EVERYTHING I HAVE IS YOURS

I turned 33 a week ago. I've never been one to fear getting older, hide my age or dread birthdays. In fact, I love birthdays. And this one turned out to be particularly good. My husband and my dear friend Audrey had the amazing idea to secretly fly my sister Sarah down for a visit -- here we are at a restaurant two hours from home, where Sarah had sat waiting to surprise me at the table.

All kinds of planning went into the surprise, from booking flights, hotel rooms and restaurant reservations to organizing a beach barbecue with a small group of friends the following day. I keep saying to Audrey that I can't believe she went to so much trouble for me, especially on a non-milestone birthday. But she said it's been a tough year for me, especially regarding infertility and the scare with our cat Abbi, and she felt I deserved a fun weekend of celebration.

Looking back, it was a very tough year, not only because of my circumstances, but also because of my response. I threw myself into work travel; I hid from my mommy friends; I railed against God. I don't say that to be hard on myself; it's just where I was. But none of it was particularly helpful. The traveling made pursuing treatment more difficult; the bitterness in my heart toward others with children shamed me; the anger at God made me feel more alone and lost.

Coming into 2013 (before Abbi got sick), I started to move into a new heart space. I don't know how. Maybe it was the reality of approaching two full years of infertility, which allowed me to feel like I definitely belonged in the Infertility Club. At least I know where I stand; I'm part of an established community. I've been on this road long enough to anticipate the curves and speed bumps and emotional three-car pile-ups. I can practically put the car on auto-pilot.

But mostly, I feel like God has just nudged me gently forward. I don't feel the distance from him that I did a year ago. My heart feels more open to what he's doing, whatever the eff that is.

One thing he pointed out to me is that I can't be in Mexico and in the stirrups at the same time. That is to say, if I want to prioritize treatment, I can't keep flying off to Fiji and St. Lucia and the Dominican Republic. I have to physically BE HERE for pelvic scans and blood tests and injections. So I told my boss I didn't want to travel this year.

It felt like a huge sacrifice. It still does. I'm blessed with a job that has brought me to many exotic places over the last six years, and it's been one of the major distractions that has kept me sane during the infertility saga. But I can't have my cake and eat it too.

So, I let go. And each time I get another tempting invitation to somewhere tropical and lovely, I have to let go again. It's been a tremendous practice in "losing my life" in order to find it.

Another gift God has brought me is yoga. SO MANY people have said, "You're having trouble getting pregnant? You should try yoga. I think you'll like it." And as it turns out, a yoga class meets right in my office over the lunch hour twice a week.

I was intimidated to go, as I had never tried yoga in my life. I didn't even know what a downward-facing dog was. But a couple of friends kept prompting me (aka, God was prompting me), so I finally sucked up my insecurity and went. And I. Am. In. Love.

I can't even tell you what a prayerful space it has been for me -- the way the instructor tells us to set our intention for that day's practice, and how God brings words to my mind like healing, patience, prepare, acceptance or walk through the sadness. (Not to mention the physical benefits of improving circulation, building strength, increasing flexibility and releasing tension.)

Also, miraculously, we think we may have found a church we like. It scares me to write that sentence, as I feel like I might be falling in love after a few first dates, and I'm terrified I'm going to stumble on the giant bag of toenail clippings in the closet at any moment.

But so far, so good. It's not perfect, but it has a very authentic-feeling, appealing simplicity that threads through the scaled-down music, humble preaching, focus on Jesus and weekly response time. We've attended four times, and I always leave dwelling on some nugget I've gleaned from a song or verse or line from the sermon.

The fact that we may have actually found a church home after all this time is nothing short of divine. I have tried literally dozens of services over the 10 years I've lived in Orlando, and I've never been crazy about a single one. Now here's this little gathering of about 15 people, and it feels right. It's very hopeful.

Prayer station at church with guided response, visual aid and communion elements

Amid these spiritually-shifting developments, we attempted our second IUI cycle. I was beyond excited to start. We had taken a three-month break from treatment, thanks to our first canceled IUI cycle (my follicles hadn't responded to the meds at all), the craziness of the holidays, battles with our health insurance, and then the drama with Abbi.

But now we were emotionally ready, and the circumstances were right. We had been patient. We had kept our calendar open. I had attended an infertility seminar. And we had gotten everything straightened out with our health insurance, which amazingly covers the majority of the cost of the medications -- they were ready and waiting in our fridge.

Fun with making 25 phone calls to our insurance and various mail-order pharmacies

Infertility seminar -- wow, look at all the Orlando-area infertiles!

We dutifully went to the appointments and set Google alerts for all the days I was supposed to swallow pills or get injected with powerful hormones. The night Philip administered my first shot of Follistim (a follicle-stimulating hormone -- basically makes the eggs mature), I was scared but brave. We laid out all the paraphernalia and carefully read the instructions. And we did it! I didn't even die of ovarian hyperstimulation! Score!

Everything was right on track, and then -- boom. Too many follicles matured. There were three big fat ones, which could mean three big fat babies. Unlikely, but possible. The RE gave us a choice of if we wanted to continue the cycle or not. But there are so many risks associated with triplets, from the strain on my body to potential developmental issues in the babies to the sheer challenge of raising three babies at once, that we decided not to risk it.

I cried that entire day. It was a Monday, and I had dropped Sarah off at the airport that morning. I cried after the scan. I cried when I told Philip about the scan. I cried when the nurse called to say, yea verily, there are too many mature follicles. And when I got home from work, I laid on the couch and cried myself to sleep.

But then, remarkably, the next day, I felt OK. Still disappointed, but able to carry on. I called the nurse, told her our decision, and asked her to order the Follistim for the next cycle. I went to yoga. I organized a ladies wine night. I pep-rallied myself that we had to wait only two more weeks to try again, which really isn't that long of a time frame in the grand scheme of things. I chalked it up to a learning experience -- next time we'll dial back the meds a little and hopefully find the sweet spot. And I remembered a verse from church -- the parable of the prodigal son, in which the father says to the sulky older brother, "You are always with me, and everything I have is yours."

Around my birthday, people kept saying to me that this is my year. I hope they're right. I accept the reality that IUIs only work 30 percent of the time, but nevertheless I'm hopeful. I feel good that we're pursuing treatment more aggressively and with more focus. And I'm grateful and happy to be walking more closely with God again, for however long the feeling lasts.