On Mother's Day

On Mother's Day, exactly nine years ago, I went to church with Stuart and was dreading every step into the sanctuary. I had a pit in my stomach and a knot in my throat. I knew that it would be the "ode to mother's" sermon, and it would open all my painful wounds of infertility and loss. Sure enough, there was some part during the sermon where all the mothers were asked to stand up, so the congregation could applaud them and honor them. To me, that felt like a public demonstration of my barrenness. I was one who would have to sit. I was the one who had been married eleven years at the time, so everyone would wonder why I was childless. I was one who wouldn't get a day to honor her contributions. I felt like I was inadequate as a wife and a woman. I felt like my life would have no meaning without being able to become a parent.

Later in the service, I left the middle of the sermon and ran into the church bathroom, and I could hold in my sobs no longer. I leaned against the cold, metal stall and doubled over in silent screams. After church, I went home and threw all the temperature charts, journals, baby items, and pregnancy books into my attic in a big box. I threw myself on my bedroom carpet on my face and sobbed and sobbed . . . for the life I had dreamed of that wasn't to be, for every month of disappointing news, for the money that had been spent and lost on treatments, for the heartache, the feeling of abandonment, and the isolation between me and all my friends who were now mothers. For the first time in my life, I had finally gotten to the end of myself. I had done everything humanly possible to conceive, and after two and a half years, it hadn't worked.

Time passed. I began to feel a peace about stopping fertility treatments, and I just let go of what I wanted for my life. I prayed that God would show me what He wanted my focus to be. I decided to focus on my teaching and how I might impact student's lives in meaningful ways that would make a difference. I sincerely believed that I wouldn't have a child of my own, and I was trying to find peace with that new "normal."

About six months later, I heard of a new, experimental use for a drug that could help with conception. It was on the market for other uses, but in FDA trials for infertility. I had stopped all the expensive injections, hormones, and procedures, but this new option was a much more affordable drug with less side effects. I asked my doctor to let me try it, and I conceived during the first month. One year after the painful church service, it was Mother's Day again; however, this time I was in church with my hand on my stomach, feeling my baby kicking inside of me.

In July 2001, I gave birth to Owen. He was my first miracle.
In August 2004, I gave birth to Hudson. A second miracle.
In December 2007, I gave birth to Arden. A third miracle.

All three of my children were conceived with medical treatment for infertility. No pregnancy came easily or quickly. All three of my children were preterm. Over the course of three pregnancies and deliveries, I went through 9 days of NICU, 4 months of heart monitors, 2 years with a heart condition and regular visits to a pediatric cardiologist, 10 weeks on bedrest, 17 weeks of intermuscular hormone injections given by my husband, 16 weeks on Brethine pills, and 1 pregnancy with placenta previa. And it was worth it. Every second, every shot, every sacrifice.

On Mother's Day, I look back at how far I've come, the journey I've been on, and I'm so thankful that God allowed me to have, not one, but three amazing children. I am richer for having gone through infertility and for knowing the real miracle of birth. I don't ever take that for granted.

Infertility is like a scar; it is always there to remind you of what you've been through. You might become a survivor and achieve a pregnancy, but it doesn't ever erase the pain or the blessings of the experience. I still grieve for women I know who are facing this challenge today; it is impossible to understand how it feels unless you have been in those dark places yourself. It changed my values, my priorities, my entire life.

I'm a survivor of infertility. I remember, and I am a better person because of it.