FINALLY! We received our referral from CRAN two days ago. Yesterday, we had our conference call with Raul to go over some procedural issues. We can now apply for our travel visas. Although we don’t have a confirmed date for our “presentation day, ” we do know that CRAN is still planning on the end of July. So now we just have to wait for that confirmation to book our plane tickets.

In the mean time, we bought a Toyota Sienna. Yep, that’s right, I am driving a minivan around (which I’m in love with, by the way) with no children in tow–kind of funny, actually. I keep thinking I should load the booster seats so that it at least looks like I have kids. Adam and I are also looking for a house so that I can spend the next few weeks getting it ready for the children. Although we would rather be in Colombia right now, we are grateful that we have the extra time to properly prepare for their homecoming.

A couple of days ago I was sitting in a rocking chair across from my mother-in-law, Debbi, discussing her recent surgery. My niece, Zoe, came over and snuggled in my lap as I chatted away. As I sat stroking her hair, engaged in a conversation across the room, my thoughts turned to my two little girls in Colombia. For the first time ever, I actually pictured myself snuggled up to one of them as their mother. A warm glow resonated in my bosom. It was a truly amazing feeling.

I have pictured traveling to Colombia, preparing the children’s bedrooms, even doing craft projects at the kitchen table when they are finally here. But I never allowed myself to picture the exchange of hugs, or kisses, or even tucking them in at bedtime. I could always picture what it would be like, but never picture how it would feel.

A friend recently assured me that having my girls crawl up into my lap and burrow themselves into a hug will be just as sweet as rocking a newborn….not the same, but something I would never want to trade. I am grateful for my friend’s ever intuitive wisdom. And I am thankful for small moments such as the one in the rocking chair. They sustain my hope as I patiently wait.

Spring of 2006 was tough fertility wise. One day I was considering adoption, the other discounting it completely. Although Adam and I had talked adoption before our marriage, it was a very different thing to expend the little strength I had in researching and contemplating what my family would be like if we went down that road. On the other hand, the fertility clinic seemed so far away from the experience I imagined that I vacillated on how committed I would be to the many poking and prodding sessions my body would undergo. Neither option seemed anything close to ideal. But expecting a magical bundle from Mr. Stork wasn’t happening. Besides, 80% of my anxiety for both options was calmed by gaining knowledge and experience with each. So in typical Rachel fashion, I rolled up my sleeves, dug in my heals, and went to work. Knowledge truly is power. Things seemed less and less scary as Adam and I researched, pondered, and prayed about our options. And as I gained knowledge I trusted my spirit more to make a decision because I knew the decision would be made in peace…not fear.

Adam and I attended a fertility seminar and went to a consult with a specialist. At the same time, we approached LDS Family Services about our adoption options. At first, I thought we would probably exhaust our options at the fertility clinic before “turning” to adoption, but after thinking about it for a couple of weeks, we decided that we would rather pay for an adoption than for fertility treatments. It was a very pragmatic decision for us at the outset. We figured our chances of getting our money’s worth–or rather a guarantee of a baby in our arms–was higher, even if it took a little longer, with adoption. I was fairly open to both options, and I was still trying naturally too. But we made the decision to start going to the monthly seminars that were required for adoption.

A couple of months into the seminars Adam came to me with something completely unexpected. I remember it like it was yesterday. We were driving on the 95 out to the sign yard. We had just finished our second or third seminar and we were talking about all of our baby options when Adam told me he wasn’t ready to consider adoption as a viable option–it didn’t feel right to him. I was a little shocked, but surprisingly relieved. He was not on-board 100% and there was no way I was going to push a life-changing decision such as adoption without both of us unconditionally committed to it. I guess the fact that I was relieved speaks volumes. We weren’t ready. Man, was this ever going to be “over?”

Toward the end of summer I was actually excited for school to begin. I had been exercising all summer, and felt stronger. I was in a really good place. Adam and I didn’t seem to be in a desperate hurry any longer to “find the answer,” and it felt good. Adoption was tabled for a bit, I hadn’t been pregnant for almost a year, and Doctor said he could do some more in-depth testing without sending me to the specialist. We were enjoying our time together and used this time to just think!

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Well, that lasted for a few months. It was good while it lasted! As soon as I resumed testing with Doctor, I felt myself start to wear down again. The invasive poking and prodding is exhausting, truly! It is especially exhausting when there is no pregnancy to show for it, and no answer as to why I lose my babies. We found a couple of “issues” that should make it more difficult for me to get pregnant, but not to necessarily carry a pregnancy to term! That was very frustrating, and I hadn’t been pregnant for 10 months–it would actually take me two full years to get pregnant again.

I was full of grace on the outside and I carried myself well in front of others–even my husband, but I was slowly dying inside. I’ll be honest–I didn’t answer my phone, I didn’t answer my door, and I didn’t care!!! I felt as though I was drowning, and catching my breath was utterly impossible.  

the winter here’s cold, and bitter
it’s chilled us to the bone
we haven’t seen the sun for weeks
to long too far from home
I feel just like I’m sinking
and I claw for solid ground
I’m pulled down by the undertow
I never thought I could feel so low
oh darkness I feel like letting go

if all of the strength and all of the courage
come and lift me from this place
I know I could love you much better than this
full of grace
full of grace
my love

so it’s better this way, I said
having seen this place before
where everything we said and did
hurts us all the more
its just that we stayed, too long
in the same old sickly skin
I’m pulled down by the undertow
I never thought I could feel so low
oh darkness I feel like letting go

if all of the strength
and all of the courage
come and lift me from this place
I know I could love you much better than this
full of grace
full of grace
my love
(Sara McLachlan, Surfacing)

If I had a quarter for every time I played this song…but this powerful music is actually one of the tools I used to pull myself up. I still listen to it today with fond memories of fall 2006. What better words than these to describe the desperation I felt. And I know I am not alone. At the time, I thought I was, but a few friends have taught me through their infertility experiences that what I felt, and what I still feel on rare occasion is totally and completely normal. They think I’m the only one that does the teaching, but they are wrong. I can look back through clear eyes now because of their sharing now. Thank you, friends!

2006 encompassed desperation and hope in our home. In January, I went to Doctor to discuss some test results and options. I was very hopeful. Don’t ask me why, but I was. I felt stronger after the holidays. I had some much needed time off of work to reflect and rejuvenate. I was trying really hard to not only “be positive” but also to interact with babies and act more faithful. To my complete and utter surprise, my most recent batch of blood work indicated a pregnancy.  I had actually taken a home pregnancy test during the holidays, but it was negative. I figured my body was still recuperating from the ectopic the past fall. But Doctor said I must have tested too early. The bad news was that my quants were too low for how far along I was. The tiny moment of hope that a new pregnancy always brings was eclipsed by the inevitable loss.

Miscarriage number three–Check! I guess if I had to rate the immediate difficulty of my pregnancy losses, this one comes in last. I was losing the baby before I knew there was one. And the recovery was fairly quick. I consciously decided to stay strong. The doctors were talking about options so I moved through it without any mourning, which I regretted later. In that moment, though, I felt a sudden urgency to “fix” this problem–because now, after three miscarriages in a row, it was definitely a problem. I was convinced that since I could apparently get pregnant with little difficulty the Clomid that Doctor was recommending would help even my cycle out and we would be on our way to parenthood within a few months. I even went so far as to paint our “nursery” over the holidays. I chose a sweet and airy shade of green. We put the few baby items we had out on the shelves. Looking back, it was my way of embracing the experience of fertility and trying to live faithfully. Although I never actually pictured myself with a newborn, I was always able to picture myself as a mom. That gave me strength. I rarely entered the nursery, but I knew it was there “just in case.”

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Clomid, clomid, clomid–the cure-all for any fertility ailment, right? Whatever! Doctor said he wouldn’t make me go more than five cycles. For me, the side effects of Clomid were almost as bad as passing a miscarriage. I was soooooo tired–exhausted actually. Instead of being sleepy in the morning because I was sad, I was sleepy because of a pill. I was a tightly wound ball of tears–poor Adam, he never knew if, how, or why I was crying. The cramping and nausea were incredibly intense–the worse I had ever experienced because it was non-stop for the entire cycle. But every ounce of discomfort and emotion was worth the hope of a growing fetus!

Five cycles (months) of clomid equalled no pregnancy…not even a hint of a baby! By our third round I began to worry. By our fourth I was desperate. And by our fifth and final round I was ready to give up and move on. Well, I was also hysterical. I was not ready to visit an adoption agency and I also was not ready to commit my time, money, and body to a fertility clinic. Even though, in my heart, I knew we would be choosing one of these paths, I wanted desperately to hide in my bedroom, twinkle my nose, and will our child here. I was trying my best to learn and grow, but the experience was still very raw. After all, it had only been two years of disappointment.

Part 1……..Part 2

After our second miscarriage (ectopic), I really struggled. I was in survival mode at school….my poor students. I was an adequate teacher and did my job. I met deadlines and followed lesson plans, but I was not the fantastic teacher I had been in years past. Having to traipse to work surrounded by children who had horrific home-lives compounded my sadness. I cried every single morning. I cried every single night. And every single day I slept until the last possible minute. I constantly begged Adam to let me quit. And this went on for months. My sweet beautiful husband was more patient than any spouse should ever have to be. He indulged my laziness and he never suggested that I was crazy. We both knew that things weren’t normal…but how is infertility normal? There were many times Adam considered suggesting that I ”get help,” but he never pressured me. He was wise enough to trust that I would find a way to work through my sadness. As the doctors began to run some basic tests, I began to experience anger and bitterness!

I was so very (secretly) angry. I was angry because everyone around me seemed to keep their babies in their bellies, and I couldn’t. Hello! What was wrong with this world? I hated free agency and I hated myself for continuing to lose life. I would like to say that I kept faith, that I was strong and steadfast. Maybe I’m being a little too hard on myself, but I really did feel faithless. I didn’t pray much. My scriptures gathered dust. I avoided friends’ children as much as I could without drawing suspicion.

The Epiphany: 

Toward the end of 2005 we actively start trying for the third time. I still hated my job, I hated church, I hated interacting with our families. I don’t remember what I was doing ‘that day’–probably coming home from work or the temple–but I remember having the thought…”this is your trial, stop feeling sorry for yourself!” Oh my gosh, an instant switch was flipped. I had never thought about it in those terms before. What seems so elementary to me now was a completely foreign concept back then. I mean, it had crossed my mind that we were running a string of bad luck and I needed to be more faithful. I figured it was just a matter of patience. But no, I had the distinct impression that this was to be my cross (at least one of them anyway) and it wasn’t going away any time soon. I sat in my car by myself and I cried and cried and cried. I cried for the babies I had lost. I cried for the babies I would continue to lose. I cried for the babies I might never have. I cried for the self-serving pity I had shown myself for so long. And I continued to cry.

Why did I keep crying? Because I was mature enough to know that ‘when you know better, you do better.’ Let’s be honest, I did not WANT to do better. I wanted to stay selfish. I now “knew” and God knew that I knew. And there was the rub! I wanted the world to revolve around me so badly. I wanted a baby. I wanted to be a mom. I wanted to be included. I wanted to feel competent in this part of my life. I wanted to…..(fill in the blank). Me, me, me! Life might not be as fulfilling when you blame your hurt on everyone else, but it sure is easier, isn’t it? Instead of reasoning and working my way through my problems, I wanted to stay in my emotions and feel angry, hurt, and betrayed. Feeling doesn’t require any work, which is why the long-term payoff is so much less than what we are capable of. I was reminded as time was suspended for a moment that me not having a baby did not mean I had to be less than. And, in that moment, I refused to be less than!

The false sense of entitlement that we are all plagued with in today’s society truly hampers our spiritual awareness. I am a really good wife, sister, daughter and friend. I kept my first estate. I honor my temple covenants. And I do what is asked of me. But even after all that–I am not entitled to a baby! I “should” have one, I even “deserve” one. But I am not entitled to one until God says so. And the hard truth is that I might not have a baby in this life.

I made a decision in that small moment of clarity…if this was my trial, I would not waste the time spent in the thick of it in pity and bitterness. I set out clearly in my mind what I did and did not want to have happen. I did not want to play the victim card. I did not want to be seen in pity. I did not want to waste my child-rearing years paralyzed in fear. And above all, I did not want the Savior’s sacrifice on my behalf to be in vain.

I asked myself what did I want? I wanted to honor the babies I lost. I wanted to be a mom no matter how I got there. I wanted Heavenly Father to be proud of me. I wanted to stop crying and stop eating ice cream. I wanted my trial to mean something…and that meant forcing myself into introspection and into real-life action. I wanted mostly to walk with grace.

I feel like I’ve been given a profound opportunity with this trial of infertility. Not all trials are this enduring. Not all trials are hand-picked by the Lord. This trial did notcome from poor choices on my part or from a consequence of someone else’s actions. This trial was given to me! Although I sometimes loathe the thought of talking about it one more time or passing one more pregnancy, I have been given this trial for a reason. I really am grateful for that. I am not grateful that I do not have an infant in my arms–but I am grateful that I have gone through, and not around, the experience.

I am still working on perfecting my lists! My friends know that I have occasional relapses. I have selfish moments still, but as I have worked on walking straight through this trial for a few years now, those moments are fewer and farther between. I still want the world to revolve around me, but it doesn’t and it never will. This trial is nobody’s fault–least of all mine. When God says it is done, I want to be richer for the experience. And, we all know that even when it is done–it’s not really. This experience helps define me and will stay with me into the eternities…that is why I try to use reason instead of emotion to walk through this fire. It is arduous and refining. It is never-ending and always enduring. It is harrowing and rewarding. It is simply, and always, a part of me.

I, like many adoptive parents, have been asked if I think I will love my children the same as I would a biological child. I recently came to the conclusion that my initially reactive answer ”Of Course, I Will” does not honor my role as mother, biological or adoptive. My new, more methodical answer “Of Course Not!” reflects the true feelings of my heart. How could I love a child that I created, protected and birthed the same as a child I searched out, agonized over and paid thousands of dollars for? My biological and adoptive journeys only mirror each other in one way–and that is that they both could potentially lead to motherhood. That is the only similarity.

But what I think people are really asking is “will I love them as much?” I would be a big fat liar to say that I never thought this might be an issue in the beginning. In fact, Adam and I agonized over this very topic when discussing what race, ethnicity, and disability level we might consider. And anyone who reads this blog knows that I desperately want to create a successful life with my husband, regardless of our adoption. To this second question I answer unequivocally, “Yes, I will love them as much!” Too many tiny moments of mercy have occurred for me to think otherwise.

I KNOW this specific adoption is meant for Adam and I. There is no doubt. And if this adoption is heaven-sent, how could I love these children any less? My children are just as much a gift from God as if he swaddled them in my womb. Although I crave to create life, I am blessed to understand that love is not born in the creation of a relationship. Love is born in the maturation of it.

 —————————————————————————————————

I struggled writing this post more than any other so far. I wanted to get my thoughts down perfectly before publishing so it’s been sitting in my inbox for a week now. While driving today I had one of my favorite adoption songs playing. As I was singing, a flood of warmth filled my body and it hit me that the song is EXACTLY echoed what I was trying to put into my own words. So here are the lyrics to Do You Love Me as Your Own (between child and mother):

I am not flesh of your flesh. I am not bone of your bone.

One question burns in my heart, something I have never known.

I’ve been so afraid to ask you, but my need to know has grown.

Do you love me as your own?

A mother carries her baby warm inside of her.

She feels the motion, she knows he’s growing, her heart is stirred.

And they bond together for now and ever.

She’d give her life for him, that’s the way God planned it. 

I understand it, and that’s how love begins.

But I’m not flesh of your flesh, I’m not bone of your bone.

One question burns in my heart, something I have never known.

I’ve been so afraid to ask you, but my need to know has grown.

Do you love me as your own?

A woman longs for a baby warm inside of her.

She hopes and hungers, and often wonders if prayers are heard.

And a new door opens when she learns someone will give her child to them.

Then her heart goes crazy for this sweet baby, and that’s how love begins.

You are not flesh of my flesh. You are not bone of my bone.

But you are heart of my heart…something I have always known.

Every heart beat bears a witness, every act of love has shown.

Yes, I love you as my own. Yes, my child, you are my own!

—-From “Do you Have a Little Love to Give?”–adoption inspired (Janice Kapp Perry) 

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I am not a mami yet, but I love my brown-haired, brown-eyed Colombian munchkins, as if they were my own. My heart sings when I get news. My heart aches when I don’t. And I would give my life for them to have a better one! That tells me that I love them as much and more…

(I just blog lifted the title from a dear friend.)

We said that when we had news, you would have news. I’m not sure if this is even newsworthy, but here is the latest: it looks like Adam and I will be graced with the dreaded Las Vegas summer heat for a couple more months, well at least six weeks of it. We heard from our caseworker and there have been a couple of changes to the approval process in Colombia, at least with regard to the particular institution our children are currently housed in.

Commonwealth’s in-country representative said that they (meaning the government approving committee) hope our referral letter will be sent in two weeks….so we are planning on three!!! Our travel date will be two to four weeks after we receive the letter. Adam and I both “plan” on leaving for Bogota in six weeks or so. I’m sure that will change for better or worse, but at least we know what the hold up is with our letter. That makes all the difference for us!!!

Adam and I found out we were pregnant for the second time the end of July 2005. This was great news! We were successfully able to conceive not too long after our first miscarriage in March. I was a little frightened every time I used the restroom. Doctor wanted to do an early ultrasound and found nothing, but said it was so early not to be alarmed because my quants were good. As we moved into our sixth week I even began to believe that the first one was “just a fluke”–like so many are.

We were preparing to board a plane to visit Amy and Steffan (a last hoorah before another year of teaching commenced) when I got a phone call from my doctor’s nurse. She said the last blood draw didn’t look super good, but not to worry yet. They wanted us to do an out-of-town draw. Blasted Infertility! We had a fabulous visit with our friends, but my internal thoughts were utterly consumed by my bathroom visits. Amy even asked, “are they really that concerned that it will happen again?” I couldn’t blame her for the question–especially then. She had a miscarriage and then successfully carried Mya to term. That was her experience. And, for most, that is their exact experience. It was not to be mine though.

Ironically, I started spotting and cramping the night before returning home. By the time Adam and I got to the airport, I knew something was terribly wrong. My insides were ripping apart. I remember laying on the floor at the airport unable to move because the pain was so horrific. (Adam did get us into better seats with lots of room because of it.) This time didn’t quite feel like the first. Although I was further along by a week, it should not have hurt so badly. The next morning I saw Doctor and he still couldn’t see anything on the ultrasound and my quant levels had dropped, hanging around 150. So off for another blood draw to confirm the possibility of an ectopic (tubal) pregnancy! I had all the tell-tale signs: spotting, but not bleeding, persistently low quant levels, pain on one side, and no image on the ultrasound. And get this–I started back to work, Adam left for China, and my doctors both left for vacation all within a few days of this news. Yeah, this was a winner of a miscarriage! And it gets worse…

The “fill-in” doctor was dry, rude, and obnoxious to say the least. As I was taking in the news and the options, Doctor “fill-in” told me that I needed to take things more seriously. He said that I was going to DIE if I didn’t get my priorities straight. Are you kidding me? Was he really saying this to me? I just found out that my second baby wasn’t dead–just stuck in my right fallopian tube–and if I didn’t decide to kill it, it would eventually kill me. WHAT?!?! Was this actually happening to me? After a day or so of mulling the options we decided on the least invasive procedure possible. I was barely in my seventh week and had the “luxury” of a little time meaning emergency surgery wasn’t needed just yet. I was a good candidate for Methotrexate. All I had to do was walk into the clinic, get stuck in the butt with a big fat chemo needle, and terminate the pregnancy!!! That’s all.

Luckily, the shot worked and I did not have to have a tube tied or removed. I’ve always said the second miscarriage is the hardest. Like I’ve shared with a few friends, it brought me to “that moment” where I was confronted with the thought that the first miscarriage wasn’t a fluke, that it wasn’t part of the average 25% of known failed pregnancies. I was bombarded with the what ifs all at once. What if it happened again? What if I would never be able to carry a fetus full term? What if I really was broken? 

For those wondering if we are on our way to Colombia–we are not….yet! The official referral that was promised has still not arrived. We are not concerned whether or not we will go–it is more a question of when. Hopefully, we will be there within the month. Regardless, we continue to prepare. I bought Juan Pablo some monkey pajamas, which are completely adorable. As soon as “the letter” is in hand and a flight is arranged we will let everyone know. For now, we are hanging out with family and friends in Las Vegas as we await our travel plans!

Am I frustrated? Of course.

Am I sad? A little.

Am I afraid? Not at all!

I’m mostly just WAITING…

(part one) 

It is truly rewarding that so many people see my story–my handling of infertility– as graceful and inspirational. After all, it was my goal from the beginning to walk with grace no matter how painful the experience. But in having that mindset I think I have neglected sharing the really dark days…the days that brought me to where I am. After recently pondering previous blog posts and rehashing the ‘early days’ with my husband, I think it is time to share the ugly side of my fertility journey. I have a ’secret blog’ where I write things I am not yet ready to share with the world. This series of posts was intended for that site, but I think its purpose is better served here. There are many who want to know. And there are many more who need to know. So dear readers, allow me a little indulgence as I recount the darker side of the past four years.

It took Adam and I seven months to become pregnant (March 2005). We lost our first baby the beginning of April. Adam was out of town and I was staying at his parents’ house. What a blessing! Debbi, Adam’s mom, took me to the hospital and a couple of days later our fears were confirmed. It was painful. It was agonizing. It was hell. My first baby’s death stole a little piece of my heart. By the time I realized I was losing the baby, it was too late to see him or her on the ultrasound because I was already passing the pregnancy. Oh how I wish I could have seen that first little sac…there was no reason to have an early ultrasound as this was my first pregnancy. We lost baby number one at six weeks. And I kept the stupid pregnancy test for three years!!! I couldn’t throw it away. By throwing the stick away–I was throwing the only tangible evidence of my baby away. I would pull it out and stare at it, and cry for hours. I stopped exercising and started eating.

After two months of crying in secret, I mustered up the courage to try again. There was no time to waste in my mind as we wanted a big family, and I was 28. Although I was scared to try again I had that oh-so-hated-by-infertiles thought “well, at least I can get pregnant!” What a newbie I was! My friend Valerie found out she was expecting, which spurred me to action. I knew it was going to be hard enough when her son, Carter, was born..he would be one month younger than our first, but I thought if I was pregnant it would make it a little easier to forget about due date number one. Oh, how wrong I was!!!