Kate and I have been discussing infertility a lot lately. Shocker, I know...  Of course we would be, right? It is something that is at the forefront of both of our minds right now--as we each struggle to conceive a child of our own. It is so comforting to talk to someone who's done the same research, gotten similar information from doctors, and basically just understands the ins and outs of infertility more than the average person.

In addition to information sharing, story-swapping, and sanity-checking, we've also discussed "reasons" why we think we might be going through this struggle. I think, as humans, we always try to make sense of things like this. Maybe there is no real reason, I don't know, but I guess I'm not really willing to believe that (at this point in my life, anyway). I need to believe there's more to it than that. I need to feel like I was chosen to endure this for some sort of reason--not because I'm being punished, or merely because I'm the "lucky" random person who got picked out of the hat.

Today, Kate brought a post written on a message board by another infertile to my attention:

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"What God meant when he gave me infertility..

Couples experiencing infertility often receive well-meaning but extremely insensitive advice. We can list all the most popular ones: Just relax and you'll get pregnant, or adopt and you'll get pregnant, of the most painful from those who think they've got the goods on God's plan; maybe God never meant for you to have children. The sheer audacity of making a statement like that never fails to amaze me.

These same people would never walk up to someone seeking treatment for cancer and say "Maybe God never meant for you to live." However, because I am infertile, I'm supposed to get on with my life? It's hard to understand that people cannot see infertility for what it is; a disease for which I have to seek treatment. What if Jonas Salk had said to the parents of polio victims, "Maybe God meant for thousands of our children to be cripples, live in an iron lung, or die." What if he'd never tried to find a cure? Who could think for one minute that was God's plan?

What do I think God meant when he gave me infertility?

I think he meant for my husband and I to grow closer, become stronger, love deeper. I think God meant for us to find the fortitude within ourselves to get up every time infertility knocks us down. I think God meant for our medical community to discover medicines, invent medical equipment, create procedures and protocols. I think God meant for us to find a cure for infertility.

No, God never meant for me not to have children. That's not my destiny; that's just a fork in the road I'm on. I've been placed on the road less traveled. I've gained more compassion, deeper courage, greater inner strength on this journey to resolution and I haven't let him down.

Frankly, if the truth be known, I think God has singled me out for a special treatment. I think God meant for me to build a thirst for a child so strong and so deep that when that baby is finally placed in my arms, it will be the longest, coolest, most refreshing drink I've ever known.

While I would never have chosen infertility, I cannot deny that a fertile woman could never know the joy that awaits me. Yes, one way or another, I will have a baby of my own. And the next time someone wants to offer me unsolicited advice; I'll say "Don't tell me what God meant when he handed me infertility. I already know."

Take hold, ladies, that God has a greater plan for us as women and as mothers. We are in for the longest, coolest, most refreshing drink we've ever known! Take hold ladies...God will not forsake us!"

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Besides this woman's thoughts being, well, extremely relatable to someone like me, I also want to believe that the "singling out" she mentioned is true. I want to believe that I was chosen to go through this because, perhaps, I'm unafraid (not always, though, I must admit!) to share this experience with others. Kate and I have both discussed these yearnings (for meaning) and agree that along with this struggle comes a responsibility: to help remove the "stigma" and/or misconceptions that accompany this "disease," to educate people, to help people learn to be more empathetic and understanding to those who suffer. 

If we can help just one other person feel less "abnormal" or "broken"--that alone will be enough to have made this all worth it. Like the woman above said, I never would've chosen infertility. Not by a longshot. It often doesn't seem fair that it took us so long to get pregnant with our first child, then, once we did, to lose that child. It doesn't seem fair that the miscarriage was so long, drawn out, and painful. It doesn't seem fair that it's taken nearly a year to even return to the point where we can begin to start trying for a child again. It is a long, slow, and heart-breakingly excrutiating process.

That's why there has to be more to it. I refuse to accept that there is no reason.

-Em