A silent loss...

I have struggled as to whether or not I should share this in such a public forum, but I have decided that perhaps it may touch someone, somewhere, at some time. Some of you may know that Jeff and I have been trying to have a child since we've been married (almost two years). I was lucky enough to conceive last year, but lost the baby after only 9 short weeks. It was a devastating loss...one I continue to experience. You see, the inability to conceive is a loss I experience every month. Infertility is a silent loss. It is the loss of something intangible and inconceivable to most people, but something that is very real to you. It is the loss of dreams. It is the loss of hope. It is the loss of a child...even if that child has yet to be born. I wish words were adequate enough to describe this type of loss. Many people know how to comfort someone after a death, but most have no idea what to do or say to a woman who is unable to bear a child. Jeff has struggled to understand this kind of loss as well. He has been blessed with four beautiful children. While he is still disappointed and saddened by our loss and very much desires to have a child with me, he is still unable to understand the hole I have in my heart and the pain it brings with each menstrual cycle. The only thought that has brought his heart close to the pain I feel is the thought of losing one of his children. It is a loss that puts a seemingly permanent hole in your heart that, if left uncontrolled, can have the potential to grow so much that it erases all the good things in your life. I have had moments when it seems that the hole has swallowed every joy and blessing I have experienced. Each month I struggle to maintain faith, hope and optimism.

Today I discovered that the second IUI (inter-uterine insemination) procedure was unsuccessful. I couldn't control the tears or manage the intense heartache. I desperately tried to put a smile on for the boys' sake, but all I wanted to do was to find a dark place, curl up in the fetal position, and cry. I don't know how much more loss my heart can handle. I don't know how much more pain I can endure. Yet, somehow I find the strength to move on. I know that strength comes in many different forms. Jeff gives me strength. He seems to have the ability to transfer his strength with a simple, long hug. He reminds me of the good things and quietly listens as I cry in frustration. My family gives me strength. Even though many of them are far from me, their heartfelt texts and endless prayers provide peace and comfort even when they are not here to physically do so. But more than anything, my faith in my Father in Heaven and my Savior Jesus Christ gives me strength. I know I have a loving Father in Heaven and Elder Brother Jesus Christ who are looking after me. I know they have a plan for me. I may not know what that plan is, but I know a loving, caring Father would not allow me to endure a plan of pain and heartache. It often seems during these moments that I have more questions and confusion than answers, but I know I am becoming a better person as I endure this trial. I feel I have developed an inner strength and resolve that I haven't had before. I feel I have been more cautious with my words to others and more compassionate. I have learned to live in the present and not dwell on the future. I have learned to look outside myself. The more I look to the needs of others, the less important my needs become. I am not perfect in my pain; yet, because of my pain, I am finding a strength I have never known. Perhaps in my loss, I can find increase. Perhaps in my pain, I can find solace. Perhaps in my despair, I can know God. I can't say I have arrived at the point of being grateful for this trial in my life, but I can see the positive that is coming from it. Sometimes it takes my heart a bit longer to realize what my head already knows, but I'm getting there. I still hope to have a child with Jeff. It is something we both desire and pray for, but if not, I know (even though it is hard to feel it right now) I will be ok.

Doves have always represented peace and tranquility to me. Perhaps one of these doves represents the child I lost and the other will be the child I can one day hold.