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Archive for August, 2012

We Must Wait

Posted in Grief, How to Care for the Barren, Infertility, Miscarriage, Secondary Infertility, Suffering on August 30, 2012 |

From yesterday’s reading in the Treasury of Daily Prayer:

Christ is risen from the dead, has ascended to heaven, and sits at the right of God in divine power and honor. Nevertheless, He is hiding His greatness, glory, majesty, and power. He allows His prophets and apostles to be expelled and murdered…He allows His Christians to suffer want, trouble, and misfortune in the world. He acts as He did in the days of His flesh, when John the Baptist had to lose his head for the sake of a desperate harlot, while He, the Savior and Helper, said nothing about it, departed thence in a ship and withdrew to the solitude of the wilderness (Matt. 14:10ff, Mark 6:17, 32). Is He not a petty, childish God, who does not save Himself and allows His children to suffer as if He did not see how badly they were faring?…[I]f He sees and knows but cannot help, then He has no hands that are able to do anything, nor does He have power to enable Him to save.

Hence the prophet Isaiah correctly says of God: “Verily Thou art a God that hidest Thyself, O God of Israel, the Savior” (45:15)…Now He lets our adversaries treat His Word, Sacraments, and Christians as they please. He lets us call and cry and says nothing, as though He were deep in thought or were busy or were out in the field or asleep and heard nothing as Elijah says of Baal (I Kings 18:27)…

Meanwhile Christians, baptized in His name, must hold still, must permit people to walk over them and must have patience. For in the Kingdom of faith God wants to be small, but in the (future) kingdom of sight He will not be small but great. Then He will show that He saw the misery of His people and heard their crying and had a will inclined to help them, also power to help them…For this appearance of the glory of the great God we must wait.

Martin Luther

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I’ll See Your Shakespeare and Raise You Three Little Pigs

Posted in Cysts, Marriage on August 28, 2012 |

“Not by the hair of my chinny, chin, chin.”

– The Three Little Pigs

Remember Beth, my friend whose hormones are about as balanced as our federal budget? While Juliet was finally experiencing “torches that burn a little less brightly,” Beth had a breakthrough of her own (or so she thought)–one that would relieve her from one of the most annoying complications related to ovaries that overproduce cysts: the detestable chin hairs.

Beth had just received an unexpected monetary gift which would allow her to have a little fun and think outside the budget that she and her family were normally confined to. “Hmmm…” she thought to herself (and then told me, of course), “Should I get a new food processor? Save up for a vacation? Update my wardrobe?” The possibilities were endless, until an idea struck her that made her stop what she was doing and practically giggle with glee.

“I could get laser hair removal of my chin hairs!” she almost shouted. She could really do it and they’d be gone. FOREVER. She could hardly contain herself. Once the Dear Husband returned home from work she broached the subject with him cautiously. Yes, the money was given to her and for her alone to use, but they had agreed to discuss all money matters before purchases were made. Would he think this was frivolous spending? Would he laugh? Would he scoff?

“So I was thinking,” Beth began hesitantly when she found an appropriate moment. “I have this money you know, and the thought occurred to me that I could use it for laser hair removal. For my chin. You know how much that annoys me. Do you think it would be OK?”

Without hesitation DH replied enthusiastically, “Absolutely!” Might I point out, a little too enthusiastically. “Then I won’t get scratched anymore,” he added for extra emphasis.

“Yikes! It’s that bad!” Beth realized in a moment of temporary humiliation, followed quickly by relief that it would not have to endure much longer.

The following day she picked up the phone and made The Call.

“Ideal Image. This is Amanda, how can I help you today?”

“I’d like some information about hair removal from the chin,” responded Beth in a confident, “I’m gonna to take this bull by the horns” tone of voice. (Or was it “I’m gonna to take this piglet by the whiskers”?)

“Certainly,” Amanda said. “Can you tell me what color the hairs are?”

What difference does that make?

“Well, they’re blonde.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, our laser technology uses color to search for the follicles. It won’t work on blonde or white hairs. Is there any other part of the body you’d like to address?”

The line was silent for several seconds, but in that brief timeframe Beth went on a mental tirade.

“Is this for real? Did you just say it can’t be done? What is this, the Middle Ages? We just put a vehicle on Mars for crying out loud and you’re telling me your laser technology can’t find the light colored hairs?! I don’t believe it. You’ve got to be kidding me.”

But perky-voiced Amanda wasn’t kidding. The dream was over. The hairs would remain. Beth got a grip and the anger turned to self-pity. She whispered a tearful, “No, but thanks,” and hung up the phone.

She should have known that it was too good to be true.

Fairytales are only in books.

THE END

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Wherefore Art Thou, Lupron?

Posted in Endometriosis, Infertility on August 27, 2012 |

What William Shakespeare meant to write before his editor gave all of the lines to Romeo:

[Juliet is visible at her window, amazed that a cool breeze actually makes her feel cool.]

Juliet

But soft, what light through yonder window breaks?
It is the east, and Estrogen is the sun.
Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious Lupron moon, 
Who is already sick and pale with grief
That thou her maid art far more cool than she.
Be not her maid, since she is envious;
Her vestal livery is but hot and sweaty
And none but chemically-induced menopausal women do wear it. Cast it off.

[Juliet turns and walks to her bedroom thermostat, happily turning it up from 68 to 78.]

O, Estrogen doth teach the torches to burn a little less brightly!
It seems she brushes upon the cheek of night
As a cool breeze upon a parched Dallasite’s visage.

[Juliet turns out the light and goes to bed. All is well again in the house of Capulet.] 

The end.

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Family Grief

Posted in Grief, Infertility, Suffering on August 20, 2012 |

Sometimes I forget that my barrenness affects more than just me and my husband.

My nephew stood at my elbow in Chick Fil-A last week, holding out a Berenstain Bears book that had come with his meal deal.

“In case you have a child someday,” he said.

There was a momentary, esophageal struggle between the bite I was trying to swallow and the wave of emotion that suddenly rushed up my throat.

“Thank you, B,” I managed, trying to play it cool. My nephew could have no idea that he had just shined a bright beam of sunlight across my insides. This book was more than just a gift. It was hope. “Do you think Uncle Michael and I will have a child someday?”

“Uh, huh.”

“A boy or a girl?”

“A boy.”

“Will you mind that he will be so much younger than you?”

“Na, I’ll let him ride on my back.” B smiled, and I suddenly realized that this dreamchild lives in more than just my own heart. My nephew, too, yearns for a boy cousin, a playmate, and a friend. “He’ll probably follow me around the yard. I’ll teach him to wrestle.”

You know, I think he probably will.

 

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The Hunger Games

Posted in Church on August 19, 2012 |

I finally did it. I read The Hunger Games trilogy.

The youth at our church have been clamoring for me to read Suzanne Collins’ series for years, but the waiting list at the Dallas Public Library for these books is perpetually so long I keep wadding up my interest and tossing it in the nearest trashcan.

However, my eldest niece showed up to our shared vacation spot this past week with all three books in hand. She was gracious to loan everything hungry, on fire, and flying to me for a few days so that I can now hold my head high in the youth room.

Everyone was right. The books are hard to put down once you start reading them, but I won’t opine on dystopian fantasy nor bore you with my impressions of Katniss and Panem and everything in between. I also refuse to comment on the plot, because, if you are anything like me, you don’t want to know what’s going to happen in a story until it unfolds on the pages before you. Part of the fun of reading a new story and immersing yourself in an alternate reality is playing cat and mouse with the author’s foreshadowing.

I will, however, draw your attention to one line of societal commentary which is revealed through the conscience of the story’s protagonist:

“I no longer feel any allegiance to these monsters called human beings, despise being one myself…Because something is significantly wrong with a creature that sacrifices its children’s lives to settle its differences…who does it benefit? No one.” (Mockingjay, 377)

I don’t think anyone in our own nation today would argue with the protagonist.

Except when it comes to abortion.

Because, in our own dystopian world, it is okay to sacrifice a child’s life, period. No unsettled differences need even apply.

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My Violet

Posted in Infertility, Secondary Infertility on August 16, 2012 |

A year ago my friend gave me this African violet. At the time it had lovely lavender-colored flowers. Eventually the blooms died; the time of colorful flowers had passed. Throughout the winter and spring, new leaves kept shooting up from the center of the plant. They started off quite small but soon spread themselves to receive sunshine. Other leaves died and were removed.

Recently my friend asked if the violet had flowers. I replied to the negative. She asked if any shoots were coming from the bottom. Again, no. My friend’s diagnosis was that the plant needed “medication.” Then it would produce all sorts of flowers. Of course, she jokingly said that the wrong kind of “medication” could force my plant to flower nonstop, and that would most certainly be harmful. “I’ll take the barren violet as it is,” I told my friend, “because it is still lovely.”

My violet may never flower again, but it still brings me joy. I like the green leaves; they remind me of life. The bends in the leaves remind me that not everything is perfect. The fuzziness of the leaves comforts me on cold, winter days. Yes, I do like my violet – even in its barren state.

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The Frenchman

Posted in Infertility on August 10, 2012 |

My friend Nancy and I do a little musical act at The Forum, a nursing home and assisted living facility just down the street from our church. We pull out every Reader’s Digest songbook we own and have a heyday singing and playing the golden oldies from yesteryear. It is a joy to see dim eyes light up at the sound of a familiar Rodgers and Hammerstein song or tired heads begin to bob knowingly at a particularly witty Ira Gershwin lyric.

Sometimes, a tired hand magically lifts from a wheelchair and begins directing an imaginary orchestra. At other times, a pair of eyes flutter open for an entire song before shutting closed to the world again. Inevitably, whenever I hold out a long note and let it waver with full vibrato, one gentleman in particular sitting right next to the piano opens his mouth and sings the note with me, belting out a voice that sounds fifty years his younger.

I love it.

This last time, the nurses wheeled a new guy into the room. His eyes were bright, and he looked right at me with a special knowing and understanding. This man didn’t just know the music. He knew the music. I felt like he was giving me permission to sing, not just the song, but the way I know how to sing, and I suddenly felt transported back to my jazz club days. I could almost smell the cigar smoke and hear the ice tinkling in their tumblers. As if on cue, I started changing the sensibilities of my phrasing.

“Belle, belle, belle!” the man cried mid song, clapping his hands. The nurses quickly shushed him so as not to interrupt the music, but I didn’t mind. The man’s behavior was good, right, and salutary in my eyes. Jazz is not a passive sport, and cheering on a musician mid song is the best of compliments.

When the song was over, the man looked me in the eye and quietly crooned, “C’est magnifique!”

“Merci beaucoup,” I bowed my head.

His eyes lit up. “Parlez-vous Francais?”

“Anglais, Anglais,” I apologized, shaking my head.

He nodded. It was okay. We would just speak to each other through the music. He leaned back in his seat for the next song.

In moments like these, I don’t mind being barren. In fact, I forget all about it.

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Misery

Posted in Grief, How to Care for the Barren, Infertility, Suffering on August 9, 2012 |

From our dear Joanna…

Today I had a lovely conversation with one of our church’s homebound members. This dear lady in her late eighties is widowed and mostly homebound due to severe chronic pain. Despite the suffering she endures each day, she is one of the most joyful and encouraging Christians I’ve ever met. As we got off the phone, I told how much I admire her and the beautiful, grace-filled woman that God has made her to be. It was then that she said something profound, something that I think is key to getting through the difficult days that all of us encounter: ”Misery,” she said “is optional.”

As a barren women who’s now past the age of childbearing, I can tell you that this is true — misery is indeed optional. God’s mercy and goodness have been present every day of my life, but there were days when I opted for misery — opted to wallow, opted to feel sorry for myself, opted to push the limits of legitimate grief past its boundaries to the place of selfishness and self-pity. I wanted to feel sorry for myself, I wanted others to feel sorry for me, and most of all, I wanted God to feel sorry for me. In the end, the only person I made miserable was myself. 

I think that as I go through my days, I will remember what my dear friend told me. Grief and pain are legitimate, but misery is optional. I opt for Christ’s joy and His peace that passes all understanding. 

 

 

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The Right Perspective

Posted in Infertility, Secondary Infertility, Suffering on August 8, 2012 |

In the most recent issue of The Lutheran Witness, Janet Frese reminds us to view our present suffering through the lens of vocation. She is writing specifically as the wife of a deployed chaplain, but, as is true with most Christian suffering, her words of wisdom apply to any cross we may bear, even the cross of barrenness.

Being separated during deployment is an enormous sacrifice. You become a situational single parent, bravely juggling a myriad of new roles while praying fervently for your spouse’s safe return…Putting deployment in the framework of vocation gives perspective to some of its challenges. Vocation is found in your present circumstances, in the here and now – not where you wish you could be. Parenting alone is difficult and certainly not ideal, but for the moment this is what God has given you to do. Serving the United States in the midst of war is both exhilarating and frightening, but this is the work that God has given your spouse to do at this time…[W]hile you wait for your loved one to return, remember that God does not leave you to fend for yourself. He has given you a community of believers, and He gives you a unique vocation through which to serve others.

You, in your barrenness, have a unique vocation through which to serve others. Yes, you do. It may not be the vocation of mother that you want, but your vocations of wife, daughter, sister, friend, babysitter, knitter, lawyer, or whatever are still distinct, special, singular, and specific to you.

If you are not sure what your present vocations are, simply look around and ask, “Where am I, and who is my neighbor?” Your answers to those two questions will make everything clear.

(To read Janet’s full article, snag a copy of the August 2012 issue of The Lutheran Witness.)

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True Compassion

Posted in Church, Grief, How to Care for the Barren, Infertility, Suffering on August 7, 2012 |

My husband drew my attention to an article in the most recent issue of Gottesdienst. Think on Rev. David Petersen’s words:

Compassion leads to action, but is not action. It is identification and suffering with the afflicted. The old saw “misery loves company” usually means we like to bring others down with us, but we might turn it around a bit. We might see the example of our Lord and recognize that compassion loves by joining misery. “For we do not have a high priest who is unable to sympathize with our weaknesses, but one who in every respect has been tempted as we are, yet without sin” (Heb. 4:15 ESV).

Compassion moves the compassionate to action eventually. That action is often material aid, practical assistance, or comfort to relieve the afflicted, or the proclamation of Law and then forgiveness and hope in Christ. But even before the action there is the sympathy and identification. Sometimes, maybe most times, those who are hurting need to hear and know that their hurt is valid and is also unjust. Strangely, it is comforting to know that our mental anguish, our sense of frustration, and our anger are legitimate reactions to a sinful and unjust world…

The first response to suffering isn’t a solution or a fix, but pain. This pain carries with it the realization that nothing afflicts any of us that is not common to man or that our Lord Himself did not endure in the greatest and most terrible measure. This is different from gratitude. It recognizes that it could have been us, such as we hear in the oft-used John Bradford line: “There but for the grace of God go I.” That is part of it, to be sure. But compassion is suffering that is felt in the heart and mind because someone else is suffering and shouldn’t be. They are like sheep without a shepherd. That sad plight moves the heart of the observer first to pity; then comes gratitude and action.*

* Petersen, David H.  (Trinity 2012, Vol. 20, No. 1). “Praying for Pity’s Sake.” Gottesdienst: The Journal of the Lutheran Liturgy, 9-10.

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