This Unexpected Life

"We be willing to let go of the life we had planned 

so as to live the life that is waiting for us." 

- Joesph Campbell

.     .     .     .     .

I’m going to tell you a secret. A secret that I really wanted to keep to myself, but if you are going to really understand the rest of this post, you need to know the secret. And I want you to understand, for me, for others like me.

We have been trying again. 

And you are probably thinking, “Again? I thought you wanted to get 
pregnant?” 

My answer: We’ve never stopped hoping to get pregnant. We never started birth control or tried not to get pregnant. We’ve just been not trying. There is a difference. And this is it.

When you’re not trying you usually don’t think about trying to get pregnant until the moment after the pregnancy test is negative. When you are trying you are thinking about getting pregnant every second of everyday because you are charting. Because one day missed could have been the day. One day forgetting could mean waiting another month. Taking your temperature every morning and keeping track of intercourse and doing things you never imagined you would do, things that very few in the world ever have to do, you check cervical mucus and your cervix (and if those words freak you out, too bad.), and you change your diet and do all the other things that you hope, pray, might help. And you write all these things down on a piece of paper, a piece of paper that stares at you and judges you “did you do it all? Did you do enough?” it says. And you pick the days in which you are most fertile and you try. And you might cry that day, out of desperation, please God. Just once. And you might start a fight with your spouse that day, out of the stress of it all, and because you feel like this is an act less out of love and more out of performance. And you might discover that after all that keeping track you will have to wait another month anyway because you will be away from your husband on your most “fertile” days. And you might wonder to yourself, humiliating, did we do it right that time? And you will, two weeks later, wait. And when you know that it did not work, again, all the energy and effort and worry and stress and the shear perfection of your chart was not enough, again, you will slide yourself to the floor and cry and get up and do it all again. 

This is trying. 

And there was a rough day. There’s always a rough day, no matter how much gratitude and joy I can muster. There is always a rough day. There wasn't anything in particular that made it depressing, just…one of those caught off guard days.   

We did everything right, everything. We did our best. Is this ever going to happen? Are we fools for thinking that one month could change anything? If the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again expecting different results, then what are we? Hopeful? Stupid? Insane? 

Just one of those days. At the end, I watched a woman have an ultrasound and burst into tears at the sight of her healthy baby. And I burst into tears at the thought of seeing my own baby, thinking I may never have that experience, thinking I would do anything for that. There are days that I can handle this. Days, weeks that I walk through life, take a deep breath and keep moving. And there are days that I simply can’t. And I think, I can handle this now. I can handle all of this. But when I am 80 and Jason is gone and my family is spread out and I am sitting by myself in a retirement home, with no one to visit me, no one to care for me, no one to spend my days with, no kids, grandkids…I will not, cannot, do that. My greatest fear. 

My body shaking with sorrow, I am fresh out of the energy to stop crying, to think of better things, to put on a smile and pretend it doesn't shatter my heart. I walk through my household chores -- cleaning a dish here, scrubbing the toilet there, folding a towel, sorting shoes at the door -- all the while tears fall from my chin. Why even try to stop it if it's just going to happen over and over again? 

Jason's working hard so during the coldest and darkest moments, I am by myself. With only myself it is so easy to spiral deeper into sadness, to cycle again and again through grief in a single night. He calls and I tell him…I'm falling apart. I'm crying at a stupid commercial, I'm crying in the bathroom, I'm crying into the dishes I wash. I tell him to find me in the bedroom with a mountain of pillows and a coffee and he does. 

This wonderful man, who surprises me each day, who puts up with my breakdowns and endless tears, asks me about my day, tells me about his, makes some jokes, understanding perfectly that I need normal, and then crawls into bed with me and wraps me in his arms. He says nothing and I am undone, differently. His hand on my head and I can finally breathe. He holds me together, wrapped in his arms, and knows l am fighting and he stays. He wraps tighter. And when I finally find my voice I say "I just want one." A simple request. An impossible request. And he quietly replies, "Me too." And I smile. He knows me too well. I have never been more grateful for this man. Lesser men would have ran. Lesser men would have gotten hard with the years. Lesser men…wouldn’t do the perfect things for some of my worst moments. Then he says, "Just one. Or maybe a litter of three." The perfect things for my worst moments. I love this man. 

I don't think I would have made it without him. With anyone else, I would be completely broken. I would be a mess, not that I'm not a mess. But I would be a permanent mess, incapable of seeing the good, finding joy, loving anything. He pulls me together when I am undone and holds me when my heart is broken. This man, who, still a teenager, watched me walk toward him down the aisle, who didn't sign on for this anymore than I did, who expected some story different, who wants a family more than I do in some ways, has never faltered in his promise…for better or worse, in sickness and in health. And this girl who can find words for the most awful, painful and wonderful moments, is often rendered speechless, wordless, by her husband's faithfulness. Full of gratitude and in awe of how, years ago, God paired us together, knowing the road ahead. We certainly did not know what we doing. And I am thankful that Someone did. 

There will be moments. Heartbreaking moments. In this life, in every life. And I think about others. I feel shame. I think about the woman who just walked passed, with a small child in a wheelchair. This woman did not expect this life for her child. An endless string of therapy, doctors, challenges. And I think, I am complaining? And I wonder, “How does she do it?” I think about my friend, betrayed by her husband, alone and completely broke, financially and emotionally. And I wonder, “How does she do it?” 

There will be moments. Heartbreaking moments. Crushing moments. Impossible moments. But mixed in, hidden and overlooked, there are moments of joy. Moments of grace. Moments of impossible love . Moments of heart-healing joy. And in the midst of the mess and exhaustion and frustration, we need to find the joy. Jason and I. I will cling to these, with all my might.

And in finding the joy, we discover how to live this life, this unexpected life, we have been given. And we need to. We must learn because we are only given one. Forever. What a shame to spend it waiting for something that might never be. Oh, what we would miss. What we would wish we enjoyed.