Struggles

As mentioned in previous posts, I'm working through some unexplained fertility issues. It's been a very emotional past six months trying to get to the bottom of it all with virtually no steps forward. However, about a week and a half ago, I met one of my favorite people in my life right now: Dr. C. He's a reproductive endocrinologist who started an infertility clinic in my area because he thought infertility patients weren't getting the careful attention and special care they need (holla!). I waited almost four (excruciatingly long) weeks for my appointment with him and creepily cyber-stalked him on his website and watched his provider profile video sometimes more than once a day.

Yeah, I know you're totally sitting there thinking I'm a complete nut job after hearing that.

But don't worry, I'm not a nut job. Basically just because women who are infertile get a free pass to do weird stuff like that when they want a baby.

Anyway, like I said: Dr. C. and I? BFFs. Hubs and I went in to see him and he ordered blood work and an ultrasound straightaway. He then proceeded to call me the following morning at 6:50 in the morning because he knew I taught elementary school and wanted to have a chance to talk with me before I went to school.

Um, yeah. At that point I realized we were kindred spirits. (I'm hoping everyone is picking up on the sarcasm at this point. I promise I'm not that psycho.)

Anyhow, he called because he found out that my thyroid was a lil' sluggish (as my momma had previously diagnosed sans a medical degree because she's just that smart and awesome... and because mommas just know these things about their kids) and put me on some thyroid medicine that I'll take indefinitely to help my body out a bit. Wonderfully enough, a sluggish thyroid can lead to infertility. I say "wonderfully" simply because I've been dying for a reason for all of these baby-makin' troubles we seem to have. At this point, we don't know if that's been my problem or not; in fact, we may never know -- because my BFF (Dr. C., if you've forgotten -- but how could you forget?), who I got to visit with yesterday morning before school, put me on a lovely little pink pill called Femara.

So now, at least for the next five days, I'll be injesting a nice, pastel-colored kitty cocktail of medicines that will (cross your fingers!) help my body do what it needs to. Which means I'll have to wait for another ten days (only nine now because one day has already passed... woohoo!) to see if it worked.

And you see, that's the hard part. Waiting. Well, yes, waiting is hard -- but staying positive for that entire ten days is the hardest. It's been a mere 36-hours since I visited with Dr. C. and he told me what we'd do next, and I've already experienced a whole smorgasbord of emotions. First I was excited: we have another shot at getting pregnant! And then I was convinced we were going to get pregnant this round, so I shopped online after school for maternity clothes (what the -- who does that before they're pregnant, much less prior to having the chance to be pregnant? This girl does. Remember: going through this gives one a free license to have a case of the crazies).

Unfortunately, the positive crazies bug wore off by around 8:00 and my mind wandered to worst-case-scenario. I had been with my friends (my real ones this time, as opposed to my fake BFF) and came home to my husband around 10:00 and had a good cry, convinced this fertility treatment wouldn't work either and I'd never get to have my tummy grow or have a reason to eat handful after handful of skittles, washed down by a chocolate-Oreo milkshake or have the amazing feeling of my baby kicking me from the inside or get to complain about stretch marks (which, by the way, I'll never complain about. I'm totally fine with having a tummy like a tiger if it meant being blessed with babies!).

And you know why I love my husband? He refuses to buy into the gloom and doom that I so easily throw out there to him. He remains steadfast and convinced that this will work and that I shouldn't worry about it. And while it made me totally want to throw a pillow at him across the room when he was arguing with me about why he was so positive and confident that it would work, he helped me see something. Because when I calmed down, I asked him the question I find myself pondering pretty frequently lately.

"Why do you think this is part of God's plan? Why do you think He's saying 'no' right now?"

And it became extremely apparent that he has put lots of time into thinking about that same question. Except he actually thought about it -- versus me, who thought about it and never took the time to pray about it and listen and instead chose to throw a mental temper tantrum and mega-sized pity party in my mind. The thought he shared with me that I'm trying to continue to be mindful of was this:

Maybe God has a plan for our baby. Maybe he or she can't be born yet, because God's plans for them are that they will cure cancer -- but they won't be able to do it until such-and-such time. Or maybe He's just planning who they'll meet, marry and have a family with -- and maybe for that, they need to go to school a little later so they can meet.

And at that moment, I realized I'm totally selfish. This whole thing isn't just about me and how badly I want a baby. It's not even about my husband and how badly he wants a baby. It includes this other little life too, and God's plan for them.

Ultimately, we may never know the reason why this is happening. But for now, the thought of my baby's life already being mapped out really provides at least a small amount of comfort -- even when I get a case of the crazies.