She said to rail.
He encouraged me to throw a temper tantrum.
I was too tired to continue feeling strong.
So I yelled until my throat hurt. I began to cry (again.) I fell apart on the floor beside my bed. My breath was escaping me and I simultaneously felt a chill and a warm sensation throughout my body. As the tears slid down my face I whispered to myself- hope.
Hope is not lost. Hope is alive. It's fragile, but it's alive.
I've remained strong for so long that I was due for a moment to fall apart. I sat on there on the floor and stared at the pregnancy test. The word negative glared back at me. I sighed.
I've stopped counting the number of times I've been called words like high risk, infertile, a difficult patient and my favorite, fertility challenged. Yes, I'm apparently challenged in the area of having babies.
Meanwhile, an anger rises up within me. There are women a decade younger than me getting pregnant without trouble and that feels incredibly strange to me. (It shouldn't, but it does.) I'm ONLY 31 years old! The phrase IT'S NOT FAIR! escapes from my lips. But deep down I don't believe in fairness.
I do believe in hope. I believe in courage after disappointment. I know that grief and loss can paralyze me but only for as long as I allow it to. Each miscarriage feels more devastating than the last. Each negative test is confusing and frustrating.
So how do I nourish hope? How can I keep this dream alive?
With truth. And lots of it.
Truth quiets the fear, the doubt.
I know that my husband deeply desires to have a child but he also loves me as I am. I believe my worth is not defined by any shortcomings or what I "can't" do.
I trust that ashes can be fertile ground. And this ground I'm standing on? It's fertile. And holy.
So I continue to hope. I nourish my soul and my marriage.
Even in the suffering.