I was surprised at the tone in my voice when I answered the doctors office calling to explain the test results weren’t what we had hoped. Chipper and hopeful, I pressed on as the nurse explained the doctor wanted to up the dosage of medication for the next cycle to see if my body would finally respond. I asked a couple of questions and hung up, still hopeful.
A plan—I was grateful, am grateful, for a plan. It is something to expect and anticipate.
With music on in the living room and freshly scrubbed roasting pans, I walked to the laundry room to check the next load. Unexpectedly, tears and a short gasp overtook me.
I didn’t expect them. They didn’t well up inside before bursting out. But they arrived, whether I wanted them to or not.
We’re over four years into this journey of trying to grow our family and I’m still surprised at grief and how it comes at unexpected times and in unexpected ways.
Early on in the journey, I didn’t realize what it was: the anger and despair simultaneously mulling around in my mind. I didn’t understand that the grief of something I’ve never lost could be possible—so I tried to suppress the emotions and fix myself.
This resulted in lashing out at my husband for asking if pregnancy tests were positive, secluding myself from community in hopes of not letting them see my grief, and being overwhelmed with the unknown. All the while, the anger and despair continued to pile up inside.
The undisclosed pain began to callus my bleeding heart. If I’m honest, the calluses are easy to return to. The familiarity of shutting others out and ignoring my pain still feel safer than being vulnerable and admitting the pain exists. Ignoring the disappointment, the confusion, and the fog can be easier than embracing the mystery of the unknown. But the lasting effects aren’t the healing my heart needs.
In the weeks that have followed the call, I’ve noticed the familiar patterns that present themselves to me and I’m reminded of the growth that has taken place over these last four years. I’m also reminded that as much as I don’t want to admit it, I ache and hurt and hope. And in the pain, I have tried to learn to give myself a bit of grace and time in responding.
Communicating isn’t easy, but it’s worth it.
So as I sat on the couch, talking with my husband on the phone and then later in person, I admitted the truth: I’m sad, I’m disappointed, I’m hopeful, And sometimes I feel ridiculous—but I trust.