Mid-August 2018 my husband and I decided to go off birth control. We felt we were ready to start adding children to our little family and were incredibly excited. We had timed it such that if we got pregnant right away, the baby wouldn't come until after I had completed my Bachelor's degree and therefore wouldn't have to juggle school and a baby at the same time. However, as most plans go, they didn't, well, go according to plan. After the first couple months, I wasn't worried. I figured my body needed to adjust after being on birth control for over a year, everything would be fine. I had some fears since I was a teenager after seeing my sister struggle with infertility for 5 years, but I wasn't going to start panicking yet.
During this time, I was asked to be a secretary for the women's society in my church (Relief Society). The leadership of this organization consists of a president, two counselors, and a secretary. Not too long into this calling of mine, and after a few failed attempts to get pregnant, all three women in the presidency announced that they were all pregnant in one of our meetings. Two of these women had gotten pregnant on their first try... As you can probably imagine, my "everything is fine, I'm not worried" attitude was dropped kicked out of the window of that third-floor apartment, and my stomach and heart dropped with it.
The following months were torture, as every meeting we had they talked about their morning sickness, their excitement, and I could see their cute little bellies start to show. I was happy for them, they got what they wanted and they were all going to be such wonderful mothers, but that didn't shake the fact that my worst fears were starting to unfold: something was wrong with me. Why couldn't I get pregnant?
Not to mention the time a nurse came and spoke to us young married couples and said "there's no reason you shouldn't be able to get pregnant in the first month of trying. After four months, do not hesitate to see a doctor." Talk about reassuring.
To be honest, I became very bitter and downhearted in those final few months living in that area. I COULDN'T WAIT TO LEAVE. And I made it very obvious that I was counting down the days. Finally, heaven-blessed, we moved and I didn't have to be reminded over and over that 3 out of four women who had tried to get pregnant did...and I was the one that didn't, couldn't.
It still took us 4 months before we were blessed with the little "+" on our first pregnancy test after leaving, and I still had hard days. Days when I would have to leave church early because I couldn't stop the flow of tears. Days when I saw more and more pregnancy announcements from girls my age and, through my happiness for them, couldn't stifle the voice saying "something is wrong with you".
It was hard being patient with God and myself. I constantly wondered why I wasn't worthy enough, what those girls had that I didn't that allowed them to become moms, why? why? why?...
I tried to use this as motivation to be better at doing the things I knew God wanted me to do: make my prayers more meaningful, make my scripture study more meaningful, make my church attendance more meaningful. But rather than motivating me, those thoughts dragged me down. It became harder to read my scriptures everyday, harder to focus in church. I had my ups and downs. I always felt ashamed when I didn't meet the standard that I held for myself and that little voice would come back saying "you're not good enough to be a mom. You can't even do the simple things God asks you to do? Why would you think you're worthy to raise an innocent child?" It was a cycle I was tired of running. I tried to get rid of those thoughts as much as I could. Tried to only feel joy for the wonderful women who were being blessed with babies. Tried to be less selfish.
With time, I began to learn to have patience, faith, and hope. It certainly wasn't perfect patience, faith, nor hope, but it was something. My husband would listen to my concerns and let me cry into him. I can't say we were necessarily comforted in those moments when we talked about it, but we were brought closer. We both had something we desperately wanted but were being denied, and it affected both of us.
Finally, eight months after getting my IUD removed, I gave into my husband's desire to schedule an appointment with a fertility specialist. It was May and we had a trip to LA for a friend's wedding. I had finally decided that they very day after we got home I would find a specialist and book an appointment. But then the strangest thing happened. My period didn't come that week. My period has only come late one other time in my life and that was when I left the US to go to Italy for 18 months. I waited. And waited. And still it didn't come. I was afraid to get excited, I remained wary, vigilantly checking for cramps and spots of blood. Nothing. I didn't say anything to my husband until a couple days after returning home. I hesitantly told him I was supposed to have gotten my period a week previously and that this was not a normal occurrence. We were nervous, but went to the store to get a pregnancy test for the very first time. We waited until it was long enough after the first missed period that it would be sure to give an accurate response, so as not to give us false hope.
The "+" showed up almost instantly. My husband said the very thing I was thinking, "We did it!" We got Chick-fil-A to celebrate.
Another 7 months has gone by and I can feel my baby moving. I've heard her heartbeat and seen her in ultrasounds and can't wait to hold her in my arms. She has a name and our apartment is filled with baby things.
It's funny how even after getting what we so desperately wanted, writing my feelings during my 8-month waiting period I still cry (although I am pregnant, so that's another factor). Those feelings were so vivid they come back almost as strongly as the days when I was experiencing them.
Recently, one of the girls from that fateful Relief Society presidency wrote to me, saying she missed me. I don't know if I would have spiraled as far down as I did anyway, but I know that once I was faced with celebrating the pregnancies of 3 other girls every week, my patience and hope disintegrated and I had to work hard to get it back. It was like getting hit by a train, rather than a slow decline. Anyway, when she wrote to me, I felt that bitterness return. I didn't want to answer her. I haven't announced to the whole world I'm pregnant, only those who I've reached out to individually know, so I'm sure she's unaware. I wanted to keep it to myself, I didn't want her to be excited for me. For some strange reason I felt as though she didn't deserve it. Which is totally ridiculous!! I realized this morning how stupid I was being. I'm trying to blame her for being pregnant when I wanted it and therefore for making me so miserable. If that's not petty, I don't know what is. I had to remind myself that nothing is her fault. I shouldn't be harboring this anger toward her for something that she is completely innocent for. But I never would have been able to do that had she not reached out to me. I didn't realize I still held some silly resentment toward her until I had to face her again.
I recognize that 8 months is nothing, especially compared to so many other women who have been waiting for years, or who have been told there is no hope. I hope never to offend these women by sharing my minute struggle that, for them, would be a minute compared to what they are facing. A part of me feels guilty that I had ever felt the way I did while we waited, but I am also grateful. Although it is nothing to what others feel, I have learned empathy on a deeper level, having had a taste of that struggle. I admire those women who have been unable to conceive, yet they still attend friends' baby showers with smiles and love, they talk about watching movies like "What to Expect When You're Expecting" with mothers who are days away from their due date. My experience taught me that I am not as strong as these women. Their example teaches me how much more loving, supportive, patient, and kind I need to be to everyone around me.
Sorry to be so long-winded. But I hope that now I have it written down I'll be able to let it go and move forward from it, rather than dwelling on it and allowing it to hold me back.
