A Funny Thing Called Hope

(My "good job not dying during surgery" present that I really needed to have.)

Hope is a funny thing. It's strange how crushed you can feel, how completely devoid of it you can think that you are, but how with the right gust of wind, it can all come right back to you like it was never gone. My hope was tucked into storage for the past few months, or maybe even years, and now it's back in the shape of due dates and baby names and nursery themes. It's back in the front of my mind instead of being tucked away in storage for later. And it feels good to have it out again.

We are on the hunt for a home. We are once again trying to get pregnant. (Well, we will be next month when my body is healed.) We have better chances now, our specialist says. She says that before we only had about a 30-40% chance of conception and that now we have 70-80%. She says it's that much more of a distinct possibility now, and all I can do is cry happy tears and mouth the wordless thanks that have been waiting in my heart for this day. All I've wanted has been answers for these past four years, and now that I have them, I am content. This peaceful happiness may be short-lived as we are still on the hunt for something more, but I will continue the search for homes and positive tests with a calm heart, because I have answers and that's really all I need.

They say that Mercury was in retrograde last month and that it could be the cause for many unpleasantries, but I like to take more ownership of my fate. I don't like the idea of something so much bigger holding my destiny in its hands, be it planets or humans or the big man upstairs. I like to think of myself as in charge of my life so much more than I am. But when it comes down to it, my promotion and successful surgery were both things I've prayed about for months but really were completely beyond my control. And it freaks me out a little that so much of my peace of mind rests within the power of someone else, but it is what it is.

One thing that I hope to never forget is a conversation I had with a coworker shortly after she was married in 2009. She asked when I wanted children, and I told her about our five year plan, and she said that it sounded nice but how, in reality, none of us are really in control of that. In the moment, I thought she was ignorant and that I knew best, but that's a moment I will never forget because she knew something then that it has taken me five years to learn: I am not the boss. God is the boss. And no matter how much I fight or want things to be MY way, things will only happen when it's HIS way. I just hope that our wills are finally both the same thing at the same time, because it would be pretty neat to finally start building my family now. And if not now, at least I've still got that hope dug out of storage, ready to use for the months to come.

Yes, hope is a funny thing, friends. But I'm so grateful to have it.

Happy Tears

Oh, hello, beautiful Wednesday. Three days ago, I was working my butt off performing various duties in my new role as supervisor at work. I held girls accountable, trained new staff, and successfully talked a girl into getting out of bed for about thirty minutes before she gave up and laid on the floor in her room again. I also monitored girls as they deep cleaned their home, exercised in their basement, and dealt with the under-staffing that results from a high-stress job with an even higher turnover rate. It was a long day. I was also acutely aware of my intake of fluids and food, as I was not allowed to eat or drink anything past midnight. Had I just experienced my first day of being a gremlin? Nope, I had surgery in the morning!

As you may remember from my months ago post about impending surgery, I was scheduled to have a diagnostic laparoscopy, which is the condensed way of saying getting a couple of cuts in my belly, pumping it full of gas, going through one of those holes with a camera, and identifying and destroying any endometriosis that could be found. This was to be a big surgery for me, since my infertility has been going on for at least the past four years and has been "unexplained" for the past two.

Monday morning came and went faster than even I could have predicted. I arrived at the hospital at 9:15 for a surgery scheduled for 11:40, but the surgery before mine was cancelled and I was able to be fit in even earlier. Seeing the nurse write on the white board that surgery was "NOW!!" had me a bit freaked out to say the least, but I was there and I was doing it and there was no turning back at that point.

After surgery, while in recovery, I chewed on ice chips to soothe my sore throat, and I tried to get any and all information out of my nurse, but she knew nothing about my procedure. It left me feeling frustrated, but the kind of calm, docile, frustrated that you can only feel when your heart is pumping about forty beats a minute and you're too drugged up to really know much beyond what's happening in that moment. I was aware enough, however, to ask the nurse how many incisions I had in my belly, since I knew that there would only be two if they hadn't found any endometriosis. When the nurse answered "three," I might have started crying. There was so much more than three cuts in me in that moment--there was hope.

When I finally got back into my room, where Trevor the nurse ("hey, that's my favorite brother's name too!") wheeled me in, I sipped my water and continued chomping on my ice, and waited for Joshua to come in. When he did, he had pictures and a diagnosis of for real moderate endometriosis, and I suddenly felt so validated and right for all of those times I knew something wasn't right and that there had to be an explanation for why everything wasn't working for us. I cried the happiest tears I could. I called my mom and my mother-in-law and others and cried to them with my slow, scratchy voice. I was relieved and hopeful and happy.

I never thought a diagnosis would make me feel this way, but when you've heard for  years you're probably just not "doing it right" or that you should "just adopt," it feels good to know that you're not crazy. I am not crazy. I have endometriosis. And we removed as much of it as we could find during surgery, and hopefully that's enough so that I can have biological children in my future. And if not? That's okay too. At least I know now what's wrong with me so that I can start dealing with it.

Hey world, I have endometriosis, and while it may not seem an occasion to cry happy tears, there have been many shed in my house this week. Gone are the days of "unexplained" infertility in my house. We finally have answers!!

Happy Tuesday

Hi world.

I miss you.

I haven't been writing in a long time, primarily because there's not much to say.

 I still work full-time at a job I love, I am still married to my best friend, and I am still totally inexplicably infertile.

It could be easy to be down on myself during such a seemingly stagnant period of my life, and while I do have my days where I feel utter frustration at my lack of progression, I'm also totally loving the peace I have recently been able to reach. 

Don't get me wrong--I still want a family. 

I still want to be a mother with every crumb of my soul. 

But I'm on the cusp of turning 26 years old, and while I've been told (for years) to just "enjoy" this time alone with my husband, I feel like I'm just now finally starting to do that. 

Maybe it's the financial (semi)stability. 

Maybe it's the sense of permanence I feel with my husband or my friends or my family. 

Or maybe this peace simply comes from within, from letting go of all of the things I can't control. 

Maybe it's an internal thing that just happens when you're staring your late twenties in the face.

 I don't know, guys. 

This is my first try at life. 

But whatever the reason, I'm so so glad that this peace is here with me.

I love this unpredictable boy and the joy he brings me every single day.

 

I love my imperfectly perfect body.

I love this crazy, chaotic life.

Maybe one day I'll have a baby.

Maybe one day I'll adopt one.

Maybe I won't.

The funny thing about life is that you never really know what's going to happen next, so you really have no other choice but to embrace the now and hope for the best. 

And isn't that all that anyone really needs? Right now?

Happy Tuesday, my friends.

XOXO,

Bryn

Saturday Confessions

I have a confession to make, but I don't really want to. I feel like a big fat jerk for ever even thinking it. But I'm not perfect, and today I'm going to fully admit that. Anyway, here it goes.

Josh and I awoke around 9:30 this morning, enjoying the crisp white comforter warming us, still mulling over last night's dreams and the lingering feelings of sleepiness. We lazily snuggled each other and our furry child and played on our phones and rubbed each other's backs. We were mentally preparing to start packing and cleaning our house for our roadtrip. We were enjoying the rare occurrence of togetherness in the morning. And then Josh's phone rang.

Josh has become a detective in the last month, and he's been a busy bee ever since. It's been amazing on his schedule, but I still work shift work, meaning I still do not have an amazing schedule. That's been the frustrating part. So the fact that we were able to sleep in together was monumental. Meaning we definitely should have known better than to leave all of our packing and readying our home for the Saturday morning that he was supposed to have off.

Anyway, when Josh answered his phone and I overheard the word "echo" from the other end of the line, my heart sank. In cop lingo, echo means dead. If Josh was getting an "echo" phone call, that meant that he'd have to leave and take pictures. And be gone for hours. And have subsequent hours of paperwork. Sigh. He climbed out of bed and put on his uniform. He left in a hurry. And I was left with a feeling of dread.

I then knew that I would then be left with the responsibility of cleaning our entire house. I knew that I'd have to do all of the packing and cleaning out the car and throwing away all of our trash. I knew that I'd no longer have help, and I was sad for myself. I even put a bratty status up on the Facebook page for police wives where I whined about having to do all of the work by myself.

My confession is that, at no point during this entire discovery did I ever even care that someone had died. And for that, I apologize. Sometimes in this life where my husband deals with DUIs, car accidents, overdoses, random crimes, and dead bodies throughout the week, I forget that there are lives intertwined with this mix. Sometimes I forget that while I complain about Josh being gone for a few hours, people are grieving the loss of a person from their lives. I'm a jerk. My paradigm has shifted. I'll quit being such a complainer.

How often in this life do we forget about others in the pursuit of our own interests? How often do we forget about having empathy and understanding for others' situations? How often do we get stuck in the "poor me" state of mind where we're so near-sighted that we forget about how lucky we are? For me, it's far too often.

But now it's really time for me to go get ready. I've got a house to clean and a car to pack. It's a busy day, and I've got things to do. And I'm going to quit having a bad attitude about it, because at least I've got fun things to do and places to be. Today can still be a beautiful day!

xoxo,
B

Eleven Things I Wish I Could Say to My Fertility Doctor

This is a face of infertility.

Dear Infertility Doctor,

I get so flustered and forgetful once I'm in the office where I meet you monthly. These are some things I don't feel comfortable enough to say but feel like they need to be said.

1. Making an appointment to see you has been years in the making, so please take my concerns seriously. It's immensely difficult to admit that I can't do this. It's really hard for me to have come to the understanding that there's something wrong with me. Please remember that just calling you to make an appointment took a whole lot of humility. So please be gentle with my ego.

2. I know that I'm only 25 years old, and I'm completely aware that many of your patients are so much older. I know that I'm technically considered "young." But I also know that my three years of unsuccessful trying have been some of the hardest of my life. Your "older" patients are encouraged to come in after six months, so, unfortunately, I've got a monopoly on the emotional hardship that comes with years of this. Please don't invalidate me because I'm not almost 40. Please don't tell me I've got lots of time because I'm so young. All that does is make me think that you don't value my time and won't work as hard as I need you to.

3. When I ask for more testing, it's because I am not satisfied with your diagnosis. Because, honestly, how the heck is "unexplained" a diagnosis anyway? It's not. It's a cop-out because you don't know what the answer is. You know this. I know this. Let's not pretend that it's anything it's not. You know just as well as I do that next month when I'm not on treatment I could end up pregnant spontaneously, and you wouldn't have any better of an explanation for that either, because neither you nor I understand what's working and not working in my body.

4. There's still about 30% of me that is in complete denial. I still hope that I'm just not timing things right or something. I know that doesn't make sense because we've had like 36 tries to get it right, but that's just part of my denial. Part of me doesn't think I actually have infertility.

5. Another 20% of me really wants to find a natural way to resolve my infertility. I wish that I knew how to get into acupuncture or could enroll in a nightly meditation class or get friendly with a dietician who could help me know exactly what I need. This part of me really hates that I'm going to a fertility specialist and wasting so much money and time on medications that clearly aren't working anyway.

6. About 40% of me is convinced nothing is going to work and I'm barren. (Never say that word. It is the worst!) This part of me is pretty positive I'll either adopt or remain childless. This part of me never expects anything to work anyway and is the "cautious" in my "cautiously optimistic" I feel each month.

7. The last 10% of me is unrealistically hopeful that every single procedure will work and that I'll have the results I want every single month. This part of me starts stressing about the idea of twins or triplets when I haven't even had a positive pregnancy test. This number fluctuates, but it's just shrinking smaller with time.

8. You may have gone through years of school, but I still know my body best. I was ovulating before I met you, and I'll continue ovulating once we part ways. I'm aware that sometime between ovulation and menstruation, something is going wrong. That's really all I know, but I know that there are a million different things that can be going wrong. Not only have I lived in this body my whole life, but I've also done a ton of research in the last three years about my specific symptoms and issues. Don't dismiss my ideas just because I didn't go to medical school.

9. Every month that I get my period, I feel like it's a miscarriage. It is the epitome of utter devastation. Every. Single. Month.

10. IUI's and IVF's may be commonplace for you, but they're really scary and painful for me. If you're in the room performing my procedure, don't talk and laugh with my husband until you're done. Tell me what you're doing. I'm scared and it is physically painful that you're shoving foreign objects into my body. At least talk me through it.

11. All of this having been said, thank you, just the way I say thank you every month. I know that you're trying. I know that you want us to be successful too. I know that you're doing what you can. I'm much more frustrated with our lack of answers and the fact that I don't have a cut and dry case than I am with you. Please don't hold it against me that I'm angry about my situation. I promise I'm not angry with you. Thank you for helping us in our quest.

So Grateful

A wordy thank you from me and a big thumbs up from this hunk!

Holy cow.

I am so humbled.

I feel so blessed.

I am so grateful.

In the two days since we've started our fundraising efforts on gofundme.com, we have raised over $600 and have had almost 40 shares of our page. We've had friends and family from across the country reach out to us and offer to help. We have received so much more support than we could have hoped for. True story, my friends--my heart is full.

This morning, my good friend Anzana reached out to me and offered to set up a fundraising auction where the proceeds will be donated to our IVF fund. Anzana is amazing! She has already raised hundreds of dollars in products and gift cards to a variety of shops and websites through her efforts! Anzana herself is even donating $50 towards the auction--and her shop is awesome! If you're interested in checking out the auction Anzana is setting up, she's going through Instagram and she's periodically putting up pictures of the items and companies going up for auction. If you have anything you'd like to donate, contact Anzana at anzana5@gmail.com and let her know. This is a really exciting time for us, and we'd love to have you all involved in any way you'd like.

Thank you all so much from the bottom of my heart for all of the love, support, donations, and contact. Thank you for helping us get our story out there. Thank you for the encouragement. And most of all, thank you for being here for us when we need you guys the most. You are all amazing.

Love, love, love,
Bryn

How to Be There for Your Infertile Friends

Recently, I've been told that there are too many articles out there telling people what not to say to their infertile friends. My friends have confided in me that they get too worried about saying the wrong things and wind up not saying anything at all. Being forgotten is a scary reality in the infertile's world, as we so often already feel so forgotten by friends, family, society, and even (at times) God himself. So this post is being written to give you all the confidence you need to speak with your infertile friends without being offensive.

1. Just ask about treatment. This might seem weird, but sometimes infertile couples want you to bring up treatment and ask how things are going. They don't want to bring it up themselves, as it can be kind of an awkward bit of conversation to offer up ("Oh, by the way, I got my period again," etc. can be super depressing when initiated by the infertile friend). To bring this up, casually ask about how things are going or ask about future plans. Depending on the day of the cycle, your friend may give you a vague answer. Sometimes this is because she doesn't want to talk about it or doesn't feel comfortable going into details around the company she's with. You can always clarify. And if she gets emotional? (And she probably will.) Be there. It's hard to feel like there's a safe place to just cry and grieve sometimes.

2. Open up the conversation. There are few things more awkward than sitting in a room full of your friends and their families and being completely excluded from the conversation because it's all turned to child-rearing. And even though I've worked with kids of all ages for the past seven years, I'm still not a parent, plain and simple. If you don't want your friends to feel left out, bring up a mutual interest or ask them about something they've been doing in their lives. And if you want to talk about your kids? Do it. Your friends are hanging out with you because they love you. Just don't go crazy and talk about nothing else for hours. That gets super awkward for the childless couple sitting on your couch. I promise.

3. Plan child-free activities sometimes. Your friends love you, and they love your little darlings too, but sometimes infertile couples need a break from all the kid stuff. It already completely consumes their lives, I promise. Invite them out for a double date to the movies or out to dinner or just schedule a sitter and go somewhere to play games or talk. Your friends will appreciate actually getting to visit with you without you sounding like you have Tourette's from how often you interrupt your own conversations to say things to your children. Bonus: surprisingly, parents actually enjoy having conversations with adults too, so it's a win-win!

4. Remember us on the holidays. We are struggling on the holidays, I promise. What's the best time of your life to enjoy a holiday? When you're a child. We are painfully aware that we neither have children nor are children, resulting in some boring holiday traditions alone. Even if you just send a text saying "thinking of you today" or give them a call, your friends will feel better knowing that they haven't been forgotten.

Honestly, the biggest and best thing you can do for your infertile friends is to be there. Your friends are going to either become pregnant or not. If they become pregnant, it can happen through a variety of ways these days, with all the fancy technology and whatnot. Love them no matter what. Support them even if you don't think you'd do the same if you were in their shoes. You never know what you'll do until you're faced with the same situation. If your friends don't become pregnant, they will either adopt, foster, use a surrogate, or choose to live child-free. No matter what, be there. Love them no matter what they choose. Support them no matter how much you think you'd do things differently. That's all we really want. We just want to know that we have the love and support from the people who we also love and support. That's the secret. That's the dream.

Want to know another secret? You're already a great friend for caring. Just keep caring and loving and you won't go wrong. Just be sensitive and use empathy and good judgment before speaking. That's really all you need.

Love,
B

Have any other questions about infertility that you'd like answered? Leave a comment and we may use it in a future post!