Through the Eyes of Infertility: A collection of insights
by Brittany Calavitta
Some days are harder than others – the days when the hope in your heart sinks to a whisper in quiet hushed tones. Those are the days when you wonder and plead and ache. They are the days you douse your cramps with painkillers and medicate your sorrows with pintsized cartons of ice cream. They are the days you feel foolish for having given yourself so freely to the one thing that seems to keep letting you down: hope.
But then, there it is again and you can’t help but give in to it. Because as the days tick on and the possibilities loom near, the hopeful whispers in your heart give rise to shouts. “Maybe!” they scream with optimistic fervor. “Maybe,” you say with enthusiastic hope.
And just as soon as you’ve allowed yourself to succumb to that hope-filled desire – the moment you’ve purchased the tests and dreamt up the names - fear begins to shield your heart with a pessimistic quarrel. “But probably not,” it says as the pills resurface from the depth of your purse. “Probably not,” you say as the negative test results cling to the inside of the palm of your hand.
And that’s when you restock your freezer with the very best chocolate chip ice cream and go to work on finding that hope again.
By Lauren Allen
“We are in this together” my husband whispers as he reaches for my hand. We must have arrived before everyone came back from lunch because the waiting room is empty, but I know this isn’t typical. The countless forms have been filled out, the small talk with the receptionist has taken place, and now we wait.
I can feel my palms getting sweaty as I try to calm my breathing. Soon. Soon a nurse will say “Mrs Allen?” and we’ll make our way to the exam room.
I lost track of the number of appointments we’ve had by now, but each of them elicits the same reaction. Heart racing. Sweaty palms. Muffled hope. Anticipated diagnosis. Anxiety.
We wait, listening to the world’s loudest clock ticking away in the cold waiting room.
The door behind us opens and a woman with a lovely baby bump enters. Hope. Immediately I feel the spark of hope. We must be in the right place.
By Kristin D.
Four years of trying. After numerous tests, medications, diet and exercise, my doctor says we should have conceived by now.
My husband’s blood tests are in. The awkwardness of the semen sample is over. The urologist performs an exam and I reach out to hold my husband’s hand. I know how it feels to be on the exam table – so vulnerable, so empty, so torn. My beloved’s voice is calm and clear but his hand is shaking with each of the doctor’s questions. I say a little prayer for peace.
“Your semen sample had 12 sperm.”
“Oh!” I interject. “12 million or 12,000?”
“No,” the urologist says with a dramatic pause. “Just... 12. But the concerning thing is most of them are dead and I don’t know why.”
He goes on to explain that there is no clear cause - not physically, hormonally or otherwise. I feel that God is making Himself clear and I am surprisingly totally at peace. I pray and wait a few days to let my husband discern in his own time.
I am at work and he sends me a brief text: “I don’t know about you but I’m ready to adopt!” With joy and hopefulness I know our future awaits us with open arms – those of the most delightful and marvelous soul.
The Positive Test
By Serenity Quesnelle
It’s finally time. The long, dreadful two week wait is over. I grab one of the cheap tests that I’ve bought on Amazon, rip open the packaging, dip it, set my alarm clock and wait. The only thing that feels longer than the two week wait are those three minutes of waiting to see what that little piece of plastic says. I try to calm my breathing as my mind runs wild with possibilities.
It’s probably negative like all the months before. But what if it isn’t? I prepare myself to only see one line. I whisper a prayer as the anticipation builds. Time’s almost up...
My heart is racing and even though I was expecting it, I’m startled as timer goes off. “It’s God’s timing”, I whisper as my hands reach for the test. Holding my breath, my eyes quickly scan this inanimate object that could change our lives.
There are TWO lines.
I blink. There are definitely two lines. I stare in disbelief as my body sinks onto the bathroom floor and my eyes well up with tears. Can this really be it? I quickly pull myself together and open the cabinet. There it is – the expensive test I’ve had stored away just waiting for this moment. It’s time. Dip and wait.
My body is flooded with a complexity of emotion that isn’t understood by many. The thought of pregnancy after infertility. The joy and fear intertwined are almost too much to process. I can’t stop looking at the first test. Could this really be it or is it just my “line eyes”? Even with blurred vision and tears streaming down my face, I can still see it. There are definitely two lines.
The digital test confirms: “Pregnant”.