This week we missed another baby shower.
This time it was a shower for two dear friends who are expecting their first child any day now. I wanted to be there, planned on it even. But then I fell apart in the baby section of Target while shopping for their gift. As the tendrils of panic attack squeezed around my chest and throat, I knew it wasn’t the day to go.
Last November we got the final, echoing news: premature ovarian failure. I’m 38, but my ovaries think I’m at least a decade older. That means that, along with practically no chance of conceiving a child, I also get hot flashes and all the other joys of early menopause. Yippee.
The grief of this is hard enough. We feel called to parenthood so strongly that the ache is both physical and perpetual, but biological children aren’t an option. No little one with Chuck’s eyes or my chin. No sonogram pictures or cute Facebook announcements and gender reveals. Hell, I grieve morning sickness and lost sleep, because those experiences would at least mean we’re expecting.
But it’s not just the grief of it.
Infertility complicates so much. For one thing, it makes friendships harder. I’m hoping this wears off with time, but right now it’s hard to hang out with friends when all they talk about are their kids or their plans for when it is their “turn” to announce a pregnancy.
Don’t misunderstand: I am so glad for friends as they grow their families. Their joy matters. I want the best for them, but right now need to celebrate from a distance. My happiness for them doesn’t erase the knowledge that we don’t get a “turn”. That hurts. Sometimes unbearably.
The hurt is only exacerbated by all the religious language that gets attached to pregnancy. Every time someone comments on how God has blessed them with children and every time someone tells me I “just” need to pray a certain way in order to receive that blessing, I’m reminded of the YEARS of prayer that either God hasn’t heard or has responded to with a resounding “no.” Or, perhaps God doesn’t work that way. It could be that. Regardless, we’re both pastors and the absolute worst things that have been said to us over the last year about our infertility have all been said by other pastors.
Like I said, it’s complicated.
Infertility is an isolating experience. Introvert though I am, I’ve never stayed home as much as I have in the last year. Chuck hides out as well. It’s a matter of self-preservation. Social interactions are filled with too many questions and too many triggers. Well-meaning friends seem to expect us to have moved on, or to be filled to the brim with happy hope as we prepare for adoption. But the journey towards adoption is a minefield in and of itself, with frequent reminders that we must prove our worthiness to do what so many others do with seemingly little thought.
Again, it’s complicated.
We ARE hopeful and excited about adoption. As the long home study process unfolds, in the midst of all the hurdles, we catch glimpses of a future where we finally get to meet the child I currently think of as Little One. That future is beautiful and scary, hopeful and despairingly far off, joyful and uncertain.
In the meantime, there are good days as well as bad. We’re surrounded by people who genuinely love us and are rooting for us, even if they say things that are unintentionally hurtful. Church folk are rallying to help with the fundraising for our adoption. People are praying for us and our one-day child.
My point in posting this is twofold. First, I’ve not written about infertility and feel it’s time to do so. The resounding silence of it clogs up every other vein of writing in my life, and I NEED to write. For my D.Min. For my calling. For my spirit.
Second, though infertility is experienced by so many (the numbers are increasing rapidly for a variety of reasons) there is still such a high level of shame and silence attached to it. Speaking (or writing) into the silence is a way to lessen that shame. Perhaps by owning up to this struggle, someone else will feel less alone.
Perhaps by shining light on it, we will feel less alone too.
*Note* – While I’m usually a proponent of open discussion, this post is too personal and vulnerable for it to be fully fair game. Any comment in which we are told how we should or should not feel will be summarily deleted. Likewise, we already know the biblical stories about miraculous children after years of infertility. I know in my bones why Sarai/Sarah laughed, I’ve prayed Hannah’s prayer with tears in my eyes and ashes in my mouth, and I’ve yearned for Elizabeth’s joy. Please save those stories for another occasion. Thanks in advance. -Lara
15 thoughts on “It’s Complicated…”
You do not know me, nor I, you. Regardless, I’m sending peaceful and loving thoughts aplenty. Thank you for sharing your heart.
Thank you, Dianna.
Very well written and boldly said. Thank you. Praying with you. My brother and I are adopted after my parents’ long struggle. I’m passionate about adoption and infertility and the beauty of diverse families. Also deeply committed to helpful, healing conversations about it after watching my mom face the well meaning insults you describe- will be holding you in my heart and open to talk more if you wish. -Sarah Taylor Peck
Thank you, Sarah. I’d love to sit down some time and hear your story.
I see you. And if there is anyway I can be there for you, I would be honored.
Love and grace, and somewhere in the midst, some peace and rest, Friends.
Thank you, Randy.
My heart hurts and my tears stream for you both. I look forward to celebrating your “little one” with you.
Thank you for sharing Lara. You two will be amazing parents.
Thank you for your witness. This was a powerful word. I send love to you.
I love your voice Lara! Well stated and shared for many others that are currently in silence. You and Chuck are in my thoughts and prayers.
I just want to say I’m sorry for not being sensitive enough. Not being there enough. And for the times when I’ve said the things I shouldn’t have said. But I also want to say thank you for sharing this and raising awareness. And for opening yourself up to the world. I can’t imagine how hard and I can’t imagine the pain, but I feel it and my heart just wants to make it ok….. But I know I can’t. You and chuck are wonderful people, and I hope and yearn with you that one day a child will be blessed by your love and your gifts of parenthood
Thank you for sharing. It makes me feel less alone.
Awesome post. I can relate to you on so many levels, with the same feelings. I have Premature ovarian failure (diagnosed at 28) and it has been so devastating, to let go of the idea of having children who are genetically mine. If you are interested in hearing more about my story, myjourneycreatinglife.wordpress.com. is my blog. I am currently still trying to become pregnant using substitute eggs from my sister via IVF.