ALUMNI UPDATE

Periodically I get a newsletter from my college campus ministry that contains updates about my former classmates. These nuggets are an opportunity for people to share about their thriving families and many church involvements. Here is an example:

Herb and Shania (Jenkins) Jones* have been married for four years. Shania attended CCH from 2002-2006. She graduated in May 2007 with a degree in social science. Herb and Shania live in Butterworth, IN*, with their daughter, Apple Blue Ivy* (5 mos.), and Shania is a stay-at-home mom. Shania says Apple Blue Ivy is a gift from God, and they love watching her learn and grow! Herb and Shania's home church is Jesus Bible Faith Community*, where they are involved in children's ministry, and Herb helps lead meetings. Shania said being involved in their church has been a blessing to them and others. [Address, phone, email]

I have thought about writing in with my own update. It would go something like this:

Philip and Erika (Larson) Hueneke have been married for seven years. Erika attended CCH from 1998-2002. Erika is senior weddings editor of Destination Weddings & Honeymoons magazine, and Philip is a project manager at Lockheed Martin. Erika and Philip have been without a church home for so many years, they have lost count. They have tried at least eight congregations over the last few years, but their pickiness, criticalness and sheer laziness prevent them from committing anywhere. They do attend a small group, which is limping along at six members. Erika and Philip live in Orlando, Florida, with their two cats, upon which they dote uncontrollably. They have been infertile for 1.5 years, and this month they began diagnostic treatments, which involve multiple blood tests, a semen sample and several intimate encounters with a transvaginal wand. [Address, phone, email]

*Identifying names and places have been changed to protect nice, well-meaning strangers who don't deserve to be mocked in this blog.

NEW CHAPTER

I started this blog about a year ago with the purpose of it being a TTC blog. That stands for "trying to conceive," for all you fertile readers who have no need for super-awesome infertility acronyms. I had hoped it would swiftly transform into a pregnancy blog, and then again morph into a motherhood blog.

I figured that if we had trouble conceiving, it would be a good spot to vent and sort my feelings. But you know, I really didn't think we'd have trouble conceiving. I was scared to death we would, but I didn't think that would actually happen. We're so healthy. I get my period every month. Almost everyone else we knew had conceived like gangbusters. And I had been charting my cycles for nine months by the time we officially started trying. I was so educated. I knew exactly when to turn on my charms of seduction.

But here we are, 15 months after taking the big leap, childless as can be. We've bought our nest, saved our pennies, paid off our loans and spent years investing in our relationship. We've taken dream trips and checked big achievements off our bucket lists. We love Jesus, and we eat healthy, balanced meals. I think we'll make pretty kick-ass parents, except for this one nagging problem.

I try to avoid posts like this, where I'm just rambling about my feelings, but we're at a bit of a precipice now, anticipating our first appointment with the fertility clinic. To me, it's a great white flag, an admittance of defeat. To Philip, it's a firm concrete step, hopefully toward answers. I'm ready to go, and I'm deeply thankful that we have the financial resources. But I just can't believe that I'm one of the infertile ones. My desire for a child of our own flesh and blood is practically suffocating, and we just can't do it. We keep trying and trying, and we have an army of people praying for us, but at the end of every month, it's the same heartbreak. It's helpless and awful. It's always in the back of my mind, often the front. I put up with well-intentioned but bad advice and stories of friends of friends of friends that have nothing to do with me or my reproductive system. I wrestle with shameful feelings of envy and resentfulness toward my friends. I fret over the future. I wrestle with God's hand in all of this. I worry that I don't deserve children.

On the flip side, I lead a very exotic life. This year alone, I've been to St. Kitts, Nevis, the Dominican Republic, Los Angeles and Savannah. In my lifetime, I've set foot on five of the seven continents. I've trained my body to run for miles, and I've lost 15 pounds. I have friends all over the U.S., and I eat lunch with some of my closest girlfriends every day. I get to be creative at my job, and I have a husband who is my dream man. I cuddle my cats at night, and I'm never bored.

So, it's weird.

It does feel like a chapter is closing, and a new one is opening. We're done being just a couple trying to have a baby. We are officially diagnosed as infertile (even though I've felt infertile since we started trying, and I do try to avoid that word). So now we are starting the Fertility Treatment chapter, full of appointments and meds and blood tests and a whole new slew of acronyms. Will it end with a pregnancy or just a drained bank account? Will we pursue adoption if we fail? Who knows. Philip tells me not to think about it, so I try not to.

I can't control the outcome, so it's better to focus on things I can control, one of which is this blog. In case people are finding it who don't know me, I've added a photo and a little welcome note on the right-hand side. I've also added a page about our full fertility journey this far, in case any of y'all need a refresher. I've been reading more and more fertility blogs, and goodness knows I want the photo and the back story. I'm an amazing blog creeper, as a matter of fact.

Thanks always for reading, and for continuing to come back even though I post only about once a month. Thanks for supporting us and praying for us and for not bringing up fertility; I promise I'll go there if I feel like talking about it. Thanks for continuing to invite me to baby showers and one-year-old birthday parties, even though I usually don't go. Thanks for caring and for trying to navigate this whole dumb situation with me; it can't last forever, can it?

MIXER AT THE FERTILITY CLINIC! FUN TIMES!

My friend Rebecca doesn't like me to say that I'm infertile. She prefers the term pre-pregnant. So naturally, she didn't approve of me calling the open house at the fertility clinic an "infertility mixer," calling it instead, the "prelude to pregnancy."

With such a pleasant name as that, of course I had to do my hair and wear a nice outfit. I wasn't going to be some sad sack at this thing, no way.

I arrived 10 minutes early to find there was catering by Chick-fil-a. I thought to myself how much Nina Planck wouldn't approve of such a pairing (chicken nuggets + brownies + fertility clinic ≠ babies), then helped myself to a generous serving.

I tried to sneak peaks at my fellow attendees. Into my head popped the theme from the SNL skit, Bein' Quirky with Zooey Deschanel: "There are short girls! And tall girls! Big girls! And small girls." Yes, we come in all shapes and sizes; the one characteristic we share is our invisible scarlet-letter "I."

Philip arrived. I was silently triumphant. We may be infertile -- er, pre-pregnant -- but damn, we look good! And we're both here! Look how supportive and handsome and tall and important-looking my husband is in his dress pants and button-down shirt!

The presentation began. Philip leaned over and whispered to me, "Why are all the office girls here dressed like hookers?" That is a good question for which I don't have the answer. Perhaps it helps with collecting semen samples?

One of the doctors entered and gave her spiel. She looked a little manic and offered next-to-no real information before putting the ball in our court. "Well? Does anyone have any questions or anything specific they want me to talk about?"

Crickets chirped. Eyes turned toward the floor. Well, I had questions. So I started asking them. Questions about diagnostic tests and treatments. Questions about ovulation medication. Questions about individualized care. I got the ball rolling, and others began chiming in. The doctor kept repeating that the majority of their patients end up pregnant, though once, she did slip in that "majority" means "more than 50 percent."

Then it was time for the tour. They split us into two groups, and we awkwardly made our way around what is essentially a typical doctors office. Our group made a stop in the laboratory, where our guide explained the various goings-on of the clinic. She went to great lengths to describe how they don't mix up semen samples, and I blurted out, "God, I hadn't even thought of that!"

When she was through, she asked if we had any more questions. Philip pointed to a wiggly white wax form hanging above a steel countertop. "What is that?"

"That?" she replied. "That's a sperm candle."

Philip and I continued to yuck it up. Yes, yes, we do use humor to diffuse awkward and difficult situations. I think that's a pretty healthy way to deal. But our cohort did not seem amused, even when I was the first to volunteer to peek into the cryogenic storage room: "I want to see where they keep the babies in the refrigerator!"

In the end, we made an appointment for a consultation. It's in a few weeks, and after months of dragging my feet, praying we wouldn't need the services of a fertility clinic, I'm anxious to finally get this ball rolling. And I'm determined that of all the patients, we're going to be the staff's favorite.

IAN & LARISSA

Yesterday my friend Amber sent me this video. In a nutshell, a girl named Larissa married her college boyfriend, even though a terrible accident 10 months into their relationship left him severely mentally and physically disabled. I encourage you to watch it; it’s extremely inspiring, upsetting and challenging. Plus, this entry will make a lot more sense if you know the context of their story.

I haven’t been able to stop thinking about Larissa and Ian — how sad it makes me that such a vibrant life was turned upside down by tragedy. Why would God allow it? It’s such a childish question, but nevertheless one I keep coming back to as I wrestle through my own pain of not being able to conceive.

But Larissa is the one who really strikes me in this pair — someone so young who chooses a life of sacrifice and selfless love, without much prospect of receiving anything in return. She has to give up so much of what she would like to do in order to take care of her husband and all the household chores and expenses — cooking, laundry, groceries, bills, pushing Ian’s wheelchair, managing his meds and falling asleep every night next to a man who can barely speak. It’s so counter to everything our culture says about love and romance and self-actualization. It’s so counter to my own comfort level.

Their story has challenged me on a number of levels. First and most obviously, it opened my eyes to how much about Philip I take for granted — that he is full of life and energy and opinions and wit; that we run together, blood pumping and lungs heaving and feet coming down on the hard pavement and it hurts so much but we can DO it and then when it’s over we feel dizzy with delicious endorphins; that he teases me and makes the most inappropriate jokes; that he works impossibly hard at his job in order to provide for our family; that he plans for our financial future; that he chips in with the household chores usually even more so than me; that he follows his passions and interests with enthusiasm and joy; that he listens to me and gives me back rubs; that he sits down with me to prepare for our small-group Bible study; that he supports me when I want to do weird things like acupuncture and extreme diets; that he plays with our cats; and even that we fight with such emotion — two strong wills locked in opposition, able to form arguments and assert our positions.

Secondly, Larissa’s selflessness makes me embarrassingly aware of how selfish I am. That the moment Philip fails to do any of the above or I perceive that I’m not his number-one priority and focus, I’m displeased with him. How rare it is that I’m actually thinking of his needs first and dreaming up ways I can serve him better. This self-obsession has only gotten worse as our issues with fertility drag on; I see myself as somehow deserving all his sympathy and care because I’m hurting inside, rather than rising above my own personal sadness to still be a loving, serving wife who thinks of others first.

A third thing that struck me about the video was all the other gorgeous, healthy couples and families that surround Ian and Larissa. I mean, just really good-looking, stylish, hipster people with beautiful children. And here are Larissa and Ian, not withdrawing from all the perfect-looking families, but living right in their midst, experiencing community with them. This has been by far one of the hardest aspects of our current frustrations with fertility — being surrounded by good-looking, stylish people with big, round, adorable bellies and beautiful children. My jealousy is so intense. It’s just really intense. And it’s not just jealousy; it’s an in-my-face reminder of everything I want but don’t have, and it intensifies my heartache. My response so far has been to slowly withdraw from fertile friends, to quietly excuse myself from baby showers and get-togethers where there’ll be a lot of parents and kids, to pretend like I never got the email about takethemameal.com. But I was so amazed by Larissa, who, rather than being envious of and avoiding her friends with normal marriages and cute-as-pie kiddos, instead welcomes their friendship; she embraces what they do have in common, rather than what they don’t.

Lastly, Larissa’s hope and thankfulness are beyond humbling to me. She hopes that Ian will get well, that they’ll someday have the marriage and family they see others enjoying. But even if her earthly hopes never materialize, she clings to the hope of heaven — knowing healing and fullness there is a sure thing — and she remains thankful for the small blessings in each day on earth. As the months wear on, I feel my hope receding, and in its place is growing a resignation, a bitterness. I forget to be thankful of the blessings I do have; I’m tired of the good things in my life, when I should be fully living into and relishing every childless opportunity that comes my way.

These are all hard lessons, and my soul is not very teachable during this season. Even today, full of the knowledge that God is at work on my heart, I feel self-pitiful and resistant to transformation. But maybe He can still grow me into someone a little more like Larissa, a woman five years younger than me but infinitely more humble, selfless and wise.