My husband and I had been seeing a fertility specialist.
It wouldn’t be much of a surprise to some of my closest family members that we had been seeking help in the fertility field, since I had not had “full stop” since that awful visit to the ER where we discovered not only was I losing my appendix that night, but also our child, in a double emergency operative procedure.
That was back in July 2014 – it’s now spring 2017.
My husband was supportive of us getting fertility help, but with it came the widening sadness that so much in our life in the last couple years seems to come with exacerbated effort. Anyone on the outside would be amazed, if not envious, of our highlight reel; on the inside, however, we had been feeling that, although we were blessed, it came with a cost and the cost of fertility treatments came with a “funding options” pamphlet that I folded neatly in my second-hand designer bag.
It took us a month to save up for the 20 blood tests they wanted to take, which concerned my husband. He worried for me on the other side of several of those test results. They were as expected, given there had been no visits from Aunt Flow in year(s); my hormones were not only dormant, but had apparently forgotten I was NOT in my mid-forties.
I had at least expected a call from my doctor to console me, but with technological advances, I received a text notification instead that she had prescribed a drug intended to “kick start” my system again. In her expert opinion, the next phase was IVF-light, get some hormones going and the drugs were waiting for me at CVS.
I didn’t have the heart to pick them up. It felt weird too. I was scared. I was a little hurt at God, even. Not that IVF can’t be considered a God-thing, I mean, one of my best friends growing up had to use IVF and her family and church were all okay with it. Frankly, if it wasn’t supported by the church, it may have spurned me to pick them up – I resist the little rebellion that occasionally rears its head now again that I’m through the “change” (who am I kidding, anytime). Struggling to survive in a hostile(ish) work environment, struggling to lose weight, struggling to stabilize in a new city, find friends or a hairdresser even, … struggling to pick up a prescription was just one more struggle that I didn’t want to happen. If God wanted us to have children, I needed a sign -Old Testament, Gideon-style sign.
Last night my spirits were particularly low after another exhausting blow with work. My husband finally bent and said if we didn’t hear from God in the next two weeks, we should start looking for a new one. Discouragement, on top of everything else, we were never going to get “healthy enough” to stabilize our lives for a family if there wasn’t some sign, some break through.
Today, my husband promised that going to the movie “The Shack” would lift my spirits.
I lifted an eyebrow, “lift my spirits, eh?” Clearly he had NOT read the book. For me, it had been awhile, and I don’t remember finishing it due to the premise of the first portion being too depressing for me to press on to the end. That same premise my husband was going to make me watch through to the end. – “Yay...”
He made the right choice.
Through the movie, I started to make peace with God again; as ever faithful He is, “Papa” gave me a sign.
Aunt Flow came to visit.
My husband and I both cried. I’m crying still. Years, blood tests proving only modern medicine may be able to reverse the hormonal clock.
I never know when God’s going to bless, or how, but even in the bad times, I can trust Him to be faithful.
I was accidentally healed while watching “The Shack“.