Reflections on Hope

It's been a while since I've committed the time to put my thoughts to words in this designated space, but not for lack of things to share.  On the contrary, like my thoughts life has been a progressively more intense torrent of work, moving, settling in to a new home, figuring out our new life here, fixing things in the house, preparing for Christmas, recovering from Christmas.... Oh and all of the treatment I've been doing in my seemingly more and more futile attempts at conceiving- driving 1.5 hrs to see the doctor, monthly ultrasounds, blood draws, injections.  So many, many things to think about.  So much to reflect upon, but more often than not no grounding in that reflection.  My thoughts  shoot around like the flares of a sparkler on the 4th of July- propelled by a flurry of emotion.  I reflect on myself, my relationship with God, the hopes and dreams I had that seem so out of reach, whether I have any hopes and dreams for the future, whether investing energy in future hopes and dreams is worth it.  I've come to recognize that HOPE. IS. EVERYTHING.  Anything is tolerable with even the smallest bit of hope.  But without it, disappointments and failures are magnified into disasters that paralyze me and trigger days of unshakable melancholy.

Of course, the majority of my disappointments stem from being infertile.  You'd think the sting of not being pregnant month after month would have softened by now.  But as hope dwindles, disappointment fills the void it leaves behind until disappointment is the lens through which every experience in your life, I mean EVERY experience, is filtered.  With each passing month, hope's ability to drive my purpose has faded until I now persist in treatments because I feel I owe it to myself and what I've gone through to keep going.  [two surgeries, two long recoveries and still recovering, countless appointments of poking and prodding so that I have no dignity or modesty left, uprooting my life and moving home in an attempt to reduce stress, keeping a crazy vegan-kosher-lactose intolerant-celiac-diabetic diet, thousands of dollars spent, and the elimination of every beauty product I've ever loved from my life:] It would be an insult to just stop my journey now.  What would all that have been for?  That is why I continue.  Not because I maintain a strong sense of hope.  My hope has become like a fragile flower struggling to survive against a merciless terrain.  

I often feel isolated from all my TTC sisters.  As someone for whom IVF is not an option, I can't find complete solidarity with women going through that treatment; I can bond with them over our shared frustration, and rejoice when the desire of their hearts is fulfilled.  Yet I can't find hope in reading their testimonials, knowing I cannot walk down that path.  Many of the Catholic women I know appear to be handling their infertility with more grace than I could ever dream to find.  I don't relate well with women whose perpetual mantra is, "God's will, not mine."  I'm just not there in my relationship with God right now.  It is fractured and something I am cogniscient of constantly working on, but as someone who, worse than feeling forgotten by God, feels completely ignored, I don't find myself bearing this burden with grace and gratitude like my admirable Catholic sisters.   In that sense I feel like an even deeper failure than what my physical state has imposed on me.

When you feel alone, it is very difficult to hope.  And let me iterate it is entirely unproductive and pointless to say to someone in despair, "Don't lose hope!"  I've heard this countless times.  And I think, "Why not?  What has hope done for me so far?  It has made some aspects of daily life more tolerable, but so would the relief of finally giving up."  Telling me, "Don't lose hope!" is as effective as saying, "Stop breathing!"  Since I'm not ready to give up yet, however, hope seems the only thing with the potential to lift the dark cloud that's surrounded my heart and soul.  But I don't see hope as a voluntary action, like patience or temperance would be.  For me hope is a reflexive, visceral emotion that either exists or does not.  Certain things stir hope within me despite the voice in my head which says, "There's no point."  I can feel it when it's there and suffer terribly in its absence.  How to find that hope though?

Hope is the answer, I know it is! So rather than attempting to convince someone to hope when that flame has turned to ash, let us say to each other, "Don't give up, friend.  Find things that may renew your hope.  They are somewhere, don't give up.  When your hope is renewed you will feel joy again.  Don't give up."  Telling someone to not give up validates the difficulty of the journey and encourages fortitude.  So I am focusing on things that will renew my hope.  Talking to women who were told they'd never conceive who are now expecting or are now mothers (without IVF!) is a great source of hope for me.  And when I hear them, I feel the spark of hope igniting deep within me, and then life suddenly becomes more tolerable.  And I feel more strength in continuing my treatments.  And so I continue sharing my thoughts and HOPE that someday I will have a success story that will be that light through the dark cloud of someone else's journey.  <3

Reflections on Hope

It's been a while since I've committed the time to put my thoughts to words in this designated space, but not for lack of things to share.  On the contrary, like my thoughts life has been a progressively more intense torrent of work, moving, settling in to a new home, figuring out our new life here, fixing things in the house, preparing for Christmas, recovering from Christmas.... Oh and all of the treatment I've been doing in my seemingly more and more futile attempts at conceiving- driving 1.5 hrs to see the doctor, monthly ultrasounds, blood draws, injections.  So many, many things to think about.  So much to reflect upon, but more often than not no grounding in that reflection.  My thoughts  shoot around like the flares of a sparkler on the 4th of July- propelled by a flurry of emotion.  I reflect on myself, my relationship with God, the hopes and dreams I had that seem so out of reach, whether I have any hopes and dreams for the future, whether investing energy in future hopes and dreams is worth it.  I've come to recognize that HOPE. IS. EVERYTHING.  Anything is tolerable with even the smallest bit of hope.  But without it, disappointments and failures are magnified into disasters that paralyze me and trigger days of unshakable melancholy.

Of course, the majority of my disappointments stem from being infertile.  You'd think the sting of not being pregnant month after month would have softened by now.  But as hope dwindles, disappointment fills the void it leaves behind until disappointment is the lens through which every experience in your life, I mean EVERY experience, is filtered.  With each passing month, hope's ability to drive my purpose has faded until I now persist in treatments because I feel I owe it to myself and what I've gone through to keep going.  [two surgeries, two long recoveries and still recovering, countless appointments of poking and prodding so that I have no dignity or modesty left, uprooting my life and moving home in an attempt to reduce stress, keeping a crazy vegan-kosher-lactose intolerant-celiac-diabetic diet, thousands of dollars spent, and the elimination of every beauty product I've ever loved from my life:] It would be an insult to just stop my journey now.  What would all that have been for?  That is why I continue.  Not because I maintain a strong sense of hope.  My hope has become like a fragile flower struggling to survive against a merciless terrain.  

I often feel isolated from all my TTC sisters.  As someone for whom IVF is not an option, I can't find complete solidarity with women going through that treatment; I can bond with them over our shared frustration, and rejoice when the desire of their hearts is fulfilled.  Yet I can't find hope in reading their testimonials, knowing I cannot walk down that path.  Many of the Catholic women I know appear to be handling their infertility with more grace than I could ever dream to find.  I don't relate well with women whose perpetual mantra is, "God's will, not mine."  I'm just not there in my relationship with God right now.  It is fractured and something I am cogniscient of constantly working on, but as someone who, worse than feeling forgotten by God, feels completely ignored, I don't find myself bearing this burden with grace and gratitude like my admirable Catholic sisters.   In that sense I feel like an even deeper failure than what my physical state has imposed on me.

When you feel alone, it is very difficult to hope.  And let me iterate it is entirely unproductive and pointless to say to someone in despair, "Don't lose hope!"  I've heard this countless times.  And I think, "Why not?  What has hope done for me so far?  It has made some aspects of daily life more tolerable, but so would the relief of finally giving up."  Telling me, "Don't lose hope!" is as effective as saying, "Stop breathing!"  Since I'm not ready to give up yet, however, hope seems the only thing with the potential to lift the dark cloud that's surrounded my heart and soul.  But I don't see hope as a voluntary action, like patience or temperance would be.  For me hope is a reflexive, visceral emotion that either exists or does not.  Certain things stir hope within me despite the voice in my head which says, "There's no point."  I can feel it when it's there and suffer terribly in its absence.  How to find that hope though?

Hope is the answer, I know it is! So rather than attempting to convince someone to hope when that flame has turned to ash, let us say to each other, "Don't give up, friend.  Find things that may renew your hope.  They are somewhere, don't give up.  When your hope is renewed you will feel joy again.  Don't give up."  Telling someone to not give up validates the difficulty of the journey and encourages fortitude.  So I am focusing on things that will renew my hope.  Talking to women who were told they'd never conceive who are now expecting or are now mothers (without IVF!) is a great source of hope for me.  And when I hear them, I feel the spark of hope igniting deep within me, and then life suddenly becomes more tolerable.  And I feel more strength in continuing my treatments.  And so I continue sharing my thoughts and HOPE that someday I will have a success story that will be that light through the dark cloud of someone else's journey.  <3

insidious spider

Insidious spider
lurking inside,
spun a web of destruction

Five days ago I underwent surgery yet again: to address the rather large cyst on my left ovary and to check for adhesions as suggested were present by the ultrasounds I've had.  What was uncovered during the procedure was rather disturbing, discouraging, and mystifying.  As Dr. P so eloquently put it, he's "never seen adhesions like these before."  Those were not words of hope, my friends.  I have little comprehension of how I can feel so healthy, so "normal" while being so contrary on the inside.  

What I had inside me was a dismal scene.  It was as if an evil spider had spun a dense web of captivity around everything, holding my organs hostage- to the point that they were not visible at all.  I had no cysts at all (the silver lining perhaps?)- rather, those adhesions had formed self-contained caverns that were filling with fluid, resembling cysts but being something entirely different.  And according to Mr. Doctor there is little I can do to help prevent that tissue from forming again.  Some people are genetically predisposed to forming them (lucky me!) and they typically appear within one month of an operation, injury, or infection.  On top of that, a "recurrence" of endometriosis was discovered, something extremely rare within a year of prior removal.  Despite my strict anti-inflammatory diet and avoidance of toxic cosmetics and cleaners I am ever just as broken as before. 

Mr. Doctor removed the adhesions and used the best techniques known to help prevent future scars from binding stuff together.  I'm taking a rather large dosage of serrapeptase (480,000 iu daily) and praying for healing.  Besides healing, I'm praying for a bonafide miracle.  And contemplating how God doles out miracles.  I am certainly no more deserving than anyone else....

insidious spider

Insidious spider
lurking inside,
spun a web of destruction

Five days ago I underwent surgery yet again: to address the rather large cyst on my left ovary and to check for adhesions as suggested were present by the ultrasounds I've had.  What was uncovered during the procedure was rather disturbing, discouraging, and mystifying.  As Dr. P so eloquently put it, he's "never seen adhesions like these before."  Those were not words of hope, my friends.  I have little comprehension of how I can feel so healthy, so "normal" while being so contrary on the inside.  

What I had inside me was a dismal scene.  It was as if an evil spider had spun a dense web of captivity around everything, holding my organs hostage- to the point that they were not visible at all.  I had no cysts at all (the silver lining perhaps?)- rather, those adhesions had formed self-contained caverns that were filling with fluid, resembling cysts but being something entirely different.  And according to Mr. Doctor there is little I can do to help prevent that tissue from forming again.  Some people are genetically predisposed to forming them (lucky me!) and they typically appear within one month of an operation, injury, or infection.  On top of that, a "recurrence" of endometriosis was discovered, something extremely rare within a year of prior removal.  Despite my strict anti-inflammatory diet and avoidance of toxic cosmetics and cleaners I am ever just as broken as before. 

Mr. Doctor removed the adhesions and used the best techniques known to help prevent future scars from binding stuff together.  I'm taking a rather large dosage of serrapeptase (480,000 iu daily) and praying for healing.  Besides healing, I'm praying for a bonafide miracle.  And contemplating how God doles out miracles.  I am certainly no more deserving than anyone else....

When I was a kid I had the kind of naive, unquestioning faith and trust that having "faith like a child" really means.  It really was more faith like a dog.... Every time I tell my dog, "Daddy's home!" or "There's a squirrel outside!" or "I'll be right back," or "It's okay," he believes me.  No matter what.  100%.  The trouble with that kind of faith, though, I reflect as I pat his sweet little head, is that sometimes I'm tricking him.  Sometimes he lingers too long outside and won't even come in for turkey, his favorite treat.  Only for "Daddy's home!"  Sometimes it's time to go outside and he won't budge from the couch.  That's when an invisible squirrel is on the loose, and one second later he's at the end of the yard barking up an empty tree.  Yet despite how many times I lie to him he believes me.  He trusts me completely.

I remember the feeling of being overwhelmed by my love for God, for Christ, for the Church.  Inspired by my feelings of devotion and the example of saints and martyrs I was thoroughly committed to a glamorized idea of suffering.  I wanted to be one of the lucky ones to be stricken with the stigmata.  In fact I'd pray to receive it, along with many other useless prayers- for Snow White to come alive from my book, or for a particular boy to like me.  (I wasn't all Jesus and piety.)  After all, Christ said "Ask and you shall receive."  And I trusted those words as my dog trusts me.  I believed in Him and I believed in miracles with all my heart.  And as a kid, being told that God always answers prayers even if the answer is "no" was enough for me to escape the unanswered with my joyful, loving heart intact.

But life is full of doubt and disappointment, isn't it?  And faith inevitably takes a predictably different shape.  I have not escaped my blows unscathed.  When you pray so fervently, with such trust in the power of that prayer and the answer continues to be "no," you start to feel like there is no power in your prayers, and if they are powerless they are pointless as well.  I see now that prayer doesn't always have the power to bend God's will.  And if God's will is supreme, then what role does prayer play in the intersection of human existence and the supernatural?   And if the answer is "no," what recourse do we have when desires persist?

I never understood the prayers that end with "Not my will but Yours be done, Oh Lord."  While beautiful in their conviction, I find them to be quite unrealistic.  Why should I pray for God's will to be done when ultimately it will transpire regardless?  What if I don't want His will?  What if I can't trust in Him?  I want to.  But if I'm being completely honest, I do not entirely.  I'm no longer like my dog in that regard.  I'm skeptical; I'm wounded; I'm scarred.   

As a child in the midst of a blossoming spiritual relationship, and still in the infatuation stage, I often mistook my feelings for "God's will."  If I felt strongly about something, it must be because God was guiding me toward a certain end, and I'm sure I made many childish decisions using "God's will" as justification.  In truth, I have no idea what God's will could be- and so I am afraid to pray for it.  I don't know if God's will is for me to never be a mother, to never fulfill my musical dreams, or to even live beyond tomorrow.  And when I think of those possibilities, I find no comfort in the notion of "God's will."  One thing I do know is God has called me to suffer, as we all must in some way.  I thought I would be the kind of disciple who, with gratitude in my heart, would offer my suffering for the benefit of others and in doing so join in the suffering of Christ.  But that was also a childish fantasy.  I do offer up my suffering when I have the presence of mind, but there is no gratitude involved.  More an attitude of "well it's here so I might as well not waste it."  And then the thought crosses my mind that perhaps I have been gifted the stigmata after all.  It is in a different form, and certainly not as glamorous as I envisioned.  If only I could find the humility to bear it like a saint...

When I was a kid I had the kind of naive, unquestioning faith and trust that having "faith like a child" really means.  It really was more faith like a dog.... Every time I tell my dog, "Daddy's home!" or "There's a squirrel outside!" or "I'll be right back," or "It's okay," he believes me.  No matter what.  100%.  The trouble with that kind of faith, though, I reflect as I pat his sweet little head, is that sometimes I'm tricking him.  Sometimes he lingers too long outside and won't even come in for turkey, his favorite treat.  Only for "Daddy's home!"  Sometimes it's time to go outside and he won't budge from the couch.  That's when an invisible squirrel is on the loose, and one second later he's at the end of the yard barking up an empty tree.  Yet despite how many times I lie to him he believes me.  He trusts me completely.

I remember the feeling of being overwhelmed by my love for God, for Christ, for the Church.  Inspired by my feelings of devotion and the example of saints and martyrs I was thoroughly committed to a glamorized idea of suffering.  I wanted to be one of the lucky ones to be stricken with the stigmata.  In fact I'd pray to receive it, along with many other useless prayers- for Snow White to come alive from my book, or for a particular boy to like me.  (I wasn't all Jesus and piety.)  After all, Christ said "Ask and you shall receive."  And I trusted those words as my dog trusts me.  I believed in Him and I believed in miracles with all my heart.  And as a kid, being told that God always answers prayers even if the answer is "no" was enough for me to escape the unanswered with my joyful, loving heart intact.

But life is full of doubt and disappointment, isn't it?  And faith inevitably takes a predictably different shape.  I have not escaped my blows unscathed.  When you pray so fervently, with such trust in the power of that prayer and the answer continues to be "no," you start to feel like there is no power in your prayers, and if they are powerless they are pointless as well.  I see now that prayer doesn't always have the power to bend God's will.  And if God's will is supreme, then what role does prayer play in the intersection of human existence and the supernatural?   And if the answer is "no," what recourse do we have when desires persist?

I never understood the prayers that end with "Not my will but Yours be done, Oh Lord."  While beautiful in their conviction, I find them to be quite unrealistic.  Why should I pray for God's will to be done when ultimately it will transpire regardless?  What if I don't want His will?  What if I can't trust in Him?  I want to.  But if I'm being completely honest, I do not entirely.  I'm no longer like my dog in that regard.  I'm skeptical; I'm wounded; I'm scarred.   

As a child in the midst of a blossoming spiritual relationship, and still in the infatuation stage, I often mistook my feelings for "God's will."  If I felt strongly about something, it must be because God was guiding me toward a certain end, and I'm sure I made many childish decisions using "God's will" as justification.  In truth, I have no idea what God's will could be- and so I am afraid to pray for it.  I don't know if God's will is for me to never be a mother, to never fulfill my musical dreams, or to even live beyond tomorrow.  And when I think of those possibilities, I find no comfort in the notion of "God's will."  One thing I do know is God has called me to suffer, as we all must in some way.  I thought I would be the kind of disciple who, with gratitude in my heart, would offer my suffering for the benefit of others and in doing so join in the suffering of Christ.  But that was also a childish fantasy.  I do offer up my suffering when I have the presence of mind, but there is no gratitude involved.  More an attitude of "well it's here so I might as well not waste it."  And then the thought crosses my mind that perhaps I have been gifted the stigmata after all.  It is in a different form, and certainly not as glamorous as I envisioned.  If only I could find the humility to bear it like a saint...

10 ways singing and infertility are alike

Bach is kind of like getting a massage for your soul.  Listening to his music gives you the kind of satisfaction that comes after you've cleaned the messiest house and everything is now beautifully organized.  It's like in some movies when the genius can make sense of all the mathematical codes that are flashing across the screen and his eyes are moving rapidly and you can tell he is organizing all those numbers into things that make sense in his head.  Except instead of numbers you have notes.  And they've already been sorted out into an incredible order, a perfect sound puzzle.  Singing Bach is a different story:  It requires every ounce of your focus, anticipation, and physical presence to do it well.  It's some of the hardest music you'll ever sing or play!  After you've learned it well, and after you've performed it, you still feel an immense sense of satisfaction, but mostly you're just exhausted.  

I was privileged to sing in a Bach concert last weekend, and while enjoying an orchestral piece on the program, my mind wandered to the usual thoughts that consume every moment of every day.  Only this time my thoughts were having a more light-hearted exchange with each other.  Casually noting the similarities between the pursuit of success in singing and the pursuit of fertility, without disdain.  Just acknowledging them.

In no special order....

1) You think about [singing/infertility] ALL the time.

2) You feel primed to be a raging success as a [singer/mother] but forces beyond your control prevent you from getting there.

3)You live in a constant state of disappointment in [not getting the part/not being pregnant AGAIN]

4) [Singing/infertility] are EXPENSIVE.  I can't believe I pay [$70 for a voice lesson/$600 for an ultrasound.] 

5) Failure causes you to question who you are as a human and how you fit into the universe.  

WHY AM I HEEEEEEEEEEEEERE?????!!!

6) It seems like everyone around you is [getting the parts/getting pregnant.]

7) You have to pretend to be happy for people who [get the part/get pregnant] when really you hate them out of jealousy.

8) You have to unfollow 83% of your friends on Facebook because they are all [bragging about their gigs/posting pictures of ultrasounds and babies.]

9) The difficulty you experience threatens to suck all of the joy out of [singing/having children]

10) You downright hate yourself every time you [don't get the part/aren't pregnant again.]

At the end of my thought process, I realized singing is really about giving.  So is bringing life into the world.  It's not about getting [the part or the fame/the kid].  And the strange thing is, despite that, I do get so much out of giving that part of myself.  To be a living part of music is one of my greatest joys in life.  I'm grateful for that joy and outlet.  I don't know where I'd be in all this mess if I didn't have it- despite the failures and shortcomings.  So with gratitude in my heart, I made my next entrance with an even bigger smile on my face.  (Though I can't promise to do the same during my next pelvic exam!)