Tuesday, August 10, 2010
Sunday was a dark morning for me.
I felt like I had been holding my breath for the past few days, afraid to breathe too hard or move too much. After a forty-day cycle, I could barely contain myself from taking a pregnancy test. But based on my detailed charting, I knew, realistically, that I needed to wait just four more days.
Earlier in the month, I thought my body hadn’t worked. But to my surprise, I discovered that I had ovulated a few days before my period was due. And even better, I was thrilled that everything had still been timed perfectly because I had never quite given up. I read up on the risks of ovulating so late, and the probability that my body wouldn’t make it long enough. I was a little nervous. But despite voicing some fears, I knew this was going to be it. I felt so sure of it and so happy, as did a handful of people who were rooting for me and doubtless themselves. Each day that passed put a smile on my face.
But my temperatures started to drop. Desperate, I clung to every hope: the borrowed thermometer wasn’t working right; or traveling to North Carolina and the time-zone difference was affecting the change; or that this must be the rumored implantation dip. But I should have known better. My temperatures always tell a story, and it never lies.
Early Sunday morning, my period came. Dan saw me exiting the bathroom and deciphered the look on my face. But I refused to cry this time. I’d already mourned this month and I was not going to address it this time. I didn’t say a word. Dan put his arm around me and held me in bed, while I felt that protective numbness creeping over me.
None of this really mattered. I’d been here before. No big deal. It will happen next time.
Next time… The words dug into me, thinking about the whole process all over again. The devastation edged its way in. I couldn’t sleep anymore. I sat in the living room, trying to read a spiritual book. I wasn’t quite taking in the words. Jen came out of her room to get Lana, who was crying from the nursery. I announced the news with little emotion in my voice. Her face fell and she sat beside me, disappointed because she, too, truly thought this was going to be it. We all did. Warm tears fell down my face and I voiced some of my frustration. But I reined it in.
A few minutes before we needed to leave for church, Dan sat beside me, where I was still sitting emotionless on the couch. “Baby, you can cry. It’s Ok.”
I frowned without looking at him. “No. I don’t want to.” He put his arms around me, and I scowled, pinching the tears. “No.”
But they escaped. The tears came crashing down and Dan held me, as he does every time, while I released my despair. But it was time to go to church. Abruptly I stood up, grabbed some tissue, and stalked out the front door. Dan followed close to my heels and when I reached the locked car doors, he pulled me close again. I hit his chest with my forearms, fighting against everything I was feeling. But at last, I errupted.
“I’m so mad!” My cries were loud. Desperate. Angry. And once I recognized it, the bitter words tumbled out of my mouth. I said things I shouldn’t have said. Blamed Someone I shouldn’t have blamed. I didn’t understand the purpose behind faith and hope. Useless and hurtful, I hated it all. Why did I put myself through this every time? Why did I hope so much when all it did was hurt so bad?
I felt like I had been holding my breath for the past few days, afraid to breathe too hard or move too much. After a forty-day cycle, I could barely contain myself from taking a pregnancy test. But based on my detailed charting, I knew, realistically, that I needed to wait just four more days.
Earlier in the month, I thought my body hadn’t worked. But to my surprise, I discovered that I had ovulated a few days before my period was due. And even better, I was thrilled that everything had still been timed perfectly because I had never quite given up. I read up on the risks of ovulating so late, and the probability that my body wouldn’t make it long enough. I was a little nervous. But despite voicing some fears, I knew this was going to be it. I felt so sure of it and so happy, as did a handful of people who were rooting for me and doubtless themselves. Each day that passed put a smile on my face.
But my temperatures started to drop. Desperate, I clung to every hope: the borrowed thermometer wasn’t working right; or traveling to North Carolina and the time-zone difference was affecting the change; or that this must be the rumored implantation dip. But I should have known better. My temperatures always tell a story, and it never lies.
Early Sunday morning, my period came. Dan saw me exiting the bathroom and deciphered the look on my face. But I refused to cry this time. I’d already mourned this month and I was not going to address it this time. I didn’t say a word. Dan put his arm around me and held me in bed, while I felt that protective numbness creeping over me.
None of this really mattered. I’d been here before. No big deal. It will happen next time.
Next time… The words dug into me, thinking about the whole process all over again. The devastation edged its way in. I couldn’t sleep anymore. I sat in the living room, trying to read a spiritual book. I wasn’t quite taking in the words. Jen came out of her room to get Lana, who was crying from the nursery. I announced the news with little emotion in my voice. Her face fell and she sat beside me, disappointed because she, too, truly thought this was going to be it. We all did. Warm tears fell down my face and I voiced some of my frustration. But I reined it in.
A few minutes before we needed to leave for church, Dan sat beside me, where I was still sitting emotionless on the couch. “Baby, you can cry. It’s Ok.”
I frowned without looking at him. “No. I don’t want to.” He put his arms around me, and I scowled, pinching the tears. “No.”
But they escaped. The tears came crashing down and Dan held me, as he does every time, while I released my despair. But it was time to go to church. Abruptly I stood up, grabbed some tissue, and stalked out the front door. Dan followed close to my heels and when I reached the locked car doors, he pulled me close again. I hit his chest with my forearms, fighting against everything I was feeling. But at last, I errupted.
“I’m so mad!” My cries were loud. Desperate. Angry. And once I recognized it, the bitter words tumbled out of my mouth. I said things I shouldn’t have said. Blamed Someone I shouldn’t have blamed. I didn’t understand the purpose behind faith and hope. Useless and hurtful, I hated it all. Why did I put myself through this every time? Why did I hope so much when all it did was hurt so bad?
"I can't keep doing this!" I was losing stamina. I hadn't felt this smothered by anger in a very long time. It was consuming me: faith, hope, and happiness. Dan had to feel just as disappointed. But he put his own feelings aside and concentrated on soothing me.
Make-up smeared and drying on my face, we still attended sacrament meeting with Jen, Rusty, and Kylana. Exhausted from my early rise and the emotional toll on my body, my eyes were heavy. But I quickly became aware of the topic of the day, which was their ward’s Young Men/ Young Women’s theme:
Be strong and of a good courage; be not afraid, neither be thou dismayed: for the Lord thy God is with thee whithersoever thou goest (Joshua 1:9)
I breathed more deeply, slowly. My heart softened and my soul felt repentant. I prayed as they passed the sacrament, and a calmness returned to me, relieving me of anger and despair. The hope I dared not feel anymore returned; and so did my smile.
Sunday was dark morning, but it brightened.
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