Infertility

Leaving on a Jet Plane

A little over a year ago, I was on a plane to Philly.

A mother with a 10-month-old boarded the plane, and she barely made eye contact with the seated passengers as she made her way down the aisle. I couldn’t blame her, really. People in this world hate children, let alone children on a plane; so, when she got to my row of seats, I scooted over and patted the seat next to me.

“Lucy’s a really good baby,” the woman assured, setting her bag down under the aisle seat and balancing Lucy on her hip. “I’ll feed her once we get going, and she’ll sleep the whole way.”

There was just one problem, and I heard it as soon as the plane took off. Lucy had a cough. It was a deep, heavy cough like thousands of rocks tumbling down a mountainside. Or cubes of ice hitting the sides of a stainless steel tumbler.

Lucy whimpered in pain as the plane rose in elevation, so the woman snuggled her daughter close and offered her mother’s milk. Lucy took the comfort and soon fell asleep.

For about ten minutes.

And then Lucy woke with a painful cry. Her ears couldn’t pop with all of that congestion. Poor, baby.

The mother stayed calm and tried to coax Lucy into feeding, again. Lucy obliged, and this routine went on for about an hour until Lucy’s ears hurt too badly for comfort, even from Mommy. Shrill, baby cries alternating with croaking coughs came from our humble row, and people began to turn around in their seats with pointed looks of disapproval.

Then, the suggestions started coming.

“She needs her ears to pop,” one post-menopausal woman with dark-rimmed glasses was helpful to point out.

Another individual took the time to pause by our row and silently assess the situation with judgmental eyes before continuing on to her own seat.

“She should chew something,” one man suggested.

The mother bore it all with quiet endurance, but I noticed that her hands were starting to shake.

“You’re doing great,” I leaned over and said. “You’re doing everything you can do. Some things can’t be helped.”

Lucy let out another banshee wail to punctuate my sentiment.

“This is the plane ride from hell,” the mother admitted.

And then came my usual barren conundrum. To help or not to help, that is always the question. I didn’t want to say or do something that would in some way undermine this mother’s gifts and authority, but I also didn’t want her to suffer alone. And she looked oh-so-alone.

At that moment, a single tear slid out of the mother’s right eye. That settled it.

“You must be hot and tired. How about I take Lucy for a few minutes? We can walk up and down the aisle and see the sights.”

The mother turned to me with eyes hollow with exhaustion. She relinquished one, single nod of her head.

I picked up Lucy – who didn’t hesitate to protest – and headed for the front of the plane. Lucy was not super happy about the situation, but I didn’t care. She could cry all she wanted. We were going to give Mommy a break, like it or not. Really, I don’t think the other people on the plane minded, either. Most of them gave us looks of sympathy or patted Lucy’s back with kindness. “Poor, baby,” they would say. Others simply put in their earbuds and looked the other way.

As Lucy and I made our third trip down the aisle, I caught a glimpse of Mommy sitting with her head back against the seat, eyes closed. Only her hand moved every once in awhile to wipe away the tears running down her cheeks. When Lucy and I slipped back into our seats, Mommy tried to feed Lucy, again. Then, finally – finally! – Lucy slept without a peep for the last ten minutes of the flight.

As the mother and Lucy got up to leave the plane after landing, the mother turned to me one last time. “Katie. Schuermann, right? Good Shepherd Lutheran Church in Sherman, IL?”

I nodded my head yes, astonished she had remembered so much from our little snippets of conversation through baby shrieks and coughs and cries.

One week after I got home from Philly, my husband brought me a package which had been shipped to our church with my name on it. The note in the package read:

Katie- “The nicest lady sat next to me on my return flight and saved me from having a nervous breakdown because of Lucy’s screaming.” That’s what I say when people ask me about my STL trip – you were the highlight! Thank you for your kindness and generosity. Here’s some of those puzzles I was talking about (plus a bonus game book) – hopefully on your next flight you will be seated next to a silent person! Enjoy! Thanks – Jacy (Lucy too!)

No doubt about it, I’d sit by you and Lucy all over again, Jacy. Thank you for letting a barren woman be a mother, even for just a few minutes.

A blessed Thanksgiving to mothers everywhere, especially those flying with their babies this week!

From Hannah to Elizabeth

Have you ever noticed the parallels between Hannah and Elizabeth in the Bible?

Hannah was barren, but the LORD remembered her. She conceived and bore a son who was set apart to be a prophet. Her miracle-son, Samuel, would anoint David, the king and savior of Old Testament Israel.

Elizabeth was barren, but the LORD remembered her. She also conceived and bore a son who was set apart to be a prophet. Her miracle-son, John, would baptize Jesus, the new David – the King and Savior of the world.

It comforts me to see God working through death to bring forth life. Not even the worldly curse of barrenness could keep our omnipotent God from keeping His promise to make straight the path of righteousness – the path which points straight to Jesus and His saving work for us on the cross. I am baptized into that same Jesus, and nothing – not even the death in my own, barren womb – can stop Him from keeping His promise to raise me on the Last Day.

Certainty

I am certain that doctors who recommend women with endometriosis abstain from beef are not actually referring to burgers.

I am also certain that naturopaths who recommend women with endometriosis abstain from dairy are not actually referring to feta cheese.

And I am most certain that nutritionists who recommend women with endometriosis abstain from sugar are not actually referring to the sugar in dark chocolate.

This I do swear to be the the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help me to a bag of chocolate chips.

Air Horn

Grief is an air horn blowing in my ear.

I can’t think, I can’t speak, I can’t act. All I can do is cover my ears and wait for the curséd blast of sound to stop.

Only then, when the overstimulation has ceased – when the blessed quiet has recovered my senses – can I even begin to listen to what you have to say.

So, in the deafening squall of grief, don’t speak. Just sit with me. Listen to the sickening racket. Join me in begging God for it to stop, and, if you dare, put yourself between me and that revolting wave to absorb some of the sound.

Then wait. With me. For God to restore the peace.

Then, I will know that you care.

Feeling Alone

Question Submitted: My husband and I have been undergoing fertility treaments since February 2011. We married a little later in life as we both were in foreign missions, but we finally met while working on the same mission field. After trying to start a family for a year-and-a-half, we consulted a doctor. She realized that I wasn’t ovulating. After 6 months of treatment, she recommended a fertility specialist. We worked with him for a year, then recently moved to another city. We found a clinic specializing in fertlility treatments. This was our first month of treatment. Yesterday, we received the results of our pregnancy test – negative. I feel hollow and have lost hope. My husband is an amazing partner and is constantly leading us in God’s Word. I am asking for your prayers for strength to accept God’s will. I would love to talk to other women who have gone through this or are going through this.

Sister, you’ve got our prayers for strength to accept God’s will. In Jesus’ name+, amen.

And you are most definitely not alone. Know that the entire Church prays for you. Know that Christ sits at the right hand of God and intercedes on your behalf. Know that the Holy Spirit intercedes with groanings too deep for words whenever you are too burdened to form the words yourself.

And know that there is a community of women, like yourself, who are praying the same prayer for their own lives. They, too, grieve their negative pregnancy tests and desperately put their faith in God’s good will for them even in their childlessness. These women want to meet you and listen to you and cry with you and share with you their own stories. These women met last summer in St. Louis for The Great Getaway, and, God willing, we hope to do the same year after year.

Won’t you please join us? (We’ll be in touch soon with details about The Great Getaway 2014.)

In the meantime, is there a pastor in your local mission field to whom you can go and speak about your hopes and disappointments and grief? He is Christ’s man there for you, and he wants to help bear your pain. He wants to comfort you with the Words of eternal life, pray with you as you wait on the Lord, and put Christ’s own pain-bearing flesh on your tongue.

Married without Children

Question Submitted: I got married knowing that we biologically could never have children, so I have a question for you…what is a good way to respond to all the questions?

I sometimes feel that people assume I’m a bad person/woman because I’m not having children, and people say, “Well, you SHOULD have kids!” Or the ever-present, “One day it’ll happen, and THEN you’ll understand” when people talk to me about their children. Do I respond with, “Well, actually, I won’t ever understand” or do I just let them believe that they’re right?

I had so many friends tell me that I should have reconsidered my marriage because we knew we couldn’t have children, and then I see their Facebook pages covered in photos, news, quotes, etc. of their kids, and it just renews my sense of not being “enough.” This is a tough road to travel!! I love my marriage and I love my husband, but I hate the way others interpret our being without children. Do you have any words of wisdom for me?

I think the best way to respond to all of the unsolicited suggestions and questions is to answer in whatever way best protects your husband and your one-flesh union. It’s a hard balance to strike in conversations, being honest and forthright about barrenness without over sharing. I imagine one of the risks of engaging people in a conversation at all about your specific situation is the very real chance they’ll end up asking more questions than you’re comfortable answering.

So, I recommend you start by having a frank conversation with your husband about the whole situation and decide together what you both are comfortable telling people and what you both wish to remain private. Then, let those boundaries be your guide in every conversation.

Remember, you have no social obligation to answer others’ questions about your sexual organs, nor do you need to defend your childlessness to your neighbor. Really, neither are anyone’s business but your own, your husband’s, and your pastor’s. (Yep, I include your pastor, because he is the one who married you or, at least, looks after your marriage.)

At the same time, it is perfectly acceptable if you want to share with others the reality of your barrenness. For some barren couples, this provides greater relief than silence down the road. Just be ready. Whatever boundaries you and your husband choose for these kinds of conversations, you most likely will spend a good chunk of your married life kindly helping family, friends, and strangers respect those boundaries. And for that task, my sister, may our Lord strengthen and preserve you in the one, true Faith unto life everlasting. Go to church often to hear God’s Word and to receive the gift of Christ’s Body and Blood for your benefit. Forgive freely for you have been forgiven in Christ.

If it’s helpful, whenever people push past my own personal conversation boundaries regarding my barrenness, I look them in the eye and tell them the truth: “I am not comfortable answering that question.” End of conversation.

On the rare occasion that a person probes even further, I excuse myself and flee temptation. (Actually, that’s not true. That is what I should do. More often than not – wretched sinner that I am! – I stick to the spot and offer tit for tat: “I’ll tell you something about my ovaries if you tell me something about your cervix. Or your uterus. Really, either are fine. I find both of them interesting.”)

It is awkward sometimes, but, I assure you, the awkwardness is not of your own making.

Singlehood

Question Submitted: How can I best love and support my sister who is barren currently because she is not/has never been married? She is going through a very difficult time right now and I know that she feels a lot of anger, frustration, depression, and a multitude of other difficult emotions. She has told me several times how aware she is that she is the only one in my family who is not married and doesn’t have children. I have tried to be sensitive of that, but I was wondering if there was anything else I can do to love and support her (besides lifting her up in prayer and listening to her).

I thought your sister might appreciate your question being answered by a fellow, single sister in Christ rather than by an old, married lady such as me, so I asked Adriane A. Dorr, managing editor of The Lutheran Witness and one of my favorite people in the whole world, to take the helm on this one. Ms. Dorr just wrote a book called Hello. My Name Is Single. It’ll be out spring of 2014. It includes interviews from single people—young adults to widows—and touches on all manner of topics from “Why You Should Never Date Guys with ‘J’ Names and Other Little Known Facts” to “Love > Sex” to “Awkward First Dates and Other Things Singles Could Definitely, Totally Do Without,” all with the purpose of helping single people realize that the Lord really does love them, that being single is not the end of the world, that you can pray fervently for a pious spouse even before you think you’re ready to get married, what it means to be a Christian man or woman, and that dating, marriage, and life in general require God’s grace and forgiveness and a little dash of humor on the side.

Two years ago, I sat in a stiff-backed hospital chair, watching my sister and her husband coo over their newborn daughter, who was still pink and a little wrinkly and definitely very sleepy. In a moment, I was jealous. I wanted a husband who loved me and a child to rock in my arms too, and while I knew of wives who struggled with barrenness, I consoled myself with the fact that I was suffering more, since they, at least, had husbands to love them while I had no one.

Yeesh.

Your sister might feel the same way. But instead of waiting for her to talk to you about her pain, ask her. She’ll likely tell you that she wants to be loved and cherished, that thoughts of fulfilling the pious vocations of wife and mother fill her head multiple times a day. She’ll probably tell you how hard it is to watch her friends get married and then have babies, and how it seems like, no matter which restaurant she goes to on the weekend, she runs into a bachelorette party or a toddler’s birthday, two of the most painful reminders of her alone-ness.

She wants to have a husband to come home to, a man to fix dinner for, a baby’s tiny Disney diapers to change, and a swaddled infant to rock to sleep at night. And while you can’t change how she feels, you can acknowledge that she feels something at all. You can tell her that it’s okay to long for those things that our Lord tells us are holy and good—spouses and children and families and life together. You can tell her that you’re sorry that she is hurting, that her pain is real and that she’s not crazy for feeling it. You can write a Sticky Note and slap it to her forehead that reads: “You may be lonely, but you are not alone.” You can tell her she has you and that she has her pastor, and that a loving sibling and a faithful pastor can be a fairly unstoppable duo.

You don’t have to fix her or give her advice. You simply have to agree that life—and all the suffering that comes with it—is difficult and that it is hard. That, some days, will be enough.

But you also point her again and again to Christ. You remind her that her value and her worth come from—not a husband or children—but from Christ on the cross. Tell her, in the midst of her sobbing and bitter words spoken in anger, that she is whole and perfect in Christ, broken no more. Pray with her, asking the Lord that His heart would be moved to grant your sister the desires of hers. And encourage her to go often to the Lord’s Supper, to private Confession and Absolution, to the place where Christ’s gives her Himself, the One who makes all things new.

Not talking about her pain doesn’t help. But neither does wallowing in it. Let her hurt. Let her cry. Let her throw a pan of brownies across a kitchen. (Not, you know, saying that I’ve done that or anything.) But remind her that the Lord’s plan for her is perfect and that it is best, despite how it feels, despite how it looks, despite how it seems. She may be barren, but she is whole in Christ. And that, even when she lays her head down on her pillow alone in bed at night, is the only thing that matters.

Best,

Adriane

How Should I Grieve?

Question Submitted: Thank you for your blog. I usually read several entries at once every few months when my barrenness comes to the forefront again. Thank you especially for the Bible verses, prayers, and hymns. Recently I’ve seen a lot of miscarriage awareness Facebook posts. I’ve never gone through a miscarriage and its grief. My husband and I are just infertile. I’m pretty sure it’s ok for us to grieve, but obviously not with the same grief of those who lose a child. So how should/can an infertile couple grieve?

I asked my friend Diane Lamberson, a Licensed Clinical Social Worker in Texas who does psychotherapy from a Christian perspective with people struggling with complicated grief and loss, to help us with this post. Not only is Diane one of the wisest and most compassionate sisters in Christ I have ever met, but she has the education to properly address this question for all of us:

As a psychotherapist who specializes in grief and loss, I am often asked this question in one form or another. Actually, it is two questions:

1. Is the grief I feel legitimate?
2. Am I grieving correctly?

The simple answer to both questions is YES.

Bearing the cross of infertility, even in the comforting shadow of Christ’s cross, is a difficult road that is full of uncertainty, frustration, and most certainly grief. Is it the same grief a couple who experiences a miscarriage has? No. Does that make the grief of not conceiving (and possibly never conceiving) any less intense or legitimate? No. One is not less than the other. Instead, they are different, yet overlapping, experiences.

In fact, one parent feels her grief after six miscarriages and one full-term birth of a child (after the third miscarriage) is less painful than the grief suffered by those who have never conceived. “I am aware that the pain of other women who never carry a child must be greater than mine,” she writes. She calls miscarriage the “loneliest grief of all.” I think barrenness and miscarriage are both lonely kinds of grief, and I am grateful to the hosts of this forum for giving it a voice and providing a much needed source of Christ-centered comfort to all who are grieving as they carry this cross and follow Christ.

While having experienced neither infertility nor miscarriage personally, I have been called upon in both my clinical work and personal life to bear witness to and assist with the grief that comes with both. For the couple who has never conceived a child, news from a medical professional that it will not be possible can feel as if a person has died because their dream of a person has died. Indeed, in some ways, this news is a more complicated kind of grief. When we lose people we love to death, we have memories of our interactions and can share them with others. Society acknowledges it. There is a specific date of death and mourning (a public expression of grief).

When grieving the loss of a person for which we hope and dream but who does not yet exist, there are no memories in which to share or take comfort. There may not be a specific date when the dream died, only ongoing uncertainty. Society doesn’t acknowledge it in any public or formal way. There is no funeral. There are no flowers or casseroles in the refrigerator. There is no gravesite to visit. Many who suffer miscarriages don’t have all of these outward signs either, depending on when the pregnancy ended. Instead, what couples bearing the cross of barrenness largely get instead of compassion is suggestions about IVF, surrogacy, sperm banks, adoption, or other ways to “fix the problem” that don’t in any way acknowledge the very real grief and loss that the barren are feeling.

Some feel they are grieving too much and others worry they don’t feel enough and wonder what is wrong. The truth is neither is wrong. It just happens to be your feelings about what you’ve been through. They are colored by your personality, how you view being barren, and your faith/theology, among many other factors. Your grief may be more intense at one time than another. Many think grief is a linear process when it is more like a spiral lying on its side. While you may be moving forward, there are many emotions you may revisit along the way. This is not a sign of regression but a revisiting of feelings that have come around again in your movement through the spiral.

The truth is, God is present to comfort us through all our times of grief, whether it is the loss of a specific child, the loss of one’s womb/reproductive organs, or the loss felt every time an unwanted menstrual cycle comes along with the knowledge that once again a child is not growing within the womb. All are painful and difficult to endure, but in Christ we are never alone. With the support we provide each other God works through us. We may not know what the future holds, but we know Who holds the future.

Diane Lamberson, LCSW

Marriage: One Mom, One Dad

“I like it,” I said to my husband yesterday at the Defend Marriage Lobby Day at the Illinois state capitol building. I was referring to the yellow button we had each been handed at the registration table.

“Yes,” he agreed as he pinned his on his jacket. “It’s a clearer confession of what marriage is, rather than just ‘one woman, one man.'”

Still, I found myself fighting back tears as we stood in line waiting to talk to our state representative. Here we were, a barren couple, wearing buttons which publicly exposed our shame. My husband and I are one man and one woman brought together in marriage, but we are not one dad and one mom; and the truth stings.

But, it is still the truth.

That’s what marriage is, really. It’s God’s good ordering of His creation. It’s not passion and attraction and preference and romance, though – don’t get me wrong – it is a delight when marriage includes such things. Marriage is God’s blessed institution of the family unit in life. It is one man and one woman joined together that they might be one dad and one mom. We know this to be true, because it is the one flesh union of husband and wife over which God spoke the blessing of children in His words “be fruitful and multiply” (Genesis 1:26-31); it is the distinct parental unit of dad and mom which God commands children to obey in His words “Honor thy father and thy mother” (Exodus 20:12). It is the unique joining together of husband and wife which Paul uses as a picture of Christ’s relationship with His bride, the Church, when he writes, “‘Therefore a man shall leave his father and mother and hold fast to his wife, and the two shall become one flesh.’ This mystery is profound, and I am saying that it refers to Christ and the church” (Ephesians 5:22–6:4).

That’s why even the barren can confidently confess to the world that marriage is one dad, one mom. Though the cross of childlessness weighs our shoulders with grief and pain (and sometimes, on days like yesterday, shame), it does not make our marriages null and void. We are still fruitful in marriage as man and wife, even though God in His wisdom has not blessed us insofar as to multiply. Soli deo gloria.

Melissa

Melissa walked up to me at the book signing table.

I had noticed her sitting next to her mother during my presentation, and a quick, physical assessment – faint crow’s feet, visible smile lines with or without any smiles – placed her somewhere in the same decade of life as me.

I wasn’t sure what she had thought of my talk on barrenness. She hadn’t given me very much eye contact when I was speaking, but neither had her face shown any immediate signs of pent-up anger or sadness.

At the table, though, she looked me directly in the eye and smiled with a joy unbounded.

“I am an auntie!” she exclaimed.

She had been listening!

“Me, too,” I said. I jumped up and gave Melissa a hug, reveling in our shared connection. “What are their names?”

Melissa listed each of her nieces and nephews, her hands gesturing proudly with each name. I noticed she had no wedding band on her left ring finger, and her mother stood quietly behind her, eyes misty.

“…and Braden is walking, now!” Melissa finished, her slightly slanted eyes large with wonder, but there was something else there, too. A knowledge of pain.

And that’s when the truth washed over me like a warm wave.

Women with Down syndrome rejoice in the gift of children just like everyone else and grieve their childlessness just like everyone else. And so do their families.