A Story of Infertility
Written by Jessica Hester
Blood. Again.
A vivid and violent reminder of my still-empty womb. I walk past two rooms in my home that are also empty- the hope of a crib filling the empty space fading into the distance as I brush the tears away again and close the door. Empty rooms, empty womb, empty arms. Physical aching in my heart, physical pain in my womb, deep spiritual yearning in my soul.
The questions arise again: Why? When? Will I ever? How? Questions that by now are a familiar tune in my head since I’ve sung them so many times. I’m on repeat. My thoughts, my hopes, my fears, my body. Within 30 days my mind, heart, soul and body repeat exactly what they did last month. No newness; only new days and new time but no new life; just new blood.
This is infertility. This is pain in childbearing. This is life lived under the curse of sin. This does not feel sacred or purposeful.
And yet, even this will all be made new and beautiful somehow.
I was in the depths of infertility for exactly 31 months; 2 years and 7 months. Not a long time compared to many women. No matter the reasoning behind infertility, the heartache is the same. It is a repetitive reminder every month of a life that is not there. It is unseen and lonely and it touches all aspects of life. My journey began 2 years after marriage- the “perfect” time to have kids! I knew it would come easily because it did for my brother, my sister, my mom, and most of my friends who had children. The first month was sad but still hopeful. By the 4th or 5th month, I was in my OB’s office asking for help. She assured me it takes time. But it didn’t for my family. We are all very fertile. Why was it taking longer with me? I waited the prescribed year before going back for testing but I knew in my bones that something was not right.
With the introduction of testing came the abolition of my modesty. I was poked and prodded and looked at for months. The secret parts of my body became an open study with bright lights and cold things and no hiding. I was very respected during this whole process. I couldn’t have asked for kinder people to work with me. But it is an unnatural feeling of having someone, anyone, peer into your womb. I grieve the loss of mystery.
With every test came some nervousness but also excitement- would I finally find out what was wrong? Eventually we did find out and there was sadness but also a flood of relief. It wasn’t us. It was how we were made. It wasn’t our lack of chemistry or our miscalculating the days or our being overly stressed or my eating too much chocolate. We just can’t have kids naturally. I’ll never know what it’s like to be “surprised by a pregnancy.” My first pregnancy was very, very planned and calculated. Holding my husband’s hand, I conceived in an exam room in front of two other people, one of which was a male. Conception for me was not a secret, tender moment between just my husband and me.
And now we are talking of baby number two; and again it requires more testing, more visits, more money, more planning and more injections. I grieve for the loss of secrecy and specialness surrounding a natural conception. Our children have come about through pain and the tearing of flesh and scars; they were not conceived in a bed of romance. But they were conceived in love. As we sacrificed our comfort, our bodies, our time, our savings, we became parents. Isn’t this what we do once our children are with us? My husband and I just got to practice that sacrificial love a little earlier than most.
I thank my God we have a child. According to many, we have conquered, survived, beaten infertility. But this is not how I view it. My story is ingrained in me. My story, His story, has shaped me. The story of my children’s beginning is a hard, painful, not easily forgotten one. I remember it all. I remember each wishful thought when I felt something new in my body, each stinging and sinking feeling when the test showed negative, each tear I shed, each drop of blood that painfully came. I remember the wrestling and shame and confusion of my soul when I couldn’t feel happiness for a friend who was pregnant. I remember the tears in the car that followed the forced smiles at baby showers. I remember the numbness of depression.
I also remember the light; I remember the sweet, deep, comforts of my friends who knew; friends who walked the path before and beside me and offered hope in the form of a living thing in their bellies or arms after years of waiting. I remember my husband speaking sweet words of worth and love and value and beauty to me as I shared with him that it didn’t work. Again. I remember the kind, gracious, powerful words of my heavenly Father reminding me that He is the God who sees and knows, reminding me that He too experienced emptiness as His divine life was exhaled out of a human body on a cross. No, we have not beaten infertility. God has used it to beat us. He pounded us and tore us and rebuilt us into images that point to His power and dominion over this broken world. As we walked through the valley, we were being made new and light burst through the darkness, not because of our baby’s coming, but because of a Baby that has already come.
Yes, beauty has arisen from the ashes. But, at times, the old familiar tune rises up in me: Why? And my faith becomes brittle and weak and the crevices of my doubts deepen. Again, I am on repeat and yearn for newness. But again, God floods my heart and soul with old truth; He knows and He is sovereign. And here, out of this story that I would never have chosen, springs beautiful redemption. The gospel shines forth in all of its splendor because I am weak and confused and still questioning.
God did not create life out of life; in the beginning and in my body, He created life out of nothing.
What a divine picture. Just as new life sprang forth out of my empty womb, God causes new growth to sprout out of my brittle and dry faith. This story that I want to forget is woven into His story and is set up firmly in my soul as a pillar of remembrance.
In the end, I delivered via c-section. There was a lot of blood. But this blood was excitedly and willingly shed for the life of another. Beauty and life came out of this blood. This blood had a purpose. Gospel imagery floods my mind as I think of my body that was torn for my daughter. No, I would not have chosen infertility, or IVF, or a c-section. But isn’t God kind? He uses the broken and the hard and the painful to remind us of the healing, peace-giving, life giving blood that He shed for us.
Yes, there is pain in childbearing. Yes, we live under the curse. For now.