This I Believe

The most recent assignment in my writing class was to write a "This I Believe" essay. I have written a few of these over the years, but this one is my favorite so far.

 

 

The Cure for Grief

                I once heard it said that the only cure for grief is grieving. I believe grieving is not only important, but necessary for growth. I haven’t always known this to be true. Even just a few months ago, I didn’t understand the purpose of “wallowing” or allowing myself to be sad. However, personal experience has taught me that grieving purges numbed emotions, cleanses the soul, and allows for hope and healing.

                It was a year after we first started trying to conceive. “We’ll try the procedure again, and if it doesn’t work, we’ll try injectable medications.” the doctor explained. “Your chances are around six percent for this round, but that’s higher than anything you’ve had previously.” After spending thousands of dollars and being sick for weeks from the medication, I only had a six percent chance of becoming a mother. Before my diagnosis, I was one of those people that said, “Why don’t you just adopt?”, as if adopting a child is like going to Nordstrom to pick out some shoes. Before this trial, I had no idea how deep the desire to create life is. It’s a yearning so deep it physically hurts to think about it.

At first, I didn’t grieve at all. I didn’t grieve the loss of the natural pregnancies and large family I had always wanted. I felt like my situation didn’t “deserve” grieving. I told myself, “People are starving, oppressed, and dying; infertility is a small problem to have.”  I forced myself to move forward with the treatments. They were painful, but I reminded myself I was choosing them. I was ill, but I reminded myself that people have much worse ailments. I was heartbroken, but I shoved the emotions down and smiled when people asked me about it. I even joked about the fact that the nurses at the fertility clinic mistook me for an egg donor, because I was one of their youngest patients. I thought that the only way I could deal with it was putting a smile on my face, whether it felt real or not.

Two years later, the day I had been waiting for finally came. I sat staring at my phone, too scared to listen to the voicemail. I summoned all the courage I had and pressed play. “Hi, Hannah, this is Christina from Dr. Craig’s office. I’m calling to let you know that your blood pregnancy test was positive! Congratulations!” I sat there, too stunned to smile, and then burst into tears of relief and joy.

                The week that followed was the best of my life. Brian, my husband, would kiss my belly before going to work, and we talked about all of our future plans for our little one. I shopped for baby clothes and made plans for the nursery. It seemed like it had all finally paid off.

When we lost our baby, I no longer had the choice of whether or not to grieve. Slowly, as the reality of it set in, my body shut down on its own. It was as if every buried emotion from the last two years boiled to the top and spilled out of my heart, infecting my entire body. I remember feeling like I was walking through mud. Every step took three times the energy it should.

“You need to take time to grieve.” my mom said, her hand on my shoulder. “You can choose to take time to rest, or your body will force you to. It’s going to happen either way.” So, I did it. I quit my job and took something part-time. I read books, talked it through with friends, and spent hours just sleeping and crying. After a while, I started to find myself again. I felt more authentic than I had in years. I was honest with myself about how I was feeling, and I shared my experiences with others.

The most important thing is, grieving allowed me to hope. Having hope for the future means letting go of past disappointments. I couldn’t move on until I allowed my mind, body, and spirit to process the difficulty of what I had experienced. As humans, we tend to compare ourselves to each other, and that often includes comparing our trials. The truth is, the struggles of life are all relative to our own strengths and experiences. We all have problems, and just because our problems may not be as serious or life-threatening as someone else’s doesn’t mean they aren’t real. Trials are meant to help us to learn and grow, but we can’t do that unless we acknowledge and work through them. Grieving isn’t dwelling on the negative or feeling sorry for ourselves. It’s the process of recognizing heartache and allowing time for healing. The ability to grieve is a gift from God. Without it we would be numb, and without it we wouldn’t have hope.



Dear Family and Friends,

As some of you already know, we struggle with infertility. After a conversation I had with someone on Mother's Day, I realized that openness is the best way to prevent misunderstandings and hurt feelings.

First of all, I want to say I'm sorry. I'm sorry for the declined baby shower invitations, excuses for not babysitting, and general bitterness I often exude. I hope that I haven't offended anyone and I hope you know I love you all. I tend to misdirect my anger and I'm sorry for that.

 I have realized that most people just don't know what to do or say when they learn about our situation. It can be awkward sometimes, and I know you just want to help. 

So...I thought I'd help with that. 

Please don't...

- Assume we want to hold your baby. (If we do, we will ask. They are all adorable and we love them, but some days are just harder than others.)

- Complain about parenthood to us (I think sometimes this is in an effort to make us feel better about our situation, but it really has the opposite effect.)

- Offer up treatment advice (our doctors know what's up)

- Joke about it (I know we are very light hearted in talking about it, but it's much less funny and sometimes hurtful when you are.)

 - Tell us to "just adopt" (the process is MUCH more difficult and expensive than you realize.)

- Tell us about your neighbor's boyfriend's daughter who miraculously got pregnant after three failed cycles of IUIs and IVF, or adopted and then got pregnant. (These stories don't really give us hope, but remind us that it seems to work for everyone but us. Also, every situation is different and you probably don't know all the details.)

-Say we should wait until we have more money/more education. (I'm pretty sure none of you know our financial situation, and we're pretty good decision makers.)

-Tell us to "just relax and it will happen". (We have actual diagnosis from great doctors that show it in fact won't just happen. You wouldn't tell someone with cancer to just relax and they'll get better ;). )

However, please DO...

- Lend a listening ear when we need it. (Thank you to all of you who already do this!)

-Keep your ears open for anyone planning on giving a child up for adoption. 

- Tell us privately before doing a pregnancy announcement. (It is hard to explain why, but these can be really emotional for me- especially when it is unexpected. Maybe that's immature, but I'm working on it.)

- Be open with us. (I know most of you don't care to know the details, but if you are curious we would much rather you ask than gossip or assume.)

- Keep inviting us to showers, blessings, baptisms, etc. We love you and your kids and we want to be supportive! Some days we may not feel up to it, but we will try our best. 

Anyway, we love you all and we are so thankful to have such amazing people in our lives.

Love always, 

Hannah and Brian 

My Experience With Infertility and the Atonement

I distinctly remember the first time I heard the story of my namesake, Hannah, in the Bible. I remember asking my mom "so, what does it mean that God 'shut up her womb'"? My mom explained that some women, for one reason or another, are unable to give birth. This was a new idea to me, at 6 years old, and although I couldn't fully understand what that meant at the time, I felt a deep sympathy for Hannah. It was, after all, my main focus and goal in life to be a mommy, and I couldn't imagine my life any other way.

A couple weeks ago a woman came up to me in church. 

"Where's your baby?" She asked

"..I'm ...I'm sorry, what?"

"Your little girl? Is she here today?"

"You must have us confused with someone else. We don't have any kids."

She apologized, I introduced myself, we talked for a bit, and then she left to find her seat. I sat there, stunned. Wanting to cry, wanting to tell her so many things. I wished I could say, "I ask myself every day where my baby is. I ask God why I, of all people, don't have the child I have prepared my whole life for." But then again, I already knew the pain only worsens when I tell someone about my struggles and they still can't understand. 

 However, in even just the beginning stages of this journey, I have realized that I now understand the atonement in a completely different light and rely on Christ in ways I didn't know I could.

At first, I prayed that we would get pregnant. I kept thinking it would happen, and maybe I just needed to pray for it more. People would talk about how they knew God loved them because He sent them His precious children. I thought that I must not have enough faith, or that God didn't trust me.

After we finally got a diagnosis, I prayed for God to take it away. I prayed that we would be healed and everything would be ok.

Then I started praying that the treatments would work, that the Doctors would be inspired, and that I wouldn't feel any more physical pain. 

After a while, I became bitter. My prayers weren't working. 

One particularly bitter Sunday, we had a lesson that completely changed my view. My teacher asked the class, "What are the enabling aspects of the atonement?" 

 I assumed he meant repentance, being forgiven, saving grace, etc. . . but his lesson surprised me. 

He talked about how grace is not just something that happens on judgement day to make up for our faults. It is an on going tool we can use in our lives. Grace does not take away our trials, but it can make up the difference between what we have to endure and what we can handle.  

It's not that the idea was new to me, but the fact that I failed to connect my situation with the idea. 

I had been praying for the wrong things. I thought that I was exercising faith in Christ by believing He would take away my problems. What I needed was faith that His grace would help me to handle them. 

Then, I prayed to become stronger. I prayed that I wouldn't be jealous of my friends and siblings. I prayed that I would recognize the other blessings in my life. I prayed that I would stop comparing my life to what I wanted my life to be. 

I can't say all the pain went away. I can't even say it 'fixed' our problem. It did create the change in me that God intends for us during trials. Sadness and difficulties are not meant to be ignored. Life isn't meant to be easy all the time. It is during these difficult times that we learn to rely more on Christ, we realize we can't do it alone, and, most importantly,  that we don't have to.

              

                                Trials change us. . . and that is something to be grateful for. 

*This post is intended to be an outreach to others struggling with fertility issues. I am in no way trying to complain about the beautiful life I have, or boast about what I have learned. I just know that other people who have been brave enough to share have helped me feel a lot less alone in this process. Love ya'll!