclined to accept this dream as a pending reality.
I have to deconstruct the armor that has been protecting me from real pain and open up my heart in vulnerability. The tidal wave of emotions that have been building and building over the years is crashing down and settling around me.
And in the tender brokenness of my dream to become a mom, infertility loses its power. I replace the numbing and armor with something else, something beautiful.
Hope.
And that hope is ballooning in my chest, sending the anguish of childlessness running away.
The days are here where I can’t stop crying. Where I am reconciling the pain of nine years of marriage and no kids, with the beautiful, bright future of raising children with my best friend and will-be amazing dad, Kevin. The tension of letting go of the stronghold infertility has had on me and trusting God with my dreams is terrifying.
But through the grace of God, I am learning to hope. To ignore the ugly voices of guilt, shame, and despair, and cling to the belief that Kevin and I will one day parent precious souls together.
I choose to believe.
I choose to hope.
I will never give up.
Kim lives with her husband, Kevin, surrounded by sunshine in Central Florida. They have been married since 2010, have lived in three states, and own weird pets: two bunnies and a turtle. The human children have yet to arrive, but they have a guest room in their home and are praying for God to fill it in His timing. Kim loves to be outdoors running, biking, and playing sports. She and her husband serve at their church, primarily in the youth group. They have enjoyed several years of crazy games, youth retreats, and mentoring relationships. She enjoys working as a language tutor teaching Spanish and tutoring English as a second language, and also loves to devour a well-written memoir in her free time. She writes at www.kimpatton.com.
