The Room

Over the last few years, I've read as fellow bloggers lamented the pain of the unused bedroom. I thought I understood... I mean it's not like I had a nursery or kid room to decorate either, I thought I understood the pain... I was wrong. The unused bedroom is haunting.*

We went house hunting for the second time with our realtor (and friend) the day after the negative beta from the FET. It was pretty fortunate timing really. For one, I was forced to get up and get out of bed on a day I would have chosen to eat my weight in Ben & Jerry's. Secondly, the recent failure of the FET reminded me that our family will most likely cost thousands upon thousands of dollars; we need margin in our budget. If that first beta had been a good strong number, I can see how I might have argued for stretching breaking the "do not cross line". But as the reminder of our infertility was fresh in my mind, I was looking for under budget... top priority. 

I write all of that to say, I didn't go into this house with images of a nursery in my head. Sure, I'm always hoping we'll bring a baby home, but I wasn't imagining kids playing in the front yard the day we picked our house. Rather, I was looking for a home that we liked, that fulfilled at least half of our wish list (we are big dreamers), and that a social worker wouldn't run away screaming from a home study in the future. But there's something about the permanence of owning your own home that makes the room call to you. Maybe it has nothing to do with who owns the property... I think it's probably all about knowing that we will live in that house for years. We've never really had that before. We've been married for four years and this is our fifth move, things were never permanent enough to imagine a nursery. I mean, obviously if we had had a baby at any of the previous places, we would have created a room for the baby, but none of those places had a room for the baby. There's a difference. Now, there's the master, the guest bedroom, and THE room. 

I jokingly asked Sam which room would be the nursery... You know, we wouldn't want to set up a guest room only to get pregnant and be forced to move it all around (the horror). He gave a rational explanation that had nothing to do with a nursery and everything to do with the guest bedroom... again, not thinking about nurseries at all. But now that we've said it, now that the rooms have names, the room haunts me. I can't walk in without thinking about it: this would be his/her room. My child has laid claim to a room in a house I've only slept in for five nights, and he/she hasn't even been conceived.

I did something I haven't done in years... I logged on to Pinterest and looked at my Board O' Nursery Dreams. Ughhhh... the pain, the horror. I have absolutely no idea where this need came from, but I just had to check... I think it was the picking of paint colors. If I learned anything from my mom growing up, it's that paint colors have to blend from one room to the next (she was a bit ridiculous in her zealousness).... I think I just wanted to imagine the blend. The sad news is that nursery bedding changes on the fly... I don't think one single piece of carefully chosen bedding is still available today. Pottery Barn's designers do not await the infertile woman, no, no, they have to change it so that each. and. every. kid. in the house of six under the age of seven can have a different crib/quilt/sheet/blankie/shower-towel-wrap-thing. By the time a child fills that room, today's trends will be old news, and everything I pinned circa 2011 will be history. And that's okay... Lord knows the designers do a fabulous job of making me need ALL. THE. THINGS. If I feel this way when I don't even have a baby, I'm pretty sure I'll be able to find something I like enough to create a nursery, I mean, if I'm forced to.

I don't really know what to do with the room. My heart wants to keep it 100% empty... a way of saying this is yours, we're waiting for you, come fill this space. My head says that's too sad and miserable. And dumb... why not use the space for now? If and when there actually is a small human to fill that room, we can move things around again, right? No shame in saying while we're waiting we're going to use what is ours. I can't decide.

Meanwhile, if you come by our happy home, I'll be more that excited to show off the master bedroom, and hopefully I'll get that guest bedroom put together soon, but that other one, the one with the door closed... don't ask. It's either filled with storage (boring) or it's empty. Either way, it's a time capsule of sorts... the Lord willing, we'll unseal it some day.

*I completely recognize that my haunting is much less severe than others... my room is empty, which is far less painful than an actual nursery, created for a particular someone, but remains empty. That is a pain  I still can't imagine. My heart breaks for you if you have one of those rooms.

Have Mercy

I'm still here, in body at least. I lost my mind somewhere along the line with this house renovation. I use the term "renovation" lightly as we're not actually removing or installing anything.... same floors, same walls, same cabinets. It's really more accurate to describe it as a facelift, buy boy oh boy, do I have new appreciation for people who actually renovate. This is A LOT of work!

When we purchased the house, we had very limited things we thought needed to be changed. Most notable were a bubble gum pink bathroom and a very violet spare bedroom. Other than that, we thought the house was pretty cute. The one major project that we knew right off the bat that we simply had to tackle was the popcorn ceiling. I abhor the stuff. Sam watched YouTube videos for days about removing the vile mess, and once he felt like he was a professional, we tackled it. It was 20 times worse than I imagined. It was disgusting, back-breaking, tedious work and I've literally been thinking evil thoughts towards whomever invented that mess. Ughhh. I could kill him.

We thought that the ceilings would be the worst project of all by far, and really the only "project" so to speak because painting two small rooms doesn't seem like much of a project. But projects seem to have a way of multiplying. When we arrived at the home after closing, we discovered that the previous home owner was very fond of hanging things via anchors. You don't really notice how many things people hang on the walls until there are GIANT holes all over the walls. And obviously, when you don't know the paint color, and you have FOURTEEN holes to patch in one corner of a bedroom, it becomes apparent that you will be repainting that room. Slowly but surely, we have come to one reason or another why Every. Single. Room. need to be repainted. I kid you not, we are done with seven of the eight rooms… soooo close, yet so, so far.

In addition, I didn't really like the cabinets… I decided to paint them, which led to buying new nobs, spray painting the hinges, and painting the countertops. Yep, you read that right. Yesterday I had big plans for relaxing by the pool for at least an hour, instead we spent multiple hours fixing a project that went disastrously wrong.

What the finished product should have looked like.

And what it actually looked like.

The first photo there is the finished product after painting and sealing. The second one, however, is the remnants of the paint, primer, and sealant when things go horribly, horribly wrong. We used this miracle product that was supposed to be the equivalent to 50 coats of polyurethane in one application. Apparently, it's a testy chemistry concoction, and I was never all that good at chemistry.  When the science experiment goes wrong, it goes very, very wrong. We woke up Monday morning to two sections of counter that were beautiful: nice and hard, but one section was a sticky, goopy mess. We immediately tuned to Google and discovered that if it's not dry is 6-8 hours, it never, ever, will be. We tried removing just the top layer of goop, but alas, no success. Eventually we scraped the whole thing down to the laminate so that I could start all over. Lucky for both my husband and mom (who graciously spent 5 days working with me), I handled it like a champ. I did not cry, which was really saying something as we've been working 14-16 hour days for weeks now. Sleep deprivation and catastrophic delays do not typically result in my best side.

Speaking of catastrophes: our AC unit died. Mmm, hm. Dead, like dead, dead. Two weeks after purchasing the house, the repair man pronounced it dead, may it rest in peace. Truthfully, we knew that the unit was old, as in, original to the house. We were warned that it didn't have much life left. We were hoping to get through Summer, inefficient or not, and maybe through Winter too. No such luck. Winter I could maybe handle, but not Summer, have mercy, but no. I was simply not made to sweat. You'll be impressed to know that I did not cry upon hearing this news either. It is what it is. The saddest part isn't the cost, but rather the delay to Project Bring Home Baby. But what can you do? My big girl panties are firmly in place... on we march.

We've got 74 hours until we have to be out of the rental. At this point, I'll be happy when we have a working bathroom with a light, toilet, and sink all in one place. Hopefully that will come sooner rather than later and I can post some photos of our work. In the mean time, think of me, and when you do, imagine me with unwashed hair (thank you, dry shampoo), paint in my hair, on my legs, under my nails, and a nice sweaty sheen as I scrub, sand, and paint in a house without air conditioning.

Are You There God? It's Me, Amanda.

Judy Blume has become a fixture in American households because of her book Are You There God? It's Me, Margaret. Sure, it's a book about an adolescent girl dealing with puberty, but it's also the story of a young woman learning how to talk with God... even trying to figure out who God is... and maybe most importantly, if He's listening. I think girl, boy, 10, 25, 50, or 90 we can all relate to that. Is there a God? And if there is, does He care about us? Does He hear when we pray?

I've admitted before that infertility has, at times, dealt my faith a blow or two. Not so much that I doubt the existence of God. No, I fully believe in God. My struggles have most often centered around prayer. I've obviously prayed and prayed for a child, for a miraculous natural conception, for a successful treatment... I've prayed for a child in every way I can think of. When you've prayed for one thing for so long, I think it's only natural to wonder if you're doing it right. I will certainly admit that I've questioned prayer and its role in my relationship with the Lord. I've wondered things like: Is He ignoring my requests? Denying my requests? Can prayer change His mind? Should I want to change the mind of God? Does praying change anything (other than me)?

I think just about everyone has prayed for something at one time or another and failed to see or hear a response. This is certainly not specific to infertility... these questions and musings were floating around in my head long before I'd ever heard the word Clomid. But I guess infertility, for me, has been the first thing that I've continuously prayed over for months upon months upon months, and yet all I hear is stone cold silence. After all this time, I've begun to preface every prayer with, "You already know this, but..." or "I've already asked for this, but..." or "You're going to do what you want anyway, but..." It feels as if the words have all been said in every way that they can be said, and yet, here I sit. Is He listening? Does my opinion matter? Will anything I say change His plans?

And it's certainly not just prayers for myself. It's prayers for others too. I cried and begged and fell on my knees when I heard about Suzanne's miracle last summer. I bargained and pleaded and begged, but Suzanne still lost that miracle. And Holly, oh Holly. We all cried out with a giant shout, "SAVE THEM!" We knew it was unlikely and we didn't care. As a community, we prayed for something to be done, but Jude and Brinly both entered Heaven despite our requests.  At the end of circumstances like that, when prayers go unanswered, I think it's only natural to wonder if prayer is actually making any difference. Are we just wasting our words?

And what about cancer, and disease, and death? I think most people would say that cancer or some other terrible disease has affected someone they love. There's been someone that we asked for the Lord to spare. There's been a family member or a friend that we begged God to give more time. We've all tried to bargain with God. When that person is healed, when we hear that coveted "cured" or "cancer free," we swear that God is good and that prayer works. But when things go differently, when little boys die from brain tumors, when our mothers die from breast cancer, when we sit night after night by the bed of a loved one, it can seem as if God is intentionally ignoring us. What harm could come from sparing a child's life? Why would He not want to perform a miracle?

It should be really apparent from the above, that I don't have the answers.... not by a long shot. I've read scriptures and at one time or another tried just about every approach. I've gone the way of Jacob: I've prayed, and cried, and wailed and told God that I'm not moving, I'm not letting go until He's blessed me. I've mirrored the prayers of Jesus: I've asked the Lord to change His mind, but ultimately agreed that His ways are higher than mine. I've asked for more faith… admitting that I am week and my faith is insufficient. In opposition, I've declared that I at least have faith as small as a mustard seed... claiming the power to move mountains. I've said it all in every way that it can be said.

I guess you could sum up my current thoughts on prayer like this:

He is God and I am not. I can ask, but I've asked before, so I'll probably get the same answer (or lack of answer). And that's okay, because He is God and I am not. It doesn't detract from His goodness or His power. It simply means that He's not a genie. I don't have to agree with it or understand it because I do believe that His ways are not my ways (obviously) and that His ultimate goal is to shine a great big spotlight on Himself… that doesn't make Him a jerk or a narcissist. It's His right as God. 

Okay, so I do think that most of that is true, but what about all the verses like "Pray without ceasing" (1 Thess 5:17) or "let your requests be made known to God" (Phil 4:6)? The Bible is full of exhortations to pray. I can't deny that at all. Why would God demand that I pray, particularly if He's going to continue doing whatever it is He's doing no matter what? I had too many questions, so I started reading a book, Prayer: Does it Make a Difference? several months ago. I've enjoyed it (despite being a slow read) because the author, Philip Yancey, comes right out of the gate and says prayer has been a stumbling block in his own faith for years... if you can admit that within the Christian community, especially as a writer and speaker, then you're my kind of guy. I haven't finished the book yet, but I wanted to share some of the things I've learned or bits that helped clarify things for me.

Pray for others: Jesus spent little time praying for himself, rather His prayers centered around the people he encountered.

Prayer has changed the actions of God: Yancey says that there are four separate times in the Old Testament that prayer changed God's actions.

Prayer + Action: Prayer does not negate the need for action. Jesus spent long hours in prayer AND long hours meeting human needs. Likewise, praying doesn't remove our burden to act.

Unanswered Prayers: Jesus, though fully God, experienced the human aspect of prayer… He too had unanswered prayers.

Expectations of Prayer: Prayer is like sex: both are intimate and over-glamorized relationships. We are led to believe that we should be in the stratosphere in sex and in prayer, but in reality most people are unsatisfied with both.

Despite reading this book, I still don't have it all figured out... not by a long shot. I'm still wrestling. If "God works for the good of those who love him," then I'm still trying to understand how a child isn't good for us. I'm still working through my feelings. I'm still trying to find a way forward even if my prayers are never answered. My prayer life has a ways to go for sure. I still find myself saying "are you there God? It's me, and I need you." But the following excerpt from the book is something that struck me while reading and that I continue to cling to. I hope it gives you peace and hope in your prayers as well.

Even when we do not know what we ought to pray for, or how to pray, that Spirit intercedes for us: 'And He who searches our hearts knows the mind of the Spirit, because the Spirit intercedes for the saints in accordance with God's will'. Christ's Spirit is praying within us even when we lack both the wisdom and the words for prayer. Although we may not know God's will on a given issue, the Spirit within us surely does. In other words, our most immature prayers have an inbuilt self-corrective. Though we feel ignorant in our prayers, the Spirit does not. Though we feel exhausted and confused the Spirit does not. Though we feel lacking in faith, the Spirit does not. God is not so far off that we need to raise our voices to be heard. We need only groan.

Likewise, I was recently reminded that God is at work despite my lack of faith. Though I am struggling with prayer, others around me are not, and they are interceding on my behalf. When I am weak, The Lord is orchestrating strength in my life. Not only does the Holy Spirit groan with me, but others speak the words when I cannot... that is a beautiful thing, my friends. To those of you who have lifted Sam and I in prayer over the years, thank you for standing in the gap.

Now that THAT'S Over

Whew! Glad that's over. I was not looking forward to this Mother's Day at all, like at all. In the past, Mother's Day has been mostly okay. I've never had a day where I just cried all day or felt so miserable that I actually had reason to dread the day, but I was. I was really, really dreading it. I woke up Sunday morning thinking, "I really don't want to do this." This being go to church, smile, say "Happy Mother's Day" 2.4 billion times, and hug other people's kids. But I'm the class leader of the best, most awesome, coolest little two year olds three year olds I know, so skipping and calling out on such a big day was not an option.

Thankfully, it wasn't all that bad. I did have a small breakdown while getting ready. The sadness just overwhelmed me while applying eyeshadow, which is obviously a really awful moment for tears. I wasn't sad for me, I was sad for my babies. Five. That's how many babies I've lost. Now granted, I've never seen a heartbeat flutter on the ultrasound screen, I've never heard the thump/chug sound. Hell, I've never even made it to the third beta, but there have been five embryos with a little bit of me inside of them... they were my babies... and now they're dead. I was simply overwhelmed with sadness that my babies keep dying. I felt like the ultimate failure as a mom. My eggs are most likely to blame. It is my contribution to them that's killing them... at least that's how it felt in that moment. Not only do I not have the ability to provide for them and care for them like a mother should, but I am the reason they die... in other words, I'm killing my babies. Really happy, cheerful thoughts for 7:30am on Mother's Day.

I finally pulled myself together, cleaned the goop and tear tracks from under my eyes, and decided further worry with eye makeup was just dumb... it was obviously going to be one of those days. But you know what, that was the end of it. It was really the last moment of "woe is me" for the day. So a little piece of advice: if by chance Mother's Day is your personal form of torture, buy a house three days before.Yep, It's a sure fire way to be waaayyyyyy  too busy to even know what day of the week it is, let alone the specifics of the holiday calendar. After serving at church, we hightailed it out of there and headed to our home away from home (aka Home Depot) and the rest of the day was a blur. There were a few moments in which I thought of friends who were probably having a rough day, but for the most part, I was covered in putty, dust, paint and simply far too busy to wallow in self pity.

So hooray for that! Mother's Day 2014 is over and it's 362 days until the next one. And in the mean time, I've got 2.3459 billion things to do at our new house! (hopefully, those things will be done in 17 days, rather than 362 because that's how long we have to move) Without further adieu, the Greavu home.

 

 

Hooray! Moments after signing our names 10,000 times! It's official!

I promise to show pictures once we're a bit more settled. Currently, there's a cloud of dust so thick you can hardly see your feet. It's doing wonderful things for my lungs, let me tell you. If I'm missing in action over the next few weeks 17 days just know that I love you all bunches but I'm hard at work doing home ownery things like scraping popcorn ceilings and painting cabinets.

The Ashes

Today, God willing, we will sign our names 800 times, hand over a big ol' chunk of change and close on our first home. It's pretty exciting! I am beyond thrilled to have a place to call our own. We've worked really hard to get to this day.

But today is important for another reason too. I'll admit that I didn't automatically remember the date. It's not engraved on my mind any longer. But when our realtor mentioned the closing date of May 8th, I just had a funny feeling... I knew the date was important. It took me a day to place it, and even then I had to double check. But my funny feeling was accurate: today is important because it's my due date. My first due date. 

Today should have been that precious child's birthday. My baby would have turned two. Instead, my husband and I will move into our first home without a crib or a stroller. We won't unpack a set of jumbo Legos or a baby doll. It's just us (and Sterling and Everest). I wondered if this date might sting less this year for two reasons: 1- time, and 2-more losses. I guess to the first, the answer is yes, in a way, time does heal all wounds. I certainly hurt less today than I did last year and even less than I did two years ago. To the second, surprisingly no. The loss of four embryos and one (barely) confirmed pregnancy since then doesn't diminish this day. I'm sure part of that has to do with the pain simply compounding rather than dividing, but I think it's also because she was my first. She will always be my first baby. Maybe not my first born, but always my first baby. 

I also think that today stings a little more than a "standard due date" (whatever that might be) because this also marks the end of a chapter for our family. The loss of that baby marked the beginning of the infertility saga of our lives. With the loss of that first child, my dreams for our family vanished. With the death of my first baby, I ushered in the hardest season of my life. That miscarriage has divided my life into two parts: pre-infertility, and infertility. No, I didn't know that I was infertile the day I lost my child, but looking back that's when this mess all began. Like any woman suffering an unexpected miscarriage I feared that it would happen again; I worried that I wouldn't get pregnant again. When that baby died, so did any naïveté I had held onto. This day now also symbolizes what might have been. It feels like the fork in the road. Had I delivered a beautiful baby girl on this day in 2012, my life would look so different. We'd probably be trying for our second, because Lord knows I'd need another before 29. Everything would be different. Instead my life took a very different path. It was a sharp fork, one that disrupted everything and that I did not take by choice. Instead, on May 8th 2012, I completed paperwork for my infertility clinic. I had just met with my first Reproductive Endocrinologist the day before and I was preparing for my first procedure, the HSG, the next day. It was a very different day then, and it's a very different day now. 

I have no answers as to why my life took such a sharp turn. It makes no sense to me. I could write about beauty for ashes, but really, I'd prefer that child to this home. I'd rather be celebrating her birthday this weekend than packing up our rental. I'm thankful for today and all that it symbolizes, but that doesn't mean it's not all ashes compared with what could have been. 

Ever Onward

May has somehow begun to represent infertility to me. May obviously comes on the heels of National Infertility Awareness Week each year. May also supplies my least favorite holiday... you guessed it, Mother's Day. And to add salt to the wound, May always ushers in an anniversary for us. This May marks three years of trying to conceive.

It's funny really, at one full year of trying to conceive, I was beside myself. The anxiety was at an all time high; I was desperate for a positive pregnancy test. I remember crying in the bathroom every single solitary time I saw just one pink line. Last year, I was coming to terms with just how difficult conceiving would be for us... how long and deep and wide this trench really is. This year, I think I've finally, finally accepted our infertility. Don't get me wrong, it still pisses me off. When I think about the 8 bazillion babies that are conceived without trying, without even wanting... I just want to scream. When I think about women confronted with the decision to abort or give their child up for adoption, I just want to die... why would the Lord even allow the pregnancy to a woman who doesn't want/can't take care of a child when Sam and I (and so many others) are so desperate for a child? It just doesn't make sense. But if I don't try to understand the BIG "why" questions, I've come to terms with infertility. I'm infertile... like woah, infertile. Unless the Lord sees fit to bless us with an absolute miracle akin to the virgin birth, we will require further medial procedures and countless more dollars if we want a biological child or the experience of a pregnancy. It is what it is.

That first year, I couldn't imagine spending another year trying to conceive. The thought was more than my mind could comprehend. It was simply impossible. Last year, I recognized that a third anniversary was certainly possible, but I was hoping that something would turn out. I knew that we had a laparoscopy and potential IVF coming, so surely something would give within a year. This year however, I fully expect for their to be a fourth anniversary. I recognize that we could potentially escape this pit by then, but I don't really expect to. Like I said, I've finally come to terms with our infertility.

It's a humbling place to be, to admit that you have zero control over your ability to procreate. I could have intercourse every day for the next 365 days, but that doesn't guarantee anything. We could spend 30, 40, 50 thousand dollars (if we had it) in the next year on the latest and greatest treatments with the best doctors in the world, but it doesn't guarantee anything. We could very well be sitting in this exact same spot next year no matter what actions or steps we take. Humbling indeed.

I'm curious at what point do these "anniversaries" stop? Do you stop counting at 4? 5? 6? How about 10 years of trying to conceive? Do you stop counting then? Surely when the clock strikes midnight and you officially turn into a pumpkin, with zero ability to conceive, you stop counting the years. Will May always hold special significance of my failure to conceive? Will this month always represent this season of life and everything we missed out on?

Ever onward, I guess.The years tick by, but I'm in good company, and for that, I'm eternally thankful.