This Barren Land: Bricks & Lies

Part One:

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I think this will be a three part series. I think. Maybe four. It's all jumbled around in my head right now.  So be prepared for a long haul on this topic and come back to read the rest. You definitely will not get my full meaning without reading the end.  And a disclaimer: Not every comment, statement or piece of advice is bad or hurtful in and of itself. It is the personal experience and context of these comments that leads me to write about them here today. And I know that others might have similar experiences in the past or future.

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A while ago, as I was discussing the perils of infertility, a friend was really shocked to hear about  some of the things that people had said to me through the years. Things that I hesitate to repeat for fear of continuing the negativity that they first brought. But as my friend so wonderfully spoke to me, these things -- ugly, small, menacing, terrible things -- need to be brought into the light of day. Infertility is called the silent struggle and I have realized that by not sharing the hurt of these small comments I only create more silence.

I have been wrestling with this post for a couple of weeks now. The point is not to dig up old hurts or promote the negativity created. I do not want to rant or vent or complain or whine about things that have happened in the past, things that I cannot undo. I don't want to feed bitterness or create a platform for resentment.  The point is simply this: to share what I have experienced in the hope that I am not alone and that my story might help someone else or stop someone from being hurt. And the best way to these comments, these hurtful things, is to bring them out, march them forward and call them what they are.

Lies.

And what do we do when we unwittingly find ourselves nose to nose with one of these lies? What do we do when we cannot get away from them, when we are exhausted beyond belief because these ferocious lies are chasing us down, clawing at us and we are about to buckle under the powerful pressure of their jaws? What do we do when we become angry and bitter and resentful? What do we do when we speak to others the very things we were trying to outrun in the first place?

First I want to talk about the lies that I've been told, the hurtful comments that have been sent my way. then, in later posts, I'll talk about the anger and bitterness I fed within myself and then, in my weakness, the ways in which I only created more problems and spread more lies. 

Maybe, as heartbreaking as it is, some of these stories and lies are familiar to you. Maybe when you were looking for support you found one of these instead. If so, I am so sorry. I am sorry that you had to face this, sorry for how it has undoubtedly changed you. And know that you are not alone. I hope you find a small portion of peace within these words.

If you have spoken some of these words to someone, I do not wish to guilt you or shame you. I don't want to call you out or throw you down. I just hope that you find it in yourself to change, to put an end to these statements. I hope that instead you find true words of encouragement and support. And consider that possibly the most encouraging action is to listen and find peace in silence.

I hope that we all learn to consider the perspective and situation of others around us during our various interactions throughout the week.

In the beginning, when we first started trying, I made the mistake of sharing this news with others. Of course I had no way of knowing that there would not be a baby in the works in the foreseeable future. So after a while of perpetual expectance on the part of others and myself, I promised to myself that I would not share our trying with anyone. Others tried their best to be understanding and kind but most of the time it was just annoying. I feel bad about that now. Friends smiling kindly, saying, "Pretty soon…pretty soon it will be your turn." As if there is a list and we all will be called upon in time to the role of motherhood. As if we all must take turns and wait. As if there is a limit to the number of pregnant women that can be present on earth at one time. I grew tired of this saying and the sympathetic smile that followed. I was embarrassed that I could not do what should come simply and naturally. I just wanted to be normal. So that was the end of my sharing our trying. I zipped my lips and carried on. I would never be normal, I would never fit in. The first lies believed and the first bricks being laid in the wall I built to protect me.

There was a middle phase between excitedly trying and knowing that infertility was part of our story. I struggle so often to explain this, to put it to words. A slow awakening. The moment between dreaming and eyes wide open. Your name being called in a crowd, from a distance, taking a minute to register. I wonder if I should have known. I wonder if I should have sought help earlier. I wonder if…I was stupid to think that waiting and relaxing would make a difference. I mean, for goodness sake, we are going on seven years now! And at the time we were making our way to three years, fast!! I wish so much that this middle phase, (denial?), did not exist but it does.

Anyway, toward the end of the middle stage we came to realize that trying to conceive had not only evolved into difficulty to conceive but had now taken on the monstrous form of infertility. Would there be no turning back? How does one return unscathed from "infertility"? Realizing that I was WAY out of my abilities here, overwhelmed and with little personal resources from which to draw, I took a deep breath and marched right back into the world. I would share again with others. And I was hopeful that someone, anyone, would have the right words to say. I was hopeful that someone would help me. I needed someone to help.

I have to believe that my story is much like others. I cannot be alone in this. I cannot be the only one who was dropped unawares into the barren land of Infertility with the expectation and belief that someone would be along to help, to guide, to support. I thought If infertility is so common, if so many people before me and around me are dealing with this, then surely someone will help. And why would I not have this assumption? Especially within the church community. Only Sarah, Rachel, Rebekah, Hannah and Elizabeth struggled with infertility.  Of the few handfuls of women spoken about intimately in Scripture a rather sizeable number found themselves in this barren land as well. So we, as a church, should be well versed in the experience and counsel of those waiting for children, if not, at least aware of those struggling around us. But this is often not the case and I was blindsided. I have no doubt others have been too.

One day, at my wit's end, I spilled my story through sobs and tears to a close friend and woman of faith. I wanted, needed, to hear that it would be okay, that I was not alone, that there was still good to be found in this mess of sadness. I got it all out, everything I needed to say, and sat quietly waiting for a response. The response I got was not what I expected at all.

She turned to me and asked if there was anything in my past for which I had not asked forgiveness. She asked if I needed to repent, if I had committed some sort of sin that was causing this…this punishment. She urged me to repent. I was speechless. To say that I was not angry would be a lie. I was stark-raving mad. The dark corners of tunnel vision surrounded my sight. Time stopped. And I wished with all my might that I could undo what I had just done. I wished I could go back in time and just shut my mouth.  I wished that I had the gumption to respond in a manner that fit the accusation. That's exactly what it was. An accusation. An accusation born from the belief that disease and suffering are caused by personal sin. An accusation of sin and rebellion -- I caused my situation.  I blinked away the tears that stung my eyes, cleared my throat, and replied weakly, "No. Um…no. I…there's nothing." And thus my first slap in the face for infertility was endured. The lie? That I deserved this. That I caused this. That this was my fault. Ten layers of bricks laid and hardened.

I pulled up my bootstraps and kept on a-walking through this land. Praying to God that someone would help. I thought, Surely this is a one-time only occasion. Surely I just happened to speak to the one woman who had no idea what she was talking about, no idea what I was going through, no idea how to help. Surely, this cannot be hostile territory. And I was just as surprised to find that it was not only hostile but also unbelievably empty.

I think we had been trying to conceive for about three or four years. I was working as a librarian at school and it was a quiet night. One of those nights that made my perfect job even better. No one was studying, writing, or researching -- no books spread all over -- which meant that I could leave immediately when I closed. I remember that the snow was falling fast and thick. Jason would be waiting for meat home and I just wanted to cuddle up with him in front of the TV. In the busyness of school, work, family, and friends I was content that night, eagerly waiting for a perfect evening. The door opened and a student walked in. I never told her about our struggles but she knew…as word traveled fast on a small, close-knit campus. She had said some not-so-kind things to me in the past, mostly about school stuff. I'm sure you know the type, competitive with skillful use of the most pointed and punching words. I had enough to deal with and didn't need to get into some meaningless argument, so I guarded myself around her. But no matter how well we guard ourselves, words can always hurt.

She asked me if I had heard that some other student was pregnant. I said, "Yes, I heard. She's pretty excited and so am I." She asked me if Jason and I were still trying or if we called it quits. I can't remember her exact wording. But that's probably because it's the last part of the conversation that made the most impact.  "Uh, yeah we are..." This question always caught me off guard. It's a little too personal most of the time. Like when someone steps just a little too close or breathes in your face. "Maybe sometime soon."

She told me a little story about someone else who wanted to have a baby but couldn't then looked me in the eyes and said, "Maybe…maybe God knows you wouldn't be a good mom?" She shrugged as she picked up her books. "That could be why?" She walked out the door. And I was frozen. I don't need to tell you that my night was ruined…and the next few nights. Maybe even some nights now. This lie...oh, this lie haunts me, a ghostly figure hovering around every decision, every dream of motherhood. This lie makes me doubt everything I think I know about myself. The lie? That God knows I would be a terrible mom, that I would ruin little lives in my care, that I am some monster from whom others need protection. Oh, so many bricks stacked and layered...

I recently bought some new fancy garbage bags. With a household of two it  sometimes takes a few days to fill up a whole bag and it starts to stick. Jason's such a penny-pincher so we have to wait until every ounce of that bag is full until we throw it in the dumpster. These new bags are infused with vanilla scent (oooo! ahhh!) to cover up the rotting trash smell. And I have noticed that no matter what fresh scent or how much one might use to make the smelly, rotting trash smells disappear, you're only just covering it up. Trash will always be trash no matter how you wrap it. And eventually the trash smell will take over as the frilly, fresh vanilla scent wears out.

Sometimes it's the nice sounding, cliché statements that hurt the most. Comments that one might find on a greeting card or had heard someone say at a funeral. Comments that sound good in one's head, maybe even as they move their way from behind teeth, but cause a painful prick when falling on the ears of the hurting. Verses that are tossed around as if merely speaking the words solves every conceivable problem.  Some comments are just fluffy nice words covering up ugly beliefs and misconceptions. Others are just too much nice and fluff lathered on and mixed around but all that's really beneath is empty, nothingness.  Food without taste or fill.

One time a woman said to me, "Well, the Bible tells us that God blesses the faithful with children." It sounded really nice and good but then I thought: I don't have children. Does that mean I'm not faithful enough? I think I'm faithful, so why won't God bless me? What about the unfaithful? Murderers and rapists and robbers and drug addicts and serial killers have children. What does that logic say about me? It made me feel unworthy, not good enough. I was ashamed that it would seem so obvious that my faith was so little. If I never have children will everyone think this "faith" of mine is a sham? Did she even think  I was a true believer? If she did, why would she say that? Obviously we're dealing with infertility. She knows this. Is this her way of saying I need to work on my faith? Another lie chasing me down and sinking its teeth in my back: You are not good enough. You are not "Christian" enough. Another few bricks stacked and secured.

Similar to this comment or thought process is the ever-popular, "Just pray." Now, I'm not saying that prayer is bad or prayer doesn't work. But for those of us struggling with whatever hardship without an end in sight this statement may come across as hurtful. Do you think I'm not praying enough? Do you think God is not listening to my prayers? Do you think that I'm not even praying? If prayer was the missing piece to this puzzle of sorrow and grief, everything would have been fixed and healed months ago. Am I saying the right prayer? Is there are right prayer? Oh, God, have I been doing this wrong all along? And I want to ask those who have given me this advice if they had considered praying with me, for me. Did they think of me in the early morning and ask for an answer on my behalf? Because, and I try to write this with as little bitterness as possible and with as much a pure statement of facts as possible, no one who has tossed those words at me has taken time to pray with me, has told me they prayed for me, has offered to listen to my prayers and cries.

Most often people around me talk about God's plan. (And again, I'm not saying here that God's plan is not good. I'm not saying that I don't believe God is in control, that his plan is THE plan. I'm not saying that all this is chance and chaos.) They like to remind me that God has a plan and he is in control. They talk about his love and faithfulness. In the beginning of all this I would smile and nod and try to seem happy about their little pep talk but inside I was seething with anger. I couldn’t get away from these people fast enough. And when I did I would find it hard to breath. How dare they! How dare they talk to me about God's plan when they have children and don't even know what it's like for me! How dare they rub their swollen, pregnant bellies and talk to me about this! How dare they talk about this magical plan when they can't even begin to imagine a life not so perfect! If this is God's plan, then I HATE this plan! I want another plan! Do they expect me to find joy in the reminder that this situation…this affliction was PLANNED? What kind of God would plan this out for someone, would plan that I would be sobbing my eyes out in the bathroom stall at a baby shower? Would they say that to someone with cancer or AIDS or someone abused? And the scary thing was that I wasn't sure that they wouldn't. So often we cling to the nice sayings that we hear but we forget to think about how they would sound to those hurting, in the moment, raw from betrayal, disappointment, loss and grief.  Another lie and a few more bricks.

Not every comment has been about God or faith or sin. But those have been the most difficult for me. Sometimes it’s about beliefs about how many people it takes to make a family. People say "When will you start a family?" or  "when you two become a family…" And I think, why do you assume we aren't a family now? Having a baby will make us parents but we became a family the day we were married. 

Other times comments have to do with advice and conception. Do people assume that we don’t know what we are doing when it comes to baby-making, that's why we don’t have a baby? I'll share my story and most often someone will share a story about a family member or friend or someone they work with or read about or heard about that used a special tea, had sex in a certain position, changed their diet,  changed kinds of underwear,  took vitamins, exercised, got a specific test, and my personal favorites: relaxed or adopted. ("My friends adopted and then they got pregnant right away! Have you thought about that?" And I want to say "How about you think about how sad, selfish, and horrible that method sounds?") Believe me, after seven years, even three years, you've tried every wives' tale and home "remedy". These comments are hurtful in that they make me feel like I'm stupid. That my infertility is really a case of laziness -- not trying the right thing -- and can be easily fixed, so why am I complaining?? The lie that took a bite out of me here was that I wasn't doing enough. That I was stupid and somehow everyone else knew some secret bit of information I would never find.

At first I would try to be strong and take what was dished at me. I tried to believe that people didn't know what they were saying, that they were just trying to be nice. My friends, my family, the women at church, the woman at the checkout, the doctor…they all couldn’t be purposefully mean, could they? But that wore me down pretty fast. I was exhausted. Any gathering of a large group felt like a battlefield. Comments and advice and whatnot constantly being thrown my way at the moments I least expected it. It was hard not retreat into the corner or gather my armor and suit up. And I know most of the time comments and statements and advice came out of a place of caring, of attempting to comfort, of not knowing what else to say. I understand this now, but in the moment, in the rawness of sorrow and grief...

Then I got angry. I was mad that people could say such hurtful things to me and not even care, not even notice the tears threatening to escape. How could people really believe the things that they said and still have faith, still believe God was good, still think that they were right, that they were caring or comforting?  How could mothers, moms who truly loved their children say such mindless things to someone who only wants what they have?

After a while bitterness set in. I didn't even try to plaster on a smile. I didn’t even try to pretend that someone's cold cliché was worth nodding over. I just walked away. Then I just avoided these interactions altogether. I would look for specific people I might open up to but I was incredibly selective and exclusive. I had believed so many lies and had built my walls so high I couldn't even see what sun might be hiding beyond them. 

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Part Two:

Trapped

Now Posted 

please continue to read!