My Ignorance of the Agony of infertility

I don't understand. 

Some women, including myself, may say that they gain weight by just looking at a cookie.  This is how it is with me and pregnancy. The moment I stop taking my pills, all I have to do is think about an orgasm, and BAM! Nine months later a baby pops out. (Incidentally I'm so thankful I didn't give into my wild animal instincts before saying, "I do" or I would definitely have 15 kids by now.) I don't tell you this to brag about my hospitable lady parts and my husband's super-strength sperm;  I tell you this because I want you to know that I know what women struggling with infertility already clearly know:  I have ABSOLUTELY NOT ONE SINGLE CLUE about the pain of infertility.   If I tried to say that I understood or offer some kind of trite encouragement, you would walk away cursing my insensitivity, and I would deserve it. I have 3 children who were conceived and born at the exact time that I planned, without Clomid, shots, countless miscarriages,  months going by with yet another negative test, or calendars that tell me when I need to plan to have sex. 

I don't know why it happened that way for me and it hasn't happened that way for you. There is nothing I've done to deserve it and there is nothing you've done that deserves whatever depth and width of feelings you experience and how your experience impacts your day to day life. There is nothing about your pain and circumstance that I understand and I really want you to know that I know that I don't understand and I don't want to ever pretend that I do. I don't know how you feel. 

Since I don't know how you feel, and I recognize this clearly, I often don't know what to say; therefore, I opt for saying nothing at all.  I don't understand and I don't know how you feel, but I do care.  I care deeply.  I see you and I love you. You literally claim the top spot in my prayer book and there are so many times in so many different settings that I am prompted to offer bold prayers on your behalf, believing and claiming miracles and comfort and hope. 

I can't understand. I've heard and witnessed the journeys of too many of those closest to me, but I just don't know what you are going through.  As one of my most beloved friends was at the peak of her incredibly long and agonizing journey, I found out that I was pregnant with Judah, my second child. I am committed to ensuring that those closest to me find out big life news through a phone call, rather than through Facebook, or even a text message, and so, I said a prayer and dialed her number to tell her the good news.  As expected, she sincerely expressed pure and selfless joy and excitement and celebrated with me with incredible love and grace. I didn't mention how this news must be impacting her. I didn't acknowledge how my happy news would probably magnify her pain; she wouldn't have wanted me to say anything. She is so good and concerned for others that I knew she wanted this to be my moment, and I leaned into that. I didn't say anything, but as soon as I hung up the phone, my face fell into my hands and I cried uncontrollably. I imagine that she may have done the same. I don't understand, but I do see you. I do love you.

I won't say that "God has a plan" or that "You should have a little more faith", because this isn't because God has decided to do this to you or because your faith is stale. I won't tell you that there are lots of children who need to be adopted or that you should just quit thinking about it and it will just happen in God's perfect timing, because these words will not help you. I won't try to relate by telling you about the one miscarriage I had in between the births of my healthy children, because it's just not the same. It's not. 

I don't understand, but I'll listen and I'll love you. I'll weep with you and rejoice with you ; I'll give you some space or I'll give you a shoulder to cry on. When I don't know what to say, I'll remain silent.  And I won't stop praying.

My Shout Out to Friendship

Friendship used to come with a bit more ease. Lifelong friendships that began with giggles about our crushes and the code names we (I) gave them like chicken sandwich and strawberry. (Why my secret names always revolved around food I have no idea. Oh wait, yes I do.  Food, glorious food.) Bonds formed through intense shared experiences like weeks at camp, a traveling choir, and trips across the country for conferences with thousands of other teenagers. Later there was laughter and tears in college dorm rooms, late nights in greasy local restaurants drinking cheap coffee, and weekly dinners followed by long nights studying with the occasional dance party break. (An obligatory shout out to 50 Cent needs to be inserted here.) There are a few friendships that were formed during high school, college and grad school that provide strength and familiarity and remind me who I am and I have no doubt will continue to carry me through life. These are the friends who have seen me at my best and my worst, stood up with me when I said, "I do," and who my husband tells me to call when he no longer knows what to do with the crazy spewing out from my life. 

The older I have gotten, the more I have struggled with the ease of friendship. More lonely tears have been shed in my adult life than I care to recall.  I am beyond thankful for the life long companion, partner and best friend I have found in my husband; I would fight anyone who says they have better sisters or parents than I do.  I would choose them as my closest friends over and over again.  And yet, I am wired to live in deep, overwhelming, life-giving community. For my soul to be refreshed and full, I want loud parties and gatherings where I can be exactly who I am and I also need to sit across the table from a person I trust over a cup of coffee or a basket (or three) of tortilla chips and be encouraged, challenged, and loved. To be known.  Where I am. Right now. 

My life long friends are a phone call away, and they can't be replaced. Ever. But I long for face to face, week to week contact with people; friendship in which we mutually, physically, literally walk the present journey together.  This is the space where I have experienced the lack of ease in friendship past the age of twenty-two.  New friendships at this stage of life are hard work. Or are they?

It's been over a year now since a face that had become familiar to me showed up at my office with a book in her hand, inviting me to enter the world of bold prayers that this book had invited her into and, more importantly, she humbly asked me to be her friend. I had wrongfully assumed that she already had plenty of friends, as I am sure she had of me. The truth is, no matter how much it appears that we have it all together, we all need a friend or two or ten. The start to this friendship was different than any others. She boldly gave the invitation for friendship and I gratefully checked the yes box and we just decided to make an effort to become friends. Her courage inspired me to quit sitting on the fence and waiting, but instead to put myself out there and claim the community and friendship that I was made for. 

This means that I now regularly sit across the table from someone I trust and we mutually pour out our souls; I chose to let my guard down and now I enjoy ridiculous group text discussions that make me laugh until I cry, football parties with screaming kids and good conversation, early morning "oatmeal crew" breakfasts where the laughter is spiritual and the endless cups of cheap coffee forge trust between us, and it means I can call out for prayer and help and on the days when I need it most and I get to experience the joy of offering the same to another. 

Life is for living and sharing and giving.  I need you, my friends, because I can't do this life thing on my own. 

I am living and it is good. 

My Home at Sea

 “My soul is full of longing

for the secret of the sea,

and the heart of the great ocean

sends a thrilling pulse through me.”

― Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

It’s peaceful and ferocious, frustrating and calm, satisfying both my hunger for adventure and my need for rest.

As I sit on the edge of the reality that the two weeks I have just spent on the shores of the ocean have come to a close and I must dive into the demands and joys of my current life and work and relationships, I reflect.  I ache for the serenity of the sand beneath my feet.  I yearn to hear again the laughter of my children mixed with the sound of the crashing waves as they play and splash and build.  I mourn the easy and carefree days allowing the hot sun to pour down on me, sipping my coffee, walking in the sand, splashing in the waves. 

The sea is home.  The beach brings clarity and freedom and life slips into focus.  The ocean, whether raging or calm, is God in all God’s fullness, powerful and strong and good. 

I ache, I yearn, I mourn.  I hope that I can hold the adventure and the peace that I find by the sea in my heart and allow it spill over into both the mundane and the chaotic no matter where I am and no matter where I go or what I feel or what may come. 

“The sea always filled her with longing, though for what she was never sure.”

― Cornelia Funke, Inkheart

Perseverance and Poop Attacks

Hemorrhoids the size of oranges and B.M.'s at inopportune moments.  Excuses rooted in reality that result in unmet goals and puking in a plastic bag.

Let me back up.  Before Elayne was born I signed up for the Indy Mini in good faith that this would provide good motivation for me to get back into the game and get my figure back after this tiny little precious life wreaked havoc on my body.  Perhaps I should have had a bit more faith.  Although I kept at Zumba without fail, finding the time and energy to run and train for 13.1 miles while attending to 3 children, a husband, a home, and a job (while also making sure to not neglect important tasks such as getting shellac on my nails and watching Scandal, Grey's, Nashville, and other trashy network television) was, shall I say, enormously difficult.

Early in January I talked a friend into signing up with me. I was extremely excited to have someone to run with on race day. We realized we wouldn't be able to train together with our crazy schedules, but it was great to know I would have someone to chat with and spur me on.  We decided that our goal was not a specific finish time, but to run without ceasing.   I imagined that by the time the day came, I would be more than ready. My hair would have grown long enough to put in a flowing ponytail, my legs and my butt would be toned to perfection, and 13.1 would be as enjoyable and satisfying as laying in my hammock on a sunny day with a good book and a never ending cup of coffee

However, as I stated earlier, my vision was interrupted by hemorroids and crap. On multiple occasions that I had set aside time to get in a long run, I would get going at a good pace, with my motivation high only to be struck with relentless pains at the 2 mile mark.  The pains stopped me in my tracks and forced me to walk half a mile, tears nearly streaming my face as I clinched my butt

cheeks crying out to God, sincerely pleading that I would be able to hold it in until I could reach the nearest porcelain throne.     God is faithful, yes. I made it there with nothing more than a small streak 

as evidence of my troubles.

The very next time I set out with high hopes of reaching my training goals, this strange and horrifying phenomenon struck again.  As if this complication was not enough, I suffered through several runs 

with the hemorrhoids I have been alluding to hanging like a (very large) cluster of grapes, taunting 

my efforts and trying to convince me that I should just forget it. 

 

On the day of the race, I was NOT ready. My hair was pulled up in an unbecoming nub, having not

grown to the lengths that I had imagined. My booty still had a slight jiggle with each step, and what I 

had hoped would be 2.5 hours of relaxing bliss proved to be a test of the mind, strength, endurance,

and heart. 3 weeks before the race, I squeezed out 10 miles and 2 weeks before 6, with no running at 

all in between. For anyone that is a runner, or has any sense about them at all really, knows that this

is not the way to train, but rather a way of treating your body with a form of utter disrespect. As if all

of these other setbacks weren't enough, I am afraid I may have not only inherited my dad's bent

toward hemorrhoids, but also his horrific deteriorating knees. I hated to admit it, but my right knee

felt twisted and numb before I took my first step that morning.

And yet, the odds were not completely against me.  Although the forecast called for rain and I was

preparing for the worst, when the day arrived, the weather conditions for running were perfection and I had Crystal by my side. It just so happens that she is one of the most encouraging and positive

people that I know.  Not only that, but she had properly trained. I depended on her to set our pace. I

didn't want to spring out of the gate too fast and get tired too quickly.    We easily discovered a

sustainable pace that suited both of us and set out with our minds irrevocably determined toward

reaching our goal. No walking, and possibly improving our time. (I ran 2 years ago and she, last

year.)

And we did, both of us even improving our previous times by over ten minutes. Just as we passed the

9 mile mark and I let out my victorious yelp, as is my practice at every single mile marker no matter

how long or short the race, Crystal asked me how I was doing and I admitted that it was difficult. I

was struggling. My mind and my body telling me that I couldn't do it, while my heart knew without a

shadow of doubt that I could. As my mind and my heart warred with each other, Crystal began to

pray out loud, and as she prayed for my knee, I realized that it wasn't hurting anymore. Perhaps it was

because I was completely numb from my hips down, but nonetheless, I was incredibly grateful and

aware of God's presence.

When I crossed the finish line and received my medal, my eyes burned from the accomplishment, but as my feet slowed, my body violently and surprisingly jolted, screaming its anger toward putting it through such a feat without proper training. The misery I felt was indescribable. My legs were shaking in pain, my head was spinning,and my stomach was tied in a thousand knots. I prayed for relief while smiling through our celebratory pictures and walking several blocks back to our car. 

I have convinced myself that I became a new kind of athlete that day (if ever I have been an athlete at all), for I worked myself out to the point of vomiting in a plastic bag in the back of Crystal's mom's van. I had arrived and they were gracious and compassionate as my body responded and cleansed itself.  

When I arrived home, my children were anxiously awaiting their mommy, who had a run a race equidistant to running to our church and back, only to hear me run into the house, slam my things down and hurl myself over the toilet.  Judah came running and began to pat my back, whimpering slightly and pleading with me, wondering what was wrong. 

I slept hard that afternoon and woke up with a thirst and a hunger I hadn't experienced for a while. I used my pain as an excuse to cuddle with my children and do absolutely nothing but sit with my family and feel enormously grateful for the ability to finish strong and steady.  Even though I was the complete opposite of the graceful gazelle that I had hoped to be on race day, it was just as it should have been. Once again I was reminded that perfection isn't the goal.  Faithfulness and perseverance is what I am striving for in this beautiful life.  I was reminded that I don't have to have it all together and do it all, but I can admit my weakness and depend on those who are stronger to pull me along. 

I learned. I grew. I am thankful and blessed.  And a few unpleasantries in my bodily functions can't keep this girl down. 

A Baby Story

I don’t have control issues At. All.  I stated this clearly with anyone that I shared my birth plan with.  The due date for my baby was October 25, a Thursday.  There would have been nothing wrong with having the baby on Thursday, but I wanted the baby to be born on Monday.  Of course, no mother wants to wait any longer than necessary to meet her new little bundle of joy, but I had very practical reasons as well.  Matt would be off work beginning on Monday for the week and so it really just made more sense for the baby to come early in the week.  And so, my plan has been all along to spend the weekend before doing all the “tricks” to speed things up. 

Last Thursday, October 18, began the weekend for me as the office was closed for fall break on Friday.  I made sure my maternity leave plan was passed on to all of the necessary people, washed all of my coffee mugs, and closed the door to my office without looking back, convinced and hopeful that I wouldn’t be returning on Monday. 

Let the labor inducing tricks begin!

I headed straight to Zumba where I held nothing back.  I squatted  a little lower and shook it just a little more.  I stole the exercise ball from my parents house and bounced on it for twenty five minutes.  When Matt got home, I moved on to more squats, spice, and sex.  The spice came in the form of Buffalo Wild Wings and the sex needs no explaining, except to say that Matt was glad to be part of trying to get the baby into the world. 

Friday morning I woke up with very mild contractions, but they were enough for me to instruct Matt to pack his bag and I packed up my make up and put my bags by the door before taking Keira to school.  After I began going about the activity of the day, the contractions subsided and my sister convinced me that it was the sex that brought it on and I was disappointed to resign myself to the realization that I wasn’t experiencing the early signs of labor.   Nevertheless, Friday evening there was more bouncing, more squatting, and more sex.  (You’re welcome, Matt.) 

Saturday morning the contractions were a little stronger and a little closer.  It was time.  I got in the shower, called my mom, and we headed to the hospital.  This was going to be the perfect birth experience, exactly mirroring Judah’s birth.  Or so we thought.  When we got to the triage room and I was hooked up to have my contractions monitored, the contractions just stopped.  Are you kidding me?  I am not crazy.  It was real.  I was sent home, frustrated and annoyed.  I comforted myself by indulging in Dad’s waffles and going shopping and spending the afternoon camped out on the couch. 

Around 5:30 I decided I should start timing my contractions.  I discovered that they were unpredictable and had no steady rhythm.  The nurse had sent me home with a “signs of labor” sheet so that I wouldn’t come in unnecessarily again.  It indicated that contractions need to be 5-7 minutes apart for at least an hour.  From 5:30 until midnight, my contractions were anywhere from 7-30 minutes apart so I figured I had better not jump the gun and run to the hospital.  I took a bath at midnight and decided that I was done timing those stupid things.  I was just going to go to sleep and if a contraction woke me up I would consider the possibility of actually being in labor.  I got in bed and caught up on my Words with Friends games until deciding to try to sleep at 12:30.  As soon as I laid down, the contractions started kicking in every 3 minutes.  Seriously?  Now I actually want to go to sleep.  I decided to get up and walk around since they say that it isn’t real if they stop when you walk around.  At 12:45 I sat up to get up to walk around just as an excruciating contraction hit and simultaneously my water broke. 

“Baby… we’ve got to go NOW!”  Matt shot up out of bed and I rushed into the bathroom, doubled over in pain and proceeded to hover over the sink to quickly brush my teeth again and Matt helped me get dressed.  Suddenly the contractions were no more than a minute apart.  The phone call went out to my mom at 12:54.  Matt and I got in the car and waited for Uncle Coy to arrive to stay with the kids and pulled out of the driveway as soon as he pulled in at 1 AM. 

The 20 minute trip to the hospital was never ending.  I worried that we were going to get pulled over as I held my legs together and beat the side of the car to keep from screaming as the pain kept coming.  When we arrived, Matt refused to park the car, leaving it at the entrance to the ER, to my dismay.  “I can walk!  Just park the car!”  “No!  We’ve got to get in there now!  Don’t worry about the car!” 

I sat down immediately in a chair in the ER while Matt frantically searched for a wheelchair.  He rushed me up to the OB and when we arrived we were met with a staff of nurses who apparently didn’t see the pain on my face and the terror on Matt’s.  They slowly led me into the triage room and the nurse began getting things ready to hook me up to monitor my contractions.  Um, I’m pretty sure I don’t need that.  The baby is about to pop out. 

Suddenly, nurse Brenda came to the rescue.  She invited me into the exam room and upon examination informed me that she couldn’t find a cervix.  I did not understand initially.  Does she mean that I am still not dilated in the midst of this pain?  Is there something wrong with me?  She must have sensed my confusion.  “I mean, this baby is ready to come.”  “Oh, yeah, I do feel like I need to push.  Can I get an epidural?”  Calmly, nurse Brenda delivered the news, “There’s no time for that.  We need to get you in a birthing room and this baby is coming in a few minutes. “  No drugs?  I was horrified.  I tore my clothes off and as soon as I sat down in the wheelchair, Brenda ran across the nurse’s station and into a birthing room. 

I got in that room at 1:35 and my parents and sister arrived shortly after.  I was unaware of anything that was going on other than that I concentrated on breathing and holding my legs together.  Brenda got her gloves on and stood at the foot of the bed, ready to deliver if necessary.  I was determined to hold my legs together until the doctor arrived.  He came in around 1:47.  “Can I push now?”  I lifted my legs up and pushed, letting out a caveman scream.  Even as the scream escaped my lips, I knew that I should try to get that under control, that it really wasn’t helpful.  In between contractions, the doctor calmly instructed me to take a deep breath and hold it and push as hard as I could and try not to scream.   Four concentrated and painful pushes later, a beautiful baby girl was thrust onto my chest at 1:52 AM.  I was so overwhelmed by the events of the last hour, I could hardly react.  Did that really just happen? 

One of these days I should release control.  I am a mom.  There really is not much I can control.  Maybe I will learn that someday.  Maybe.  Sure, the baby came in in my proposed timeframe, but that was not my birthing plan.  Not. At. All. 

In the end, it’s a gift that I was out of control because it’s another reminder that God is in control and the only thing that matters is that our family has been blessed once again with a precious little baby.  I am so in love with Elayne Debra Shelton I can hardly stand it.  Joy overflows. 

Soap in a Sock

I was curled up in a ball on the floor next to my bed in the middle of the night taking deep breaths as the sweat began to gather on my brow and I prayed fervently that these would not be my last moments in this world.

I consider myself to have a fairly high tolerance for pain, but this pain was excruciating and it was certainly the result of one of the many strange things that occurs in a woman's body when she has a person growing inside of her.  Let's just pause there for a minute while I venture onto a momentary tangent.  Saying that someone is merely pregnant really diminishes the reality of what is going on.  Yes,  pregnancy is a common occurrence, but this doesn't take away from the ridiculous miracle that this entails.  A PERSON.  In my belly.  Weird.  You wouldn't believe the daggers that I shoot at my husband when he dares to utter such phrases as "I'm so tired today" or "My back hurts".  You're tired?  Your back hurts?  I have a person inside of me!  

Now back to the matter at hand.  The pain.  It all started when my baby belly reached that point of vastness indicating that my only option is to sleep on my side.  As I entered into this stage, the leg cramps simultaneously began to define my life and impose on my sleep.  For nearly two months I woke up in the night writhing in pain.  Every. Single. Night.

A little over a month ago I was taking a walk with my mom around the neighborhood and I mentioned my tormenting leg cramps.  "Well, you know," she began, "An old lady in your uncle's church told him a while back that if you put a bar of soap in your bed, your leg cramps will go away."  I laughed out loud.  This was certainly one of the craziest pieces of information that had ever been passed my way and I make it a point to never believe such superstitions.  She proceeded to tell me that both my uncle and my grandma have had a bar of soap in their beds for the past year and they have been cramp-free.  Specifically, they have placed a bar of soap in a sock and positioned it at the bottom of their beds.  She also told me that the soap has to be white, but it cannot be Dove brand.   Oh, so this unbelievable wive's tale has specific rules?  I greatly respect both my uncle and my grandma, but I would not be paying any heed to this remedy.  

The next night I found myself in a hotel room on a retreat with several of the Resident Directors that I work with and I casually mentioned that if my tossing and turning in the night was distracting, it would be because of my nightly cramps.  "Well, you know," one of the ladies began, "My grandma used to have leg cramps..."  She then continued to tell me the same story of the success of the bar of soap in the bed.  I was dumbfounded.  I don't believe in this type of thing and I don't believe in signs, but maybe this was a sign.  Two days in a row I was given the same senseless information.  Maybe it was sign that I needed to give it a try and find some relief.  

When I returned home, I humbly told my mom of my intentions to give it a try.  She provided me with two new bars of white Safeguard from her stash and sent me on my way.  I opened the cabinet in my laundry room, happy to finally have some use for one of the socks whose mate had mysteriously been eaten by the dryer.  The soap was securely placed in the sock and carefully placed at the base of my bed.  

A month later, I crawl into my bed each night and reflexively rub my foot against the sock containing the soap for the assurance that it is still there to protect me from leg cramps.  Yes, it works.  From the very first night this nighttime companion entered my world, it has eliminated my leg cramps.  I won't say that I'm a believer.  This is still too much for me to admit, but there is absolutely no way that I am taking that bar of  soap out of my bed.  I even have an extra soap in a sock that has a home in my travel bag, always ready to join me when I leave town for the night.  

I know that you don't believe it either, and I certainly don't blame you, but I dare you to give it a try.  Whether you have leg cramps or not, Google "soap leg cramps."  You will find a plethora of information and success stories to keep you entertained and wide-eyed for hours.