What Matters Most
musings on the mundane and magnificent from a Christian perspective
Two years ago, I stumbled across a medical report in my patient portal, one that I had never seen before. The medical report was titled “Tissue Exam,” and it was from my D & C procedure after I had a miscarriage in 2017.
With the startling realization of what I was about to read, I clicked on it. It hurt to read the heart-breaking contents but doing so delivered a little closure to that painful period in my life.
After I miscarried, I often wondered what became of the tissue that was extracted, whether it was donated to research or discarded, and if so, how. I still don’t know what became of it, and maybe it’s better that way, but now I know this: the size and color of the dead tissue that was once my living, loved baby.
“Received labeled “products of conception” is a vacuum container which is opened and shows small fragments of tan-brown tissue. The recovered tissue fragments measure 5 x 3 x 1.5 cm. The tissue fragments are entirely submitted in three cassettes.”
My one pregnancy, my only chance to be a mom whittled down to tissue fragments. And when the tissue disintegrated, so did my dream of motherhood.
Because I never got pregnant again. We consulted a fertility specialist who said I wasn’t a candidate for IVF using my own eggs. Our options were limited to donor eggs or donor embryos. And while those are certainly viable options for some, for us, it just didn’t feel right. Considering the expense involved and not having a guarantee of success, assisted reproduction was a closed door for us.
Adoption wasn’t an option, either. My husband was fine with us trying to get pregnant. More than fine, actually; he was excited! He wanted me to be a mom, and he wanted us to have a baby of our own. He was crushed when we lost the pregnancy. But he was nearing 50 then and already has a son of his own, so he didn’t think adoption was something we needed to pursue. And that was a decision I understood and accepted. It was a hard choice but the right choice.
And since pregnancy never happened again naturally, motherhood never happened for me. A long-held dream dissolved with my declining egg count.
I’ll never be the mother I always saw myself being. But I can be the stepmother I need to be now, the one I want to be faithfully. I can love the people I do have in my life. And I can care for all those whose life path intersects with mine – children at church, neighbors, the man with the sign on the street corner, friends, and family.
I have a lot of love to give.
And I can do just that. I can live a meaningful life despite the fact that my one pregnancy ended in tissue fragments. That tissue was scraped out of me; I didn’t feel it at the time, of course, because I was under anesthesia.
I‘ve been feeling it ever since, though.
I feel sadness at not being a mom, but I also feel peace. My heart bears the deep, wide wound of infertility – a scar I will carry for the rest of my life, but one that has healed.
And healing is a good feeling. Knowing that the death of dreams can never drown out the life inside me. Knowing that I can be broken-hearted yet remain whole. And knowing that no matter what happens, no matter how hard the hurt is, there is a greater reality. God’s love is bigger than the biggest hurt I face.
And that truth enables me to find healing and to keep going, even when dreams disappear and prayers go unanswered. I hold on to what matters most. I hold on to Him – to life eternal and love unfailing.
“Though the mountains be shaken and the hills be removed, yet my unfailing love for you will not be shaken nor my covenant of peace be removed,” says the Lord, who has compassion on you.
Isaiah 54:10 NIV
I originally wrote this in the fall of 2016.
And I wouldn’t change a word.
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Last week, I had a check-up with my ob-gyn. Now that I’ve discussed pregnancy at length with my endocrinologist, it was his turn. Doing my best to keep a lid on my excitement and appear somewhat normal about this emotionally charged subject, I told him my plans to get pregnant.
I was not surprised by his response.
I’ve heard it before, read about it, and chewed on it with each passing year. Still, his words were no easier to digest just by being prepared to hear them. “Your fertility at 39 is not what it was at 29. It’s not what it was at 19, even.”
The excitement I had going into this appointment was dampened by this unfortunate reality. This is a truth I can’t ignore, can’t wish away. I must acknowledge what I’m working with: I’m a 39-year-old cancer survivor trying to get pregnant for the first time. At 39.
It is what it is. Wishing things were different won’t help me now.
The choice before me is this: to let the process of trying for a baby be overshadowed by fear or undergirded by faith. I choose faith. Even if I never get pregnant, I would rather try with hope in my heart and deal with disappointment than go through this process holding my breath, riddled with doubt, constantly waiting for bad news.
Yes, I acknowledge the difficulties ahead; I’m well aware of the statistics. But I choose not to spend emotional and mental energy on “what if.” I choose faith.
And that same faith will be waiting for me at the end of this road ready to carry me if this process doesn’t turn out the way I want it to.
I acknowledge my age, and I also acknowledge the greater truth that God’s purposes will stand. God is greater than a number, than my health, than any circumstance I face. The purposes and plans He has for me are a certainty nothing can hinder.
So, I’m not going to fear infertility. When I get pregnant, I’m not going to fear miscarriage. I’m not going to fear complications. I choose right now that fear will not have any part in this process. Come what may, I choose faith.
It’s never let me down before.
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That was five years ago. And just like I said, faith was waiting for me at the end of the road, a road that did not lead to a baby.
I did get pregnant – once – but the pregnancy didn’t last long enough for fear to have a chance to creep in. I was having a D & C just a few short weeks of getting a positive pregnancy test. And I wasn’t able to get pregnant again.
I’m infertile yet full of faith. I have faith that what needed to happen in my life has happened, that circumstances are what they need to be, even if unexpected. I have faith that if I was supposed to be a mom, I would be and that, for me, being a stepmom is enough.
Faith doesn’t mean you always get what you’re hoping for. It doesn’t mean that every prayer is answered.
What faith means is a calm, confident assurance that you will be okay – regardless of how life plays out. It’s not an abstract theory, it’s not an emotion that can come and go, it’s not a crutch just to help you process life’s difficulties.
Because the whole point of having faith is the object of our faith – God. We have faith in Him because He has proven Himself faithful in our lives and in the pages of Scripture. We trust Him because He is trustworthy. And because He never changes, the basis of our faith will never change. Our faith can grow stronger and stronger with each passing year, with each crisis we face.
A crisis in life doesn’t have to lead to a crisis of faith. When our faith is based on who God has revealed Himself to be – and not on us getting everything we want, having every prayer answered just the way we want it to – then our faith will be unshakable. And it will sustain us in all the times when things don’t go the way we want them to.
I know trying to get pregnant month after month, the indescribable pain of miscarriage, the startling reality of infertility are not easy to overcome. It can be hard to wrap your brain around it – and hard for your heart to move on – when your situation is the exact opposite of what you wanted.
But I’m here to tell you from my own experience that healing is possible. And though it may not be easy, there is a way forward. And it all starts with faith – in a faithful, loving God.
“Do you have kids?”
It’s a simple enough question, one asked occasionally and innocuously. But my answer is not so simple.
The answer is yes and no.
Yes, I became a parent the day I got married, but no, I’m not a mom. I wasn’t able to have kids of my own because I didn’t get married until I was nearly 35 – the critical number that marks a decline in fertility – and once married, I was diagnosed with cancer. And my husband didn’t want adoption.
So, my response when asked this question is to smile and nod and give the most straightforward answer I can: “I have a teenage stepson.”
But that’s the end of that sentence. I don’t elaborate by listing other kids. No other names are mentioned. My answer is short and to the painful point. But the obvious omission is there.
I always feel bad for the other person. In these conversations, I’m always more focused on their feelings than on mine. I don’t want them to feel bad about what they had no way of knowing. I don’t want them to feel like they’re pouring lemon juice on the wound of infertility.
And I always feel an explanation is warranted, but I never know how much to share. They were just making conversation, not asking for my life story! But I can just see the wheels turning, the unspoken question in their eyes when my answer ends abruptly at one. And I want to preempt the dreaded “well, there’s still time,” a wholly inaccurate assessment in my case. Even though people tend to think I’m a good ten years younger than I am, my biological clock knows the truth: there is not still time.
The motherhood ship has sailed, and I’m not on board. I’m on the shore watching it from a distance as it gets farther and farther away.
I watch happy mothers all around me without being one myself. I listen to the constant stories of, “When I was pregnant with…” without being able to contribute my own. And sometimes I can’t help but feel like the odd one out, like I did recently when I volunteered with my church’s Vacation Bible School.
It seemed like a good idea. We just joined this church, and I wanted to get to know people. They needed help, and I had the time.
So, I decided to take a chance even though this was the exact situation I have carefully avoided for the past few years. Once I realized motherhood was not going to happen for me, I took a break from volunteering in nursery and Children’s Church, a place I’ve served for years. And I’ve quietly opted out of going to church on Mother’s Day.
This was my first time doing something like this after taking time to grieve and to heal. This was my first time rubbing up against motherhood so closely.
And it was… okay. The sight of the mom with the infant strapped to her chest didn’t send me to the bathroom in tears, like it would have a few years ago. The sight of a mom wheeling in her stroller dropping off her toddler didn’t make me wince.
Instead, I just handled it. I was able to do it, and I got through the week in one piece.
What was challenging were the conversations with the other volunteers, all of whom were moms. Being asked if I have kids and not being able to answer as I would have liked. Being in a room full of moms and not being one myself. Feeling a spotlight on my situation, feeling like I must stick out like a sore thumb.
But somehow I managed. I prayed and processed it in the car driving home, and I showed up the next day. I got through those conversations, and I got through the week. Overall, I was glad I signed up, and I enjoyed talking with the other volunteers. They were all great! But the week was not without its moments.
This showed me two things:
- I’ve come a long way in the process of healing. Having a toddler sit in my lap didn’t make me ache for the toddler I never had. Things that used to be triggers for me are no longer an issue. I can handle them now.
- Infertility’s effects are long reaching. I shouldn’t be surprised if it hits me differently in different seasons, if new triggers arise. This doesn’t necessarily mean I’m not processing it well or that I’m not as far along as I should be. It just means that the situation is hard. It just means I’m human.
“Do you have kids?”
In my answer, the words not spoken speak volumes. They speak of a fierce, lifelong desire for children, a desire that did not come to fruition as I had hoped. They speak of a miscarriage, of fertility expired. They speak of pain. But they also speak of healing. They speak of the faithfulness of the God who comforts me, provides for me, loves me. The words not spoken are as much a part of my story as the ones that are.
I will continue to be asked this question, and I will get better at it. And the next time I’m surrounded by moms, I will be ready. I will be okay. I can watch motherhood as a supportive spectator and not an active participant. I can cheer my new friends on, and during next summer’s VBS, I can watch their kids again.
I will be okay. Because healing happens. It may be slow and incremental, it may be messy – but it does happen.
I’m living proof.
I’m supposed to be at a birthday party today.
Four years ago, I was pregnant for the first and only time, and December 30 was my due date. Today, of all days, I feel my lack so keenly.
I never got to experience what it’s like to feel a baby move inside me. There will never be a little human running around who looks like me. We didn’t even know if the baby was a boy or a girl, but I think she was a girl. Or at least, that’s how I’ve come to think of her. My feelings are all I have to go on. All I have are a few black and white ultrasound pictures and memories.
These are the thoughts swirling in my mind as I sit on the couch with my dog. Since I work from home, he is my constant companion. He sits in my lap when I read my Bible in the morning, he tries to do Pilates with me, he follows me all around the house. He’s my buddy! I’ve even prayed for him a time or two. Yes, I know he’s only a dog, but I said a quick prayer for him when we dropped him off at the kennel for the first time. I couldn’t stand it if he got loose or hit by a car because I just love him so much.
If this is how I feel for a dog, how much more would I feel for my child?
Love’s Long Ripening
I can imagine that love – a love I had for my children before I even got married, a love accumulating inside me over time. It was a love I poured out in prayers, journals, letters to my children. It was a love expressed in preparation; I stretched myself, worked on issues, and grew so I would be the best mom I could be for them.
And that love for my baby didn’t end when the pregnancy ended. Only now I don’t have anywhere to bestow it. It’s just hanging in the balance. A love years in the making not come to fruition.
I think of how great that love could be if it had been able to be fully expressed. If it had a recipient – a living, breathing child of my own. How amazing would it be if the love that had incubated in my heart could have been finally released?
I’ll never know what it’s like to love someone as a mother. And in the four years since the due date that never was, I’ve come to terms with that. I have grieved the loss of motherhood in general, and I’ve also grieved the loss of that individual life. I have mourned, and I have healed.
A few years ago, when the pain of miscarriage was still raw, when motherhood was a dream I was still hoping to attain, and when I was in counseling, my therapist suggested an activity to aid in healing. This was my journal entry from that time:
It came out of nowhere. A moment in between sight-seeing and movie-watching, after morning walks but before the turkey was carved, a brief moment last week where all I could think of was you – the daughter I miscarried.
It was a busy Thanksgiving week, busy in a good way. We did a lot. We saw a lot in our nation’s capital. And we enjoyed being together. We had so many memorable moments, but one moment in particular stands out to me – the moment where I couldn’t help but think of you.
I was sitting on the sofa, and almost everyone had left the room. We were getting ready to go somewhere or do something; I can’t quite remember what. I just remember gazing out of the window, looking at the trees, and having such a strong impression of you. Just you. Just the fact that you once existed. And the fact that you’re not here with us now, enjoying this full week with your relatives. Nothing specific triggered this feeling. It was just a quick, quiet moment where my thoughts drifted to you.
This doesn’t happen as often as it once did, but it still happens. Sometimes, I just can’t help but think of you. Sometimes, the feeling of your absence is palpable. My arms ache to hold you. I long to feel your head on my shoulder and stroke your hair. And I want so badly to share you with this family I love so much.
The Family You Never Met
Your aunt and uncle are both such naturals when it comes to children. They would have opened their lives to you, opened their home to you, opened their hearts to you and swallowed you up in love.
Your cousins would have adored you! I think they would have relished the role of your protector, your teacher, someone to show you the ropes. And I can think of no better role models than them. They are each so gifted in many ways, but they all share a sense of compassion, a sweetness that gives breath to all their other virtues. I would have loved for you to be the recipient of their sweet love.
Your grandma believed in you, waited for you along with me, even prayed you into existence. I had planned on having her in the delivery room with me because I wanted you and her to meet as soon as possible. I wanted the two of you to make the most of all the time you had together. And I know you would have. Her love would have been a staple in your life, her presence and constant encouragement a rock you could have relied on without fail.
They would’ve loved to love you.
And I would’ve loved to have seen it.
Looking Back
I was just missing you and imagining, for a brief moment, what it would have been like if you were here.
But you aren’t. Our memories don’t include you. Our family photos are void of your face. And our hearts miss the love we would have shared with you. And while I don’t think about this all the time, sometimes I can’t help it, even though it’s been a few years.
It’s not healthy to think along these lines every day, and it’s equally not healthy to never think about it at all. It’s therapeutic for me to remember you, to remember that you existed, even just briefly. I would rather remember than forget it ever happened, even if that means remembering and feeling the pain also.
Because remembering you also means remembering love – the love I felt for you instantly, a love I still have. I love the memory of you. And that’s why I think of you from time to time, like I did last week surrounded by the family you never knew. We would’ve loved to share you with your dad’s family as well. The people we love who would’ve loved you are many.
Looking Ahead
The one consolation in all this hit me in the most unexpected place. Since we were all together in Virginia, we took the short drive down to Arlington National Cemetery. Under the cover of fall leaves, with the backdrop of the D. C. skyline, we passed name after name, until we came to one – the name of your grandfather who died five years before you did.
Maybe there is a family member you’ve met. Maybe when I think of you, I can imagine the two of you together – the father I’ll always remember and the daughter I can’t forget.
My view from here is a wistful one. Through the window of my home office, I see my neighbor walk by with her toddler and her newborn in the stroller. The little girl is practically prancing down the street in her princess dress. It’s not Halloween anymore, and it doesn’t look like they’re having a birthday party. It’s just Thursday. And I guess that’s as good a reason as any to go full princess mode.
The whole thing made me smile as much as it made me cry. To see young mothers with their young daughters can’t help but grip my heart. I was never a young mother. I’ll never have a daughter. I’ll never have what I always wanted, and scenes like this are a vivid reminder of that loss.
I always wanted to be that young mother taking her kids outside for a mid-morning walk. I wanted to have a house full of kids, but I don’t. Instead, I have a household where the number of pets outweighs the number of children (two fur babies, one stepson).
But I take another look…
My view outside the home, my view inside the home – wherever I look I see evidence of God’s faithfulness, His goodness, His sovereign hand guiding me every step of the way. There’s so much I do have: a husband who loves me and is committed to me, a child in my home to love, friends, health, resources. I have things to look forward to. I have hope.
My view from home is not what I thought it would be, and I deal with the grief as it ebbs and flows. But regardless of what the view looks like, this is my home. This is my household. I choose to be thankful for all I do have and to steward it well.
So I pray…
“Regardless of what I have, regardless of what I don’t have, regardless of the circumstances and emotions, You are Lord, and You are good. You are worthy of my unwavering trust and undying devotion. I give all of me – the mess, the sadness, the things that I wish were different, the things that don’t come easily for me, the things I’m thankful for, the potential in me – I give it all freely to You. I’m Yours, Lord.
In the gap between what I always wanted and what I actually have, between hopeful expectation and bittersweet reality, I find You. And You give me the healing that is only found in You.”
That healing enables me to be surrounded by scenes of happy mothers and babies – like the one I witnessed today – but not be overcome by them. So, the next time my neighbors go for a walk, whether as princesses or fairies or superheroes, I can smile through my tears. I can rest in the knowledge that my view from home is something God sees, too. I am living my story, not somebody else’s, and He is with me as it unfolds.
As I look at my life, as I view my home, I look through the viewfinder of faith and see God, and that is enough for me.
“The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.”
Psalm 34:18 NIV
This is going to be a tough one. Another seemingly innocuous situation that should be easy, but for me is anything but. It comes in different forms – a conversation, a moment in a TV show, a scene in a book – but it always has the same effect. Some reference to motherhood makes me flinch. The ramifications of infertility are endless.
Today, it’s in an English lesson I’m teaching online to a seven-year-old boy in China. I’m supposed to be teaching him to say, “This is my mom.” Slide after slide in the lesson shows a happy mom cuddled next to her child. Mom and daughter hugging. Toddler son kissing his mom. Mom after mom after mom.
There will never be anybody who says of me, “This is my mom.”
I do not resent the chain of events that led to this. It just is what it is. I was single throughout the years of my peak fertility. Once I finally got married, I was diagnosed with thyroid cancer, so we had to put pregnancy on hold. By the time my doctor gave us the green light to try for pregnancy, we were hardly spring chickens. My peers were posting pictures of proms and graduations of their kids – budding young adults – while I was just hoping for a baby. Just one.
We tried everything. I took medication to stimulate ovulation month after month until I hit the maximum dose. Then, we met with a fertility specialist. I read article after article. And I did all this prayerfully; I fasted, and people laid hands on me and prayed for me. We believed, and we hoped. And we waited. And then we tried again the next month. We exhausted all options including adoption, which my husband didn’t feel led to pursue because of our ages and season in life. We tried everything until there was nothing left to try.
My journey to motherhood came to an unexpected end.