1 + 1 = 2 (usually)

(A forewarning, family and friends: this one is raw and hurting.)

When I was little, my parents did their best to raise me in a world that was black and white. Taking my older brother's Lego was wrong; sharing my snack with him was right. Griping to get a higher grade was wrong; admitting I'd gotten extra, unwarranted points on a test was right. Things were simple: one + one = two, and the world made some logical sense. And that was okay by me--because I usually did what was "right."

In the last nine months, though, I've been proven wrong.

See, I've done everything "right." I made sure I was eating healthy and got well back within my "optimal" weight range. I cut out caffeine, alcohol, and sushi (per my RE's instructions), once we'd finished our IUI. I prayed daily for my delight in the Lord as he would grant the desires of my heart. And I offered support and love to those pregnant and with newborns as they faced new chapters of their lives.

So, isn't that supposed to equal a baby?

I suppose that, in the way the world works, it doesn't. It equals tears and heartbreak and angst and pain. But that just doesn't seem FAIR to me--I like it when I know what I'm supposed to do, and an expected result appears. I don't understand why other women are granted their hearts' desires and I am not--over and over again. I don't want to be a role model of optimism and joy--I just want to be a mom. And it seems, well, unfair.

As it turns out, 1 + 1 doesn't always = 2. And good behavior + an honest heart's desire doesn't = a pregnancy. That still seems unfair tonight, and it still hurts. And as much as I continue to trust and know that our Father has a hope and a plan for our future, it doesn't cease my anger or heal my heart.

So, friends, that's where I am, in a very raw place tonight. I love to offer you optimism and hope, but that's in short supply at the moment. Instead, I offer you honesty and truth, and I await the Lord's guidance on where that leads me.

Spoiling All the Fun

The spring of my junior year at Davidson College, I constantly begged my parents for my mom's former car. I came up with a thousand arguments why I surely needed a vehicle in North Carolina, but none of them were convincing enough. Going into the summer, I continued my barrage and finally met with success: the Volvo and I could go to the Shakespeare Theatre of New Jersey for the summer acting apprenticeship program. Victory! However, I'll never forget what my father said to me, very quietly, the morning that he turned over the keys: "Tory, surprises are much more fun when the giver gets to joyfully surprise you." I didn't understand it at the time; I won the car, so what did the process matter? Today, though, despite not yet being a parent myself, I think I might finally understand my dad's words.

My mum sent me a note that arrived yesterday afternoon. It contained photocopies of two devotionals, one from Jesus Calling and one from Our Daily Bread. Both focused on the same set of verses from Psalm 37, and my mum was quick to remind me that Psalm 37:4 was my "birthday verse" the year I turned 25: "Take delight in the Lord, and He will give you the desires of your heart." It's a hard verse for me to trust right now, when things don't seem to be going our way for this first medicated cycle in which I'd put so much hope and promise of future joys. But the verse doesn't command me to "pray" to the Lord or to "beseech" the Lord--it simply asks me to "take delight" in Him. That's not easy, but I'm trying.

I then turned to the October 10 Jesus Calling devotional my mum sent, and I was struck by the following words:

"Trust Me enough to let things happen without striving to predict or control them.

Relax, and refresh yourself in the Light of My everlasting Love.... When you project yourself into the future, rehearsing what you will do or say, you are seeking to be self-sufficient: to be adequate without My help. This is a subtle sin--so common that it usually slips by unnoticed.

The alternative is to live fully in the present, depending on Me each moment."

I love to predict and control things, to try to find out the outcome before I'm supposed to know the ending, to project myself into the future and pre-write emails or pre-rehearse conversations. I'd never thought of those acts as sinful ones before, but they are. As I try to learn the results of this cycle before I'm supposed to, as I plan how I will share news--good or bad--with family and friends, I spoil the joy God takes in giving me a gift. When we are blessed with a family, it will be His gift to us and His alone, and it's not fair of me to try to cut corners by projecting myself into the future.

Like my earthly father, my heavenly One delights in the good gifts that He has in store for me. Just as my dad wanted nothing more than to surprise me with a car I didn't expect, I truly believe that God wants to surprise Jeff and me with the joy of a new life, in His perfect timing, in His perfect way. I have to cling to that promise, that He will give us the desires of our hearts, because the world is just too discouraging some days.

So, Lord, here's me, trying my best not to spoil all the fun. Trying to be patient, trying not to predict or control Your timing. Be patient with me; this isn't my strong suit, but I trust the joyful surprise you have in store for us.

Growth

After I got home today, I looked out our kitchen windows and noticed this bird's nest on the ground. Surprised that it hadn't already been taken hostage by our neighborhood boys and considering that Jeff would likely love to examine the nest more closely, I headed outside to pick it up and bring it onto our back deck. It was in a fragile state, so, as I tried to figure out how to cradle it gently in my hands, I noticed the tiny cracked eggshell inside and another one on the ground nearby. As carefully as I could, I put the second egg back into the nest, gingerly lifted the whole bundle, and brought it onto the deck.

A few moments later, back inside, I began to think of the poor mama bird whose chicks hadn't made it out of their shells. My thoughts drifted to the waiting period we're in right now. Was this a sign that our current cycle won't result in pregnancy? Was it going to bring me to tears as I focused on our own loss? I tentatively checked in with myself only to discover, with a substantial amount of relief and surprise, that I was just fine.

In fact, I was more than fine--I could even find joy in this potential moment of sadness. What a beautiful gift for me to discover--this delicately woven nest that I got to examine up close simply because its fall had been gentle enough to preserve both its structure and its contents.

How remarkable it is to observe the way God has grown and healed me and prepared my heart for the new life we pray will soon be in our future.

"I have learned, in whatever situation I am, to be content." (Phil. 4:11b)

As I sat in the waiting room of my RE's office* this morning, I was tempted to do several things. I wanted to indulge in the People magazine on the table next to me, to engage the other women in conversation about their journeys, to sip my coffee, to browse the web via my iPhone. In short, distractions were plentiful, and I was happy to be distracted, as I was awaiting a critical appointment that would determine if we were allowed to proceed with our fertility treatments today.

And then I realized that perhaps my attention needed to be on Someone rather than something. Out came the iPhone and up popped my Bible app (thanks to a good friend in small group who recommended it!). I thought for a moment, and then ran a quick search for an old faithful: Philippians 4. My desire was to find the "anxiety verse." ("Do not be anxious about anything, but in everything by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be made known to God." Phil. 4:6) However, by what can only be God's design, I managed to miss the first section of the chapter and landed in the next part, one titled "God's Provision." For those of you unfamiliar with those verses, in my limited understanding, Paul is thanking the Philippian church for their concern for him. He talks about how he has learned contentment in both "plenty and hunger, abundance and need." As I read Paul's words, I nodded and smiled; like Paul, I "know how to be brought low, and I know how to abound" (Phil. 4:12a). And then the nurse called me in.

Fast forward through bloodwork (it's amazing how much I don't mind needles anymore!) and getting ready for the morning's ultrasound. As I then sat on the table waiting for the doctor, I simply began to pray. I told the Lord how much I don't like praying for contentment in whatever situation I'm in, because it means giving up the firm grip I have on a desire for positive outcomes. I informed Him, in no uncertain terms, that I'd really love a clear ultrasound. I thanked Him for the amazing army of women (and a few stalwart men!) praying for me this morning. Finally, I just asked for contentment, in whatever situation I would be in, in whatever plan He has for me and Jeff. And then the doctor walked in.

My ultrasound was clear, and Jeff and I get to start our injections tonight! This is amazing, joyful news for us after the journey of the last nine months, after two surgeries, two diagnostic tests, innumerable vials of blood taken, five medicated attempts to get my cycle on track, and one failed Clomid** cycle. We have reason to rejoice! But, as I drove the winding back roads to school, I realized that I had only had one prayer to lift, one of thanksgiving for contentment in the situation we are in today. I don't know what tomorrow's plan will bring, but I do know my fervent prayer from here on out:

"In whatever situation I am in, teach my stubborn nature to be content."


* RE: Reproductive Endocrinologist, a fertility specialist who monitors and assists women in getting pregnant.
** Clomid: a drug often prescribed by OBs to help with ovulation in women displaying symptoms of PCOS or other disorders.

On being present.

As a child, I often heard a refrain in my house: "Presence with a c is far preferred." Of course, the "other" kind of presents were the ones I hoped to find stacked by the side of the fireplace Christmas morning, heaped on the green bench for birthday dinners, and tucked in a basket with green grass on Easter Sunday. But my mum and dad never failed to place the most important weight where it was most needed: on our physical presence within our family rather than on the presents so often lavished on children in the affluent suburbs where I grew up.

This fall, for perhaps the first time ever, I am truly able to grasp the enduring truth of my parents' oft-repeated mantra. As I re-entered the classroom last week and met all fifty-two of my students, I quickly realized that my full attention would be required--to learn new names, to engage in intricate discussions, to read countless summer reading essays. And so, even in the midst of all the topics competing for attention in my mind this fall--and perhaps because of all of them--I made a decision. Here is my commitment: I will remain 100% present in the place where I am.

In just a few days, my resolution has already taken several forms. As I drive to work in the morning, red lights are no longer a reason to check my texts; when my students are engaged in small group discussions, it's not a time to shoehorn in a quick work email. Likewise, when I have a free block, I'm not trying to bounce between grading, posting online, and checking email; if Jeff is home in time for us to cook dinner together, I'm doing my best to leave the computer screen closed.

Being fully present is a gift--to my students, my husband, my family, my friends, and--perhaps most importantly--to myself. It gives me permission to leave grading at school and make weeknight plans with girlfriends; it allows me freedom from anxiety and release from guilt. Instead of constantly feeling like I'm not doing enough, I am finally certain that I am doing the very best I can, for the people who I'm with, for the moments when I'm with them.

I honestly don't know what the coming weeks and months will bring. I know that my attention will be pulled in numerous directions as we start our medicated cycle, as we draw closer to the fall/winter holiday seasons, as the papers pile up and the students clamor for one-on-one meetings. And I know one more thing for sure: when Jeff and I are blessed to become the parents we so deeply desire to be, I will absolutely have to be fully present in one thing at a time.

I can only pray that this fall is the training we will need for an imminent future.

A new set of numbers?

It is so, so easy for me to define myself in the numbers I see on the scale each morning. I can tell you exact ones along my journey: 135 pounds the first time I started working with a nutritionist, 151.2 pounds when I began Jenny Craig; 118 pounds when I left for college, 110 pounds when I was diagnosed as anorexic; 121 pounds two days before my wedding, 118 pounds two days after; 130 pounds the morning of our D&C, 134 pounds the morning of my hysteroscopy. In a recent therapy appointment, when my (wonderful) therapist said "so, you said it was tough when you saw 133.6 on the scale," I grimaced immediately; she was wrong, as I'd said 132.4, and that's a very big difference.*

Other numbers seem insignificant to me. When my therapist asked about my BMI, I had to admit that it falls within the healthy range, but I shrugged it off; it's above the middle of that range, so I refuse to believe that it's worthy of any kind of praise. (Besides, what if it just continues to grow? That fear claws at me daily.) Clothing sizes also plague me; a 6 seems to define success, while an 8 is alright, but a 10 is failure. Who made these arbitrary definitions of success? And exactly what sort of success am I measuring?

Wearing a size 6 doesn't make me teach a more effective lesson on the complicated Fool of King Lear to my seniors, nor does it make me a better advisor to the ten girls I love so much. Being under 130 pounds doesn't make me better able to love or care for my husband, and it certainly doesn't make me a better daughter, sister, or friend. None of these numbers will make me a better mother--in fact, my obsession with them may just have a detrimental impact on a future child, particularly if a daughter picks up on my compulsive behaviors.

And so, this week, I was challenged not once but twice to think of numbers in a new light. First, a nurse during my pre-op hospital appointment took my bloodwork, looked at me, and said, "are you a runner?" I scoffed; not only do I hate running, but I hardly think I have the body anyone would believe is willing to wake at the crack of dawn to pound the pavement. She continued, "an athlete, then? Your blood pressure is excellent: 99/57." I shrugged again, prepared to shuttle the compliment into the back corner of my mind--until my surgery Thursday. I woke up in PACU (Post-Anesthesiology Care Unit), eyes blurry and abdomen sore. The nurse quickly came over and said, "We've been wondering--you're a runner?" Groggy still, I shook my head. "An athlete, then? Your resting heart rate was just 40-50 BPM--excellent." What? Again with the athlete? Again with the assumption that me--the person in this body--could be athletic? Strong? Healthy? Beautiful?

And so, as the "twilight" sedation slipped away and I returned, I began to think. What if the 134 pounds I weighed in at that morning at the hospital was okay? What if I stopped thinking my healthy/beautiful/successful range was under 130 pounds? What if I accepted that I am not every petite, 5'4" woman, that I have curves, that I can be who I am and still be healthy (I'll never think of myself as an athlete, I don't think), still be beautiful, still be sexy to my husband?

I won't lie--I haven't accepted it yet. And I'm not certain if or when I will. But even the glimmer of a possibility, even the hope of believing I'm beautiful today--instead of tomorrow when I starve myself, or the next day when I weigh 129.8, or next week when I'm a size 6--is enough right now.

What if I'm actually enough--right now? That's a heady thought.

* I'd like to add a cautionary note at the end of this post: I know just how much of a catalyst numbers can be for one struggling with any kind of weight issues, but particularly for those with eating disorders. I don't share the numbers in this post for any kind of comparison or competition but merely to express just what a prominent place they hold in my mind, just how clearly I can remember numbers from 3 or 10 or 16 years ago. Instead of wanting to exacerbate issues for those of you who read this blog and struggle with the same things, I want to help those of you who don't face these battles understand just how much they consume the lives of those of us who do.

An Army of Warriors

In past years, when something major was about to take place in my life, I usually called two people: my mom and one of my best friends, S. They're the two people I know who pray by buckling on the full suit of spiritual armor, and they have an army who they'll call out on my behalf. As a result, it's no surprise that both of them (and S's mom, and my mom's prayer buddies) will be praying for Jeff and me at 6AM tomorrow morning when we head to the hospital for my hysteroscopy.

But here's the cool thing: for the first time in many, many years, I, too, have amassed an army of prayer warriors who are coming out in full battle regalia tonight and into the morning. They range from the wives and mothers in my small group to single women at our church, from close friends who live far away to the incredible women in my online support group who have also experienced losses and the surgeries that can follow. For the first time in a long time, I'm going into this one with my "feet fitted with the readiness that comes from the Gospel of peace" (Ephesians 6:15).

And so, when I think of rising bright and early tomorrow morning, putting on my comfortable clothes and preparing to be poked with needles and put into "twilight sedation" while Jeff anxiously awaits updates, I have no fear. Swimming in my head aren't images of hospital gowns and cold operating tables; instead, I envision that awesome scene in Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers. 

Do you remember it? The battle's being waged at Helm's Deep, and things aren't looking good. The army of Rohan and the lone hero Aragorn are doing their best to resist the onslaught of Saruman, but it's not going well--not by a long shot. And then, all of a sudden, there's this bright light from the East pouring over the exhausted, hopeless armies: Gandalf has arrived with his train of reinforcements prepared to wage battle on behalf of their friends and allies.

Thanks for waging fearsome prayer battles on my behalf tomorrow, friends. I'm so blessed to be surrounded by such a fierce army.

UPDATE, 8pm: Surgery was swift, simple, and successful! The doctor is pleased with the outcome, there were no surprises, and Jeff, S, and M have spent the day ordering me back onto the sofa while they pamper me to ridiculously wonderful levels. Once again, I thank our God for you, sweet friends, who have been supporting me from near and far.