Tag: friendship

A Child’s Palm

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The following reflection was written by Forsythia. 

She walks to a table in the center of the cafe, son at her heels. They sit, facing one another, his knees tucked under him. He leans on his elbows across the polished surface, eyes following every movement as she carefully unwraps the pastry from its cellophane protection. He bounces on his knees once or twice as the moment approaches, excitement welling up in his joints. She tears away a chunk and, trailing crumbs, places it in his little palm, stretched out in anticipation and openness and certainty. He knows that she will put there something that is delicious, something that is good, because he knows that he is loved, that he is safe. He trusts her.

But that is not always so. There is only so much this little mind can comprehend. And often what is good will look bad; what is safe will seem restrictive; what is loving will be perceived as hatred.

This is not an unfamiliar metaphor to the Christian. In Jesus’ famous words, found in Luke 11 and Matthew 7:

“What father among you, if his son asks for a fish, will instead of a fish give him a serpent; or if he asks for an egg, will give him a scorpion? If you then, who are evil, know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will the heavenly Father give the Holy Spirit to those who ask him!”

I am reminded of this verse as I watch this little boy with his mother. I see the outstretched hand, the way it returns again and again to the center of the table full of expectation and without hesitation, and I cannot help but be transported back in time to dark nights in bed, face wet with tears, chest constricted by sobs. Here was I holding my palms out until they burned with the effort, begging God in prayer to fill me with something good: to place in the aching emptiness of my womb a throbbing, vibrant life.

You could not tell me in those moments that God gives good gifts to his children. That he is a faithful, constant, loving parent. You could not tell me such things as I watched the world spinning in unbroken motion, life marching on in expected sequence for those around me while I was cast out of orbit to float untethered in uninhabited space. No, my heart would reject the notion of a loving God as though it were poison—my heart did reject it, for years.

I rejected it not because it was a lie, but because it was the wrong remedy for the wounds life was inflicting on me.

There are many such things that, though they are true, are utterly unhelpful in the darkest moments of infertility. If you have never experienced miscarriage or infertility, in order to love well the someone in your life who has or is, you must understand this.

Other truths that were hurtful to me in the middle of my grief were “God has a plan for you” (Jeremiah 29:11) and “All things work together for good” (Romans 8:28). These things were said to me in order to bring comfort, but they served to harden my heart.

Not all methods of healing are appropriate for every wound, and only certain kinds of medication can help certain ailments. These truths—good, rich, helpful truths—were the wrong medication for me at the time. They were meaty, rich, decadent foods that my starving body could not digest. I needed simpler nourishment, nutrition that my weakened self could absorb.

So easily, we overlook that the Word of God is not all optimism and rejoicing and victory—that hope for the Christian begins with a suffering servant who, in his moment of deepest despair, cried out to God a question that was answered with silence (Matthew 27:46). Often, this is what infertility feels like: beating our breasts, crying out to God, and hearing nothing in return. That level of brokenness cannot be mended by words, however true they may be. And in fact, these words may be added pressure that further splinters the bone.

This was my reality and, I think, reality for many who experience infertility or child loss. So, what is one to do?

To the person trying to love an infertile friend: listen exhaustively, speak rarely. Empathetic phrases like “that’s sucks” and “I’m so sorry” go a long way. This person you love will need you to believe truth and pray bold prayers for them because they will probably not be able to do it for themselves. It may not feel like it, but even in silence, you are essential. Listening leads to vulnerability and trust, and out of that deep knowing, the right words will come.

To the person going through infertility or miscarriage: relationship is messy. People will say stupid things—they will be well meaning and extremely hurtful. I am so sorry for that. But you need to find community. Isolation kills. Have grace for those that are trying to love you well. Over-communicate, even though vulnerability is so very hard. Be honest when things hurt you. Tell people what you need. Don’t do this alone.

I believe that God is a good father. I believe that he holds all things in his hands, and knows all things. I believe that he sees the path of my life in its entirety and is a wise, faithful, and trustworthy steward of that story. I believe these things, and yet I do not always believe them. Thank God for community in which to bear each others’ burdens, and for grace, which is daily needed in the messy business of loving one another.

 

The Waters Between Us

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Lavender-Picture-15The following reflection was written by Lavender. 

The isolating effects of infertility can be far-reaching. While I have not experienced infertility myself, a few of my closest friends have been walking down its lonely road for many years. Over these years situations, conversations, and interactions have occurred that have threatened to dig deep gulfs between us that would erode the foundations of our friendships. The fathomless waters of grief, hurt feelings, and loss would try to rise, putting us on separate islands. I am so grateful that my friends and I saw the value in continually and intentionally building bridges to keep us connected.

The first time I realized that infertility had the potential of separating us happened when my friends started going for tests and procedures, and I was not yet trying to get pregnant. Their worlds seemed full of appointments, anticipation, and disappointment. It was so hard to watch them go through all these things, not having any medical knowledge or life experience to draw from. In addition, I wasn’t in their same mindset about eagerly seeking pregnancy. Looking back, I see their patience with me when I must have seemed immature and unhelpful in their emotional struggles. Cookouts, coffee shop dates, game nights, and other mundane social gatherings served as bridges for us to stay connected, to keep “normal life” afloat as we entered this new era in our relationships.

A few years into this journey, my husband and I felt we were prepared to start a family, and I became pregnant before my friends with infertility. This appeared to everyone to be in the wrong order, and it was deeply felt on all sides. I felt guilty about this, and my “good news” seemed like bad news to the friends with whom I had most wanted to celebrate. I had no idea how to share it and when I did, I dealt a huge blow. In response, I perceived feelings of anger, frustration, apathy, and resentment. There were attempts at joy swallowed by sadness. I think this for many people would have been a tipping point. It would have been easy for us to go our separate ways, to avoid further injury. In actuality, I was in more of a place to feel sympathy for them than ever before. I had a new understanding of the pregnancy-seeking world, having entered it myself. I listened more intently and tried to give more of my support. More bittersweet times lay ahead, when I felt that I could not share some aspects of my pregnancy (discomfort, tiredness, sweet baby movements inside of me, etc.) for fear of appearing ungrateful or boastful. I must say my friends gave heroic efforts in supporting me with kind words, tips on sales on baby gear, and questions about my pregnancy. While we kept our friendships together, I just can’t help feeling even today that we missed out on the bond that comes from everyone eagerly anticipating something together.

The third opportunity for isolation came when my baby was born. I felt so loved by family and friends who supported us generously when we came home. I remember desperately wanting to share the joy of my baby’s birth with my sisters-by-heart and thinking that they were very likely in a place not to feel it. Crushing. They bravely came soon after we arrived home, and I have rarely felt so emotionally vulnerable. This was heightened by my physical and emotional exhaustion. My friends with infertility reached out their hands and built another bridge just by having the gumption to show up and support me in my early days of motherhood. It may not always have been with the happiness I craved, but they found it within themselves to put aside their pain to be with me anyway.

As time passed, I tried to support my friends as they struggled with their infertility. There were times when I felt like the outsider, being the only mom as others discussed their most recent infertility test or procedure, or decision to adopt. On the flip side, I knew they felt like outsiders when I talked about what I was going through as a new mom. There were social gatherings at which children were encouraged to stay with a babysitter, which was bittersweet. On one hand, I was happy to have an evening or a day with only adults. I was lucky to have a support system that I could count on to take care of my baby if my husband and I wanted to attend these events. However, I didn’t like the feeling that if I didn’t get a babysitter, I would have to stay isolated at home because I was a mom. I understood that my friends wanted to have gatherings without having to be reminded of their infertility by having children around, but it still hurt. The important thing is, we just kept talking. When we hurt each other, we eventually apologized. We kept praying, reaching out, and connecting. We just kept trying, hoping it would be enough.

I have seen the waters that threatened to separate us recede time and again. It was with the deepest elation and relief that I have seen my friends become mothers. Years of my prayers, anxiety, and anticipation seemed to wash away as I welcomed their babies into this world. What if they had never become mothers? I actually believe we would have found a way to remain friends. I felt that it was imperative not to let infertility define who we were as people. Infertility was one part of their identity, but these lovely ladies were so much more than that. I decided a long time ago that if they would have me as their friend, I wouldn’t let them go for anything.

A Balm to the Lonely Heart

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forsythiaThe following reflection was written by Forsythia.

Infertility is an isolating thing.

I have spent hours upon hours this week trying to flesh out that statement. I have written countless drafts of this narrative attempting to explain where this isolation comes from, what it looks and feels like, how to prevent it. It has eluded me again and again. It is extremely complicated, nuanced, personal, and hard to express.

But here goes nothing.

My isolation in infertility was caused by being left out and left behind; by thoughtless, insensitive, well-meaning but often asinine comments; by cultural and religious expectations I couldn’t fulfill; and plenty other external forces. I could describe each one in painfully perfect detail.

But there’s another side of the story, too. Inadequacy, shame, guilt, fear, and despair constantly came between me and community from a strong, internal source:

I found myself believing, truly believing, terrible lies: I was too fat and ugly to be pregnant. I was not a real woman unless I was a mom. My life mattered less than those who were parents. My infertility was a punishment. These things filled me with guilt and shame. I was deathly afraid that they might actually be true, as ridiculous as they sound. But, I was too embarrassed to share these fears and my inability to be open about them kept me locked inside myself.

I was constantly comparing my life to those around me, creating a false hierarchy that separated me from others. In addition to isolation, comparison caused me to feel shame and self-pity when I didn’t measure up and pride and self-righteousness when I determined myself superior. My heart was soaked through with bitterness, and I could not see the beauty of my own story for lusting after everyone else’s.

The relationship between joy and grief in my life was basically impossible to explain. I almost never experienced one without the other for years and years. When my siblings were becoming pregnant with their first, second, third; when I watched my parents love on their grandkids; when friends were enjoying their newborns and telling birth stories–I felt happiness, joy, excitement, interest. But if I were my authentic self, not just the socially-acceptable version with a smile and the right words, I would have to admit that these feelings were always tempered by pain and grief. I was embarrassed to feel this way. I constantly berated myself for not being able to be purely happy for those I loved. I told myself that I was selfishly making everything about me. Nevertheless, the feelings didn’t change. It was a part of my process through loss and, as a friend recently reminded me, “there are no shortcuts through grief.” This struggle was a huge part of my day-to-day life, and fear of judgment or rejection kept me from being honest about it.

These kinds of thoughts, feelings, experiences are corrosive if handled completely alone. Because isolation is so easy to slip into, and is cultivated by both outward and inward forces, I know no other remedy but the constant pursuit of friendship—even with just one person. This is a two way street: it is a meeting together of two hearts both willing to be absolutely honest, and committed to sticking around despite the messiness. It’s hard to be alone when someone is consistently pursuing the heart of you, demanding openness and authenticity even when you don’t feel like giving it to them.

Such friendship must be earned through lots of listening, sacrifice, patience, reciprocal vulnerability, and consistency. It’s hard work, but even one such relationship is a balm to the lonely heart—indeed, a spring of water to a person dying of thirst.

The Loss of Connection, part 2

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forsythiaThe following reflection was written by Forsythia.

 

“The friend who can be silent with us in a moment of despair or confusion, who can stay with us in an hour of grief and bereavement, who can tolerate not knowing… not healing, not curing… that is a friend who cares.”
–Henri Nouwen

As I evaluate the losses my husband and I have accrued through our infertility journey, the most obvious one to me is the death of our dream to have biological children. There are so many other losses attached to that, from seeing our features in a child’s face to what the process of conception looks like.

But as a new mother to an adopted son, there is another great loss that haunts me. It is powerfully devastating: a heart-aching loss I never anticipated. I am reminded of it especially in the daily text exchange between me and my best friend, Dogwood.

She is my go-to on any manner of baby-related subjects:

Did you ever have trouble with your newborns being gassy or straining to poop?

At what age/weight did you move up to the next level of car seat, and would you recommend the one you have?

Did you use essential oils on yourself like normal even while breastfeeding?

And also the person with whom I share every sweet revelation or difficult moment:

HE’S SO COZY I COULD SNUGGLE FOREVER 

How silly all my fears [about adoption] seem now

He was rotten all night

She’s always there with a word of wisdom, solidarity, encouragement. The way she loves my son is breathtaking. Her willing, joyful, tireless involvement in this new stage of my life is a priceless gift.

This is a gift that I did not, could not, give to her.

When she was becoming a mom for the first time, I was in the early stages of discovering our infertility–in that brutal period of adjustment where expectations are shattering, dreams dying, hope dissipating. My husband was years away from the emotional stage of processing that I was in and I felt utterly alone. I was in shock and struggling with grief, and every new pregnancy or birth I encountered threw a giant spotlight on my wretched emptiness.

So when Dogwood called to tell me she was pregnant with her first child, it was indescribably painful. A hot wave of dread crashed over me. Tears flooded my eyes. Through a constricting throat, I managed to congratulate her and tell her I was happy, lying because I was ashamed of how I felt and because I believed it’s what she wanted to hear. Somehow, I kept my composure until we hung up, and then I called the only friend I knew at the time who had experienced infant loss, the only friend I could think of who might understand the weight on my heart. On the phone with her, I sat in a dark bathroom, trying to keep my tears secret from my husband as I sobbed uncontrollably into the receiver.

Soon after, Dogwood made me confess what my true reaction to her news had been: even then she knew me so well that concealing my feelings from her was impossible. That was one of our first and biggest fights; it was what I had feared would happen, but strangely, not for the reason I had feared it. Instead of being upset because her pregnancy had brought me pain, she was upset because I was pulling away from her, trying to hide my true self from her. I believe that this conversation set the tone for our relationship over the years to come. It was when Dogwood told me “I’m all in.”

I wish I could say that her willingness to walk alongside me in my pain made me more open to her joy. Perhaps it did in some ways; nevertheless, it did not make me able to be emotionally present in her early days of motherhood—with her first nor, sadly, her second child.

These days, as I eagerly send her a question regarding the daily rituals of parenthood, or text her a picture of the son I can’t seem to stop photographing, it is ever in my mind that she never had the luxury of sending me such messages. There were no phone calls or texts venting new mom frustrations, and I knew she was careful about expressing excitement and love for her children to me.

Infertility comes with an astronomical price tag. In the thick of it, I was giving my friend everything that I felt able to give to her, and only now do I see how little that was comparatively. There are parts of Dogwood’s life that I completely missed; a season of her growth and experience as a person that I will never know. The grief of infertility took this from me, and I will never get it back.

I have no way of knowing to what degree this loss led to gain in our relationship: how much the honest working through of our pain, frustration, sadness, and joy has contributed to my longing to know her more and more. I cannot separate the two—I wish I could for her sake. But perhaps we’re not meant to.

I cannot now, nor ever will be able to express my gratitude towards Dogwood, and to all the others who allowed infertility to take from them so that they might have more of me.

The Loss of Connection, part 1

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The following reflection was written by Dogwood.

Forsythia and I have a unique friendship: one of those once-in-a-lifetime connections. Our souls just recognize each other. She and her husband battled infertility from the start. She was never on birth control and was surprised many times at the beginning of their marriage when she was not pregnant. I remember the first time I witnessed a reaction to a negative pregnancy test. Forsythia had come over to hang out with my roommate and I at our tiny college duplex. She had stopped at the drugstore on the way to pick up a test. She told us when she arrived that it was just a precaution; her period could come any day and she didn’t think it would be positive, though she hoped it might be. We changed the CD, sipped iced tea, caught up on each other’s lives. Then, it was time to look at the test. We were all very excited at the possibility of a baby for our first married friends! We had a lot of hope that it would be positive, though there were questions of how they would provide and make room in their lives for a baby. I’m sure I held my breath as she walked out of the bathroom holding the little white stick. Sure enough, it was negative.

We all felt it–the loss of hope. Little did we know that my friend and her husband would never conceive a biological child. I could never have imagined what it would be like to walk alongside my best friend as she watched her dream of being a mother slip away. I was still a young woman and those thoughts were not in my realm of imagination at the time.

Watching Forsythia experience one loss after another was unbearable. I did my best to stick with her through the ups and downs of her and her husband’s uncertain journey towards parenthood. What this looked like was mostly listening and mourning with her. I shook my head at the awful things people would say to them about having children, and held my breath when mutual friends announced new pregnancies.

During this time, my husband and I received news from my doctor: “If you want to have biological children of your own, you need to do it now” (I was 24 at the time). They had discovered endometriosis in my uterus after an extensive myomectomy. We wanted children, but had planned to wait a few more years. I knew I wanted to be a mother and that I wanted to see my husband father our children, so our plans changed and we started trying to get pregnant as soon as I was recovered from my surgery. I got pregnant after trying for 2 months. Sharing this news with Forsythia was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. She and her husband were in the trenches of infertility: telling her that I was pregnant felt like sticking a finger into her open wound.

I was unprepared for motherhood; I was thrown into it by the circumstances of my health. I was excited and full of joy and could not share any of this with my best friend. Up to this point in our friendship, there wasn’t much we hadn’t shared. It felt strange and alienating to hide this really important part of my life from her. I had made many transitions in life with her by my side–graduating college, beginning a career, marriage–and now I was transitioning into motherhood without her. She could not come with me. I could not expect her to be happy for me.

My husband and I had moved back to our hometown shortly before getting pregnant. It was a lonely time for me for many reasons. I had my family, but I had no community–no one to walk with me into this very scary world of motherhood. I needed Forsythia. She was unavailable. I didn’t get to send her videos and pictures of my son doing absolutely nothing (that’s what most of those first pictures and videos are, after all). I couldn’t call her to vent about wishing my husband would hear the baby crying at night before me, or about the marital fights that this caused. I couldn’t ask her to come see us in the hospital after my son was born. I couldn’t call her from the hospital to tell her that I wanted to go home, or that I wanted my baby to latch properly so that my nipples would stop bleeding and my milk would stop clogging. I desperately needed her to hear how I was wronged by hospital staff and our doctor–how they stole the first hour of my son’s life from me. I needed her to cry with me and sit with me in the confusion and pain. She couldn’t. Her loss became my loss in an unexpected way.

Instead of sharing my life with her at this time, when we spoke it was mostly about what was going on in her life, and any part of my life that my son didn’t intrude upon. She did what she could; she asked about him when she was able to bear it. But I never dared go into much detail for fear of hurting her more.

Our friendship survived this dark period. I missed her and I know that I could have used her support during those first years of my kid’s lives, but I was able to forgive her for being absent at such an important time for me because I understood that she wasn’t able. I knew that if she could, she would. I trusted her heart.

Infertility does not happen in a vacuum. The pain, confusion, and loss of infertility will reach as a far as it is allowed. I willingly stepped into Forsythia’s pain. Of the losses I chose to endure, losing our friendship was not one of them, because I knew that the heartache was only a season. We are so apt to believe that what is now will always be. That is the lie we tell ourselves, a lie we must reject. As Forsythia and I faced loss together, I embraced hope: that she would be a mother; that we would walk that road together one day; that there was meaning behind the pain we endured. I gripped tightly to these beliefs for my friend, whose heart did not have the strength to believe them, but also for myself: what I was giving up was not in vain.

 

You Are Not Alone

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poppy-flower-images-and-wallpapers-34 (1)

from www.newflowerwallpaper.com

The following reflection was written by Poppy.

 

This is a tough subject for me. I’m tearing up just beginning to think about it.

I’m currently 11 weeks pregnant after a long and hard 9 years of “trying.” Each Mother’s Day that rolled around has brought feelings of jealousy, envy, discontentedness, and of course unanswerable questions to God and my husband. What added another layer of grief was that I lost my own mother at age 15 to Breast Cancer.

My first vivid “bad” memory of a Mother’s Day was about 2 years into trying. I was on vacation with my girlfriends for the weekend and we decided to hit up a brunch spot in Wilmington on our way home. The staff gave each woman a rose at the end of the meal and wished all of us “Happy Mother’s Day.” I can’t put into words the sadness that I felt, but also anger at the waitstaff for not thinking through what they were doing. What about ladies that had experiences miscarriages or still births? What about those with failed adoptions or those of us trying to conceive, some even going broke financially and emotionally to do so, with no baby to show for it? I know this may seem overly sensitive, but those were my feelings.  I still have anger towards that restaurant to this day!

My husband soon realized how difficult Mother’s Day was for me. The next year, he made a card with our dogs’ footprints on it. That is one of the most thoughtful things he’s ever done for me. Over the years, he’s tried so hard to lessen the emotions that I feel on this day, but there’s only so much that can be done.

As the years went on, I actually learned how to handle my emotions on Mother’s Day, especially knowing that we would be going to church. There were 2 or 3 years that I just cried intermittently through the entire church service, and one year in particular that we skipped church altogether after I confessed to my husband that I just couldn’t take it. Our pastor at the time was aware of what was going on with me, and after a couple years of preaching to moms (which I wasn’t) or about moms (mine was in Heaven), he changed his strategy. Perhaps seeing me bawl through the services was enough to make him rethink his sermons. Whatever the reason, I’m thankful.

On Mother’s Day in 2015, I wrote a blog post entitled “On This Day, It’s O.K.…” It was from the heart and mostly about not having a mother around on Mother’s Day. But I did touch on our infertility for the first time ever on social media and how difficult it is to want motherhood, but not have it.

I don’t remember saying anything to my girlfriends about my feelings in the restaurant that long-ago day, but in the years following, they became a huge support system. Two out of the four of us required In Vitro Fertilization to become pregnant. The statistics are that 1 in 8 couples have trouble getting or remaining pregnant, but it seems higher than that. Why it is still taboo to talk about when so many people experience infertility is mind-boggling. In my experience, being open about infertility helps others admit their own stories.

For those women who have never experienced infertility, you have friends that have–no question about it. If you know of a specific friend or acquaintance that’s experiencing infertility (especially on Mother’s Day), I have found it really helpful to simply acknowledge it and tell them that you’re thinking of them in a personal message. It may seem like a lot to ask, but it really does have a significant impact. You may become a person that they turn to in difficult or joyful moments following an exchange like that.

Mother’s Day is difficult and emotional for both men and women who are infertile, have experienced miscarriage, still birth, infant loss, or failed adoption. It’s too much for words sometimes. And if you fit into any of these categories, please talk about it to someone you trust if you haven’t yet. The connections I’ve made because of infertility with women experiencing the same things are bonds that can never be broken. We share a deep pain that in many ways, only this community understands. Talk to them on your hard days–not just Mother’s Day. We all deal with things differently, and I learned how to deal with my emotions better because of these connections. Cry, yell, scream, go out, stay in, don’t shower, do shower, get dressed up, put make up on, or don’t. However you deal with it, just know that you will get through Mother’s Day and each hard day, especially with help from your loved ones and friends.