Kiss Your Miracle

My whole life I’ve wanted to be two things: a writer and a wife-mom. (Okay, I guess that’s three things. But wife and mother always went together in my head.) I’ve always written, but sharing my work is something entirely different. It’s scary. What if the person I show it to thinks it’s shallow and awful when it’s full of my deepest, most personal thoughts? That’s why I decided to be a novelist. A fiction writer doesn’t have to give anything away. She tells the thoughts of imaginary people, characters she’s created in her mind. A novelist can be guarded and mysterious. But here’s my problem: I can’t seem to write fiction. The things I have to say all come from my real life. So I would write and keep it to myself.

Then during the middle of our infertility this verse jumped out at me from Psalm 71. “My mouth will tell of your righteous deeds, of your saving acts all day long – though I know not how to relate them all” (v. 15). As I read it, I had this overwhelming feeling that one day God would end our infertility, and I would write about the whole experience – both the pain and the blessings – and actually share it with people. The thought was terrifying to me. At that point we were just starting to talk to people about what we were going through and I couldn’t imagine writing for an audience about such a private thing.

A year later we found out I was pregnant and I immediately thought of the verse. The idea that I would have a miracle story to share astounded me. How could I ever find the words to express what God had done? I felt like David, unsure of how to relate it all. But the Giver of every good and perfect gift had blessed me with exactly what I wanted. How could I keep it quiet? I guess I could write about just the fun baby stuff and leave out all the difficulty. But why would anyone want to read it? I’m not interested in fake perfection and I don’t think anyone else would be either.

To be honest, this blog is a stretch for me. Several people have read it and said things like – You wrote about ovulating and your fallopian tubes and your infertility and anyone can read it! And that’s true. When I think about it too much I’m tempted to delete it. It’s never easy to be vulnerable. But I feel like I’m in this place lately where I don’t see the point in keeping a fence up around my life. I’ve tried that before and it’s a lonely way to live. Being open about my pain, my mistakes, and the things I’m really facing has connected me to my friends and family in a way that guarding my life never did. It’s not that I plan to tell the world every detail of every situation. I still believe in discretion. But there’s a big difference between maintaining a level of privacy and keeping everyone at a distance. I find it hard to relate to someone who appears to have no problems. I’d rather put myself out there, as messy as I am, and say something authentic. It’s worth the risk involved.

During our first visit to the fertility clinic back in 2005, Dr. K immediately asked if I worked out regularly.

Me: “Well, I like running.”

Dr. K: “Really. How often do you go?”

Me: “I don’t know… four, maybe five times a week? But I should probably call it jogging – not running. I usually just go two or three miles at a nice, easy pace. I don’t time myself or anything.”

Dr. K: “And you are 5’6 and weigh 135 pounds?”

Me: “Yeah.”

Dr. K: “I think you should stop running and let yourself gain fifteen pounds.”

Me: “What? Why? My regular doctor said weight wasn’t a factor in my fertility problems. He said I’m right in the middle of the normal range for my height.”

Dr. K: “According to the charts you are in the normal range. But every woman is different. You’re not ovulating. You may be slightly below the weight necessary for your hormones to function properly.”

Me: “Fifteen pounds?”

Dr. K: “Fertility treatments are very involved. They’re expensive. They’re painful. If it’s at all possible for you to avoid them, you should.”

I glanced sideways at Adam. He smiled and touched my arm.

Dr. K: “It’s a nice problem, really. I wish I had people telling me to gain weight.”

Adam: “Me too.” And they laughed.

I frowned.

A woman’s weight is not a simple thing. I used to eat for comfort. I gained twenty pounds my freshmen year in college. The day I ripped out of my biggest jeans I decided I had to do something. I started jogging – just five minutes at a time in the beginning – and stopped eating so much junk. Soon the weight began to come off. People noticed and complimented me. Suddenly, losing weight became addictive. I started working out twice a day and living on coffee and Nutri-grain bars. I was always cold. But the day I fit into a pair of size two jeans I was so happy I was actually able to block out the hunger and dizziness I felt most of the time.

Thankfully, I joined a missions organization after graduation and came to my senses. A few years of traveling in and out of third world countries was enough to give me a little perspective. I was finally able to let go of my obsession with eating or not eating, and by the time I got married a few years later I felt like I’d found a good balance. I ate when I was hungry and felt generally comfortable with my size. Now the doctor was asking me to purposely grow out of all my clothes.

As we left the clinic that day Adam told me I’d look good with a few extra pounds. “Why do women think men want them to have rock hard bodies? We don’t. A woman’s body should be soft. It shouldn’t feel like a man’s.” Well I do love ice cream, I thought to myself. And if gaining weight was all it took to get pregnant, it would of course be worth it. With Adam’s encouragement I stopped running and over a year’s time, let myself gain fifteen pounds. I did have to buy new jeans, but no one aside from me seemed to notice I’d put on weight.

At first the extra pounds didn’t seem to help with the fertility problems. After a year of gaining weight I’d only ovulated one time and I still wasn’t pregnant. At that point a test revealed I had no working fallopian tubes in addition to my hormone problems, so we decided to go ahead with IVF, our only treatment option. When that didn’t work and we found ourselves waiting, I wondered how to handle things. I considered running again. Losing weight actually sounded like fun, a nice distraction from infertility. I couldn’t control whether or not I got pregnant, but my weight – that was a simple mathematical equation. Eat less, run more, and the pounds would come off. But we were still hoping to get pregnant. What was the point of losing weight first? I decided to leave things as they were.

And then an interesting thing happened. I started to ovulate on my own. Not regularly, but every couple months or so. I still had no functioning fallopian tubes, but at that point Adam and I had started praying for a miracle baby anyway. A year and a half after our failed IVF cycle, I was pregnant. Considering my combination of problems (even the doctors said we couldn’t conceive without medical help), Skylar Grace is a miracle – heaven forbid I should explain away any part of what God did for us. But I do believe my weight was a biological factor in her conception.

Why is it that one woman can be my height and weigh thirty to forty pounds less than I do without it affecting her fertility at all? For me, ovulation apparently requires a Body Mass Index just under 25, the highest number possible before I’m considered overweight according to the National Department of Health. If we want the chance to have another baby, my BMI should probably stay where it is. To be honest, I liked myself better at 135. I miss running in the Florida heat, coming home tired and soaked in sweat. But I also have to admit that gaining weight has been good for me in terms of perspective. Clearly, God likes variety and he intends for people to be different shapes and sizes. Whenever I start to feel irritated by the weight issue I immediately feel a sting of guilt and think to myself, really? You’re bothered by fifteen pounds, with everything else that’s wrong in the world? And then I tell myself something I need to hear at least once a day: don’t take yourself so seriously.

I have to admit, my thoughts were all over the place on Sunday morning. After the rush to get to church on time, I dropped Sky off in the nursery and worried about whether or not she’d cry till the service ended. Once we were in our seats my mind shifted to Pastor Mike and his message. I thought about our email conversation a couple weeks ago, and wondered if he would mention those who may be hurting instead of happy on Mother’s Day. A few minutes into his sermon he did, bringing to everyone’s attention the following: single moms, those with mothers who are no longer living, those in difficult mother-child relationships, moms with rebellious kids, and those dealing with infertility. I looked around. No one in the congregation was moving. He then preached his message about a woman in the Bible who may have been a single mom (II Tim. 1:5), but who still raised her son to be sincere in his faith (a very cool Mother’s Day sermon). At the end he had all the moms stand up while the kids gave a flower to each one. As I stood, I couldn’t help but look at all the seated women – there were quite a few – and hope they felt validated by Pastor Mike’s sensitivity to women in all situations.

It wasn’t until we were at home later that I began to think about Mother’s Day on a more personal level. I picked up my flower and smiled, thinking about my baby’s intense curiosity and how fun it is to watch her explore things for the first time. The fact that her tiny hands had squished my carnation a bit and snapped off its stem actually made the flower more precious to me. I put it in a little bowl and took a few photos of it. I am officially a mother this year and I appreciated everything about the day. I have never cried to God more about anything in my life than our infertility, and God, in his sweet extravagance, chose to take it away from me. He answered my prayers and gave me a child. Lord willing, I’ll have many more Mother’s Days to celebrate with my daughter. But for me this day will always have a touch of melancholy to it and I am grateful for that. As long as I know people who struggle with infertility, they will be heavy on my mind and heart. I’m thankful for my own wonderful mom and thankful beyond words for my child. But even as I praise God for the blessings he’s poured into my life, I remember Psalm 77:14 – “You are the God who performs miracles” – and I ask him, our God without limits, to bless my hurting friends.

When the doctor first diagnosed my fertility problems, I made Adam promise not to tell anyone, not even his parents. I said it was because I didn’t want to get a lot of unsolicited advice or have to hear people’s thoughtless comments. And that was true. But there was another reason. I hated the idea that anyone might feel sorry for me. The thought of people pitying me, pitying Adam because he’d married a wife who couldn’t have children, was too much. It made me angry. So angry I couldn’t even think about it or figure out where it was coming from.

Adam was gentle and patient. He kept our secret. Eventually, I agreed that we should tell his parents. But it wasn’t until after we’d tried IVF without success that I had to absorb reality; infertility might be part of our lives for a long time and I wouldn’t make it without support. I began to see that leaning completely on Adam wasn’t fair. I allowed God to show me a few things and it finally hit me that my anger was coming from pride. I wanted everyone to think I had my life together. But God wanted me to be honest and share our pain with family and a few trusted friends. Whatever people chose to think of me was between them and God and really shouldn’t concern me at all. I decided I would work hard not to care. It was a huge effort at first, but it got easier with time. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with keeping infertility private. But for me, opening up carefully over time was best. The more I shared, the less I fixated on what people might be thinking.

Mother’s Day is coming soon and this year my thoughts are mainly on my friends who long for babies they don’t yet have. I have a running list of these friends in my head and I try to pray for them often. The other day I took Skylar out for an early morning walk, planning to pray as I pushed her in the stroller. Mother’s Day and my friends came immediately to my mind and I began to think about them, remembering how hard the day was for me in years past. I looked down at Sky, who sat in the stroller chattering away in her own language, and a wave of sadness for my friends washed over me. Ten minutes later I realized I still hadn’t started praying. I was just feeling bad. Suddenly I heard myself two years earlier, saying I’d rather have people pray for me than feel sorry for me. Empathy is important. God calls us to bear one another’s burdens and the first step in empathy is taking the time to imagine what someone might be feeling. But simple pity can slip into “I’m glad I’m not in your situation” thinking, and I don’t want to be that kind of friend. Being a Christian means believing that in all things God is working for our good. I want to be a person who walks by faith, both in my own pain and with my friends in theirs. Empathy shouldn’t begin and end with feelings – it should be the catalyst for faith-filled prayer.

Skylar loves to look in the mirror. She can be full on crying – tears, red-face, the works – but put her in front of a mirror and a smile emerges. I took this picture of her today and a question popped into my head: at what point in a girl’s life does she stop smiling in front of the mirror? Right now Sky is only nine months old. She doesn’t care that she has a bruise on her forehead or a scratch on her cheek (standing is her new skill, but she’s not the best at it yet). She’s never evaluated her weight and decided she’s too thin or too heavy. And I can’t help but think, please baby girl, let me put you in a bubble and keep you just like this – content to be who you are, unaware of society’s artificial standard of beauty.