An anchor of hope {When reality is terrifying}

There are portions of this infertility journey that I’m not proud of. I’m not proud of how easy it is to become consumed with whether or not I’ll ever become and stay pregnant. I’m not proud of how easy it is to put my other dreams on hold in pursuit of this one single desire. I’m not proud of how easy it is to allow the failures to sap my emotional energy month after month.

I’m particular not proud of how easy it is to lose my peace, to find myself tossed to and fro, to struggle to walk the journey of joy for which I strive. 

In summary, I’m not proud of this weekend. 

My FET is now 1.5 weeks away, and I awoke Sunday morning in the midst of a near panic attack. People who I trust have been questioning whether or not it makes physical, emotional and/or financial sense for me to try IVF again in August. Saturday involved one of these such confrontations. Though well-meaning, the advice to simply “rest” (in contrast to actively trying to conceive) did not sit well with me. Into the late hours of the evening, I wrestled with whether or not I had made the wrong decision to try again. Have I set myself for another miscarriage in my eagerness to get pregnant? Is it not God’s timing?

Apparently, I dreamed about my fears all night, as I woke up Sunday morning feeling as though I had run a marathon and still couldn’t find the finish line. I was exhausted and emotionally drained. Fear gripped my heart and mind.

I panicked.

Pure and simple. Panic. 

Sending out quick text messages asking for prayer to the few women who know what is going on, I continued to process my fears with the Lord. My husband had to work, which was probably a good thing, as it left my bedroom empty other than my own tossing and turning.

As I strive for honesty here on this blog, let me be perfectly frank. I am terrified of NOT being pregnant by the end of August. I am terrified to hear the same nurse’s voice on the phone, informing me that my HCG is too low for a pregnancy to exist. I am terrified of another two-week wait with no promise of rejoicing at the end. I am terrified to find myself at the end of my summer IVF attempts with nothing but heartache to show for it.

I am also terrified to hope. Terrified to dream. Terrified to plan for a pregnancy that so far has never continued. This ex-Texas girl is quaking in her boots.

So many women who I know (though online blogs/forums and in my circle of friends) have recently found out they are pregnant or will soon be. Friends with no fertility issues are TTC. I rejoice for them, but I grieve that I may never see those two pink lines on a pregnancy test.

Then God spoke.

Well, definitely not audibly or really even in a way that I can pinpoint. Still, my Sunday morning wrestling match was ended by the whisper of a scripture verse, long ago memorized from Hebrews 6:11.

“Hope is the anchor of the soul…”

Hope.

An anchor.

In the midst of storm.

Mooring my dreams. Mooring this baby inside my body.

Folks, I don’t know if this coming month will be “THE” month, but I know that hope is the only thing that I have to tie this wee baby to my heart. According to my mother, hope involves expectation of a positive result. Honestly, I am not there yet. I can’t say that I expect to be pregnant. I don’t. But, I’m going to strive for hope.

I checked my potential due date. (April 25)

I’ve looked at nursery-decorating blogs. (My budget is in trouble)

I’ve dreamed about names. (Not sharing yet 🙂 )

I’m having a well-woman exam with a group of midwives that I would like to see while pregnant. (Appointment set for a week or so after my beta)

I’m taking baby steps. Baby steps toward hope. Baby steps toward calmer waters.