Lately I've had a lot of questions about our adoption process and how it's going. This seemed like an easier way of sharing that information. So, after the grueling process of creating our album and profile and getting all the needed items for the website, we began an official "active" profile. You can actually view it here. Feel free to share it as the more shares it gets the more likely we are to find a match. Once we officially become an "active" profile we enter into what Dr. Seuss might call "the waiting place." In his book "The Places You Will Go" the waiting place is described as a "most useless place." And I have to agree. This is the part of the process that we really have no control over except to keep adding entries about our family and try and get our profile shared as much as possible. Since we are specifically seeking a baby girl our wait time is going to be longer. The agency will not show our profile to any expectant mothers, only women who have given birth to a baby girl and have not made an adoption plan for their baby yet. The other way we might get a call is if there is a safe delivery that matches up with our profile and we are next on "the list." So, you can imagine, those situations are not super common which means that we wait. It's not a time without any work required on our part. Of course, there are the quarterly payments that we have to make simply to be a part of the agency's network. There are quarterly "continuing education" articles we have to read and offer a reflection on. And if we hit a year from when we had our homestudy and have not had a placement we must pay for and undergo a homestudy update. Yeah... so not only a boring waiting place... an expensive boring waiting place. And anyone who knows me knows that I am not good with waiting without purpose or something to do. This is a time that very distinctly reminds me that God is God and I am not. (good song you can hear here) So, this time is filled with a lot of waiting, praying, frustration and hope. It is filled with anger and second-guessing. "Why couldn't I get pregnant?" "Maybe we should re-think IVF. I know it's expensive and not guaranteed, but hey, at least we'd be DOING something... anything..." Yeah, poor David may have been subjected to that conversation the other night. Followed by tears from me and a request for stress ice cream. Oh, and I forgot to mention the delightful part of this time. With the quarterly updates about how many placements they've done, how many waiting families they have, and our quarterly homework, they also send out a number... A number that tells you how many times your profile has been shown to a birthmother. (Your profile is only shown if you and she match up on many different points in the profile). Our profile has been shown a grand total of....... . . . . ZERO times. David and I have incredibly different opinions on this. He would rather we don't receive that number. He doesn't see what good could possibly come of it. But me? I NEED that number. I need to see what has happened. I need to see that SOMETHING is happening. I don't know how I'll feel when that number is something other than zero, indicating we were not chosen, but for now, I need that number.
So, I guess the answer to the question: "How is the adoption coming along?" is simply: "We're waiting. We wait and we pray and we dream and we hope for the day that God finds us our baby girl. And that day will come. We just don't know when. But thank you for asking us. Thank you for caring enough to follow up. And thank you for not avoiding us because you don't know what to say. Things like "I'll keep you in my prayers" or "That's gotta be hard" or even just "Ok, I hope you hear something soon" help me remember that we do not wait alone but in a community of loving, supportive friends and family. We love you all!
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It's that time of year where mothers are lifted up as the paradigm of all that is good and right and well with the world. Where gifts of jewelry, candy, breakfast in bed, and lavish luxury are touted as the end all be all of honoring and loving the woman in your life who is a mother. It's bumbling dads trying to corral a herd of unwieldy, dirty faced children wearing mismatched clothes with filthy hands into the bedroom with runny eggs, half-dead flowers, and half a glass of orange juice. What they show awaiting the mom in the kitchen is an absolute mess that for some reason will obviously be her responsibility. (This awful, irresponsible portrayal of dads will be the subject of a future post). So, even though I'm supposed to be enjoying this time that is dedicated to elevating me in all my glorious mom-hood.... (And I do mean in ALL my glory and loveliness)... Yeah... See, glorious. So even though this day is lifting the total beauty that is me... This is a very difficult time of year for me. Still. I know. I have a beautiful four year old son. I am in the process of adoption again. We are a family. I am a mom. And yet, on mother's day I still get a twinge of pain in my heart. There is a sadness that shrouds the day for me even with all of my reasons to be joyful. Somewhere in my heart I still mourn for the child that I will never be able to conceive. That child is there... in my heart. There were hundreds of futures I planned which had that child in every scene. That child was real to me. When David and I made the decision that we would no longer seek to conceive, the loss that we experienced was very real even if that child was never more than a hazy, never quite in focus dream. Because that child of my heart lived a thousand lifetimes in my mind. I saw my pregnancy, David resting his head on my belly... the birth. I saw the diaper changes, the late nights, the features that were a mix of David and me. She had his eyes... he had my nose. The poor child had the thickest hair known to mankind. He and I went on our first mommy son date. David and her went to the father daughter dance. David, his dad, and our son had an annual date to see a Steelers game together. My mom, daughter and I sat down and looked through old pictures and laughed. She came down the stairs in her prom dress, ready for this iconic night of her life. We dropped him off at college and said goodbye. I went with her to pick out her wedding dress... David sat with him the night before his wedding and shared a Guinness and the secrets of a great marriage. I watched as she was walked down the aisle by her daddy... I held my grandbaby and told him how happy I was for them... That child was real, as real as any child that has been flesh and blood. And that child had more joy, more careers, booboos, successes and failures, than any one child could have. So, yes, I still mourn the loss of what could have been even while being grateful for all the gifts that God has given us. There is an important quote that helps me at these times. "Your loss is real and your ache is not crazy." I have needed to hear this from time to time as I grieve. There are times that people really struggle to understand how we could possibly grieve someone that never came into this world. Even after explaining it. Even after sharing something that can leave my emotions raw it can still be beyond people understanding. I need to know that I am not crazy if someone else cannot understand my grief. Which means that mothers day, while still being a joyful day, can still bring with it grief, shame, and anger. Grief for what can't be. Shame because I still, at times, feel like there is something wrong with me for being unable to conceive. Anger because it can be so easy for others, because we have to go through hours of education on being parents and adoption even though we've been and done both so that we might be able to adopt.
As I get ready for mothers day I find myself in a difficult situation. I get angry when I think about the gift of God given to women who had been in similar situations. Sarah, Elizabeth, Hannah, Rebekah, Rachel and others all struggled with infertility and God remembered them and provided them with children. It feels really awkward to be mad about God giving blessings to others. I want to know why God gave them that gift and not me. Preaching and leading worship on mothers day in the past has been a mixed event for me. Before Lucas I would be aware of the lump in my throat. The tears that burned at the back of my eyes and the way I would grip the pulpit a little more tightly. Even after Lucas, I still need to stop and clear my throat and blink back some tears, because of my own grief... because of the grief that I know weighs on people in the congregation. Eventually, I recognize that God provides and oftentimes ways that don't look at all like we thought they would. My comfort, then, comes to me through an atypical Scripture passage. Isaiah 43:2- "When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; and through the rivers, they shall not overwhelm you; when you walk through fire you shall not be burned, and the flame shall not consume you." Wherever I go, whatever grief I experience, whatever anger I feel, I know that I am not alone. My God goes with me, my amazing husband goes with me, my friends go beside me, and even though I may stumble, I'm still standing. For all my sisters who struggle this mothers day, know you are seen, know you are loved, and know that even if you feel broken, hurting, or angry, you are beautiful! Adoption is a huge journey. There is no way I could ever cover it in one single blog post. So, as I'm able, I'll be sharing posts and reflections about the places our path has taken us. I figure I have to start in the place where our journey started. And that for us was when the diagnoses were attached to me and I became what was wrong with me. We had tried for over a year to conceive. We had already known that it could be difficult for us to conceive. Just not how difficult. We got into see a highly recommended fertility doctor in Louisville and she was great. Got us in right away. Honestly, that was one of the least fun times I've ever had. That's when I learned about my additional diagnosis of PCOS (poly-cystic ovarian syndrome). If you'd like to read more about what it is I'd recommend this site: www.pcosaa.org/symptoms Those treatments were filled with mixed emotions. The top one was hope. Each cycle there were hopes and visions of what could be forming. But there was also shame. I felt like less of a woman because I had to have help with something that other women were able to do without thinking about it. There was shame because privacy becomes non-existent in this process, I mean it... super non-existent. You don't need all the details only that if you are seeking to maintain some semblance of mystery and dignity, fertility treatments are not for you. We sought IUI treatments. If you really want to know more about what that means check out this site: americanpregnancy.org/infertility/intrauterine-insemination/ Now, important to note here, infertility treatments are not covered by most insurances. Like at all. And on top of that, insurance is then like: So, we were paying out of pocket every time we went in for any part of these many... many visits to go through this. That was depressing enough. Then there were the delightful shots that I had to give myself. That was a lovely experience. Overall, it all made me the shame fall heavier on me because I felt that if I wasn't so "broken" that we wouldn't have to be going through this. And yes, "broken" is exactly the word that bounced around my brain over and over and over until it was all I could hear when we were in the doctor's office, at home, at work... it just stripped away all my self-esteem. When treatments didn't seem to be working and the most recent ultrasound showed that there were new cysts forming, the recommendation became that I should undergo surgery to remove the cysts and basically serve as an exploratory procedure. I ended up having to do this surgery twice, though, because the first surgeon looked around and literally didn't do anything. Our specialist and the next surgeon called it a "peek and freak." He didn't have any clue what to do and got out. So, the next surgeon actually did something. They used a machine called the DaVinci Robot to remove the cysts. In this procedure they also found new growths of endometriosis, more places where there were adhesion's from my surgery when I was 17, and significant damage in general. We were told that the surgeon did his absolute best to try and fix some of the adhesion's but that there was an increased risk if we were to conceive via my right ovary because of an increased chance of it being an ecotopic pregnancy. In other words, I walked away from that surgery in a lot of pain (as the doctor said "Myself and two doctors and a robot took you in an alley and beat you up) and even less hope than when we went into it. There were SO many fake smiles during this process. I really hate to say that but there really were. Some I saved for David because I felt so guilty for being the reason we had to go through all of this. (David was dedicated and loving and supportive through all of this - repeatedly affirming that he loves me and did not consider me "broken" or a problem.) Now, we didn't share the information widely that we were undergoing fertility treatments, but there were a few people that we did share with, and as well as they meant, it's not an easy thing to try and formulate a response to that is supportive and non-judgmental and non-hurtful. (Tiny target for people to hit). One of the responses that I still remember vividly that was so meaningful for me and yet absolutely heart wrenching was when one of the people I had confided in, after a particularly promising treatment, laid her hands over my womb and prayed for me, David, and what might be... As you know the treatment was not successful. And it was after that failed treatment that we made the decision to stop seeking treatment with the intention to eventually pursue adoption. We felt as though we could no longer justify the costs of infertility treatments when that money could be going towards an adoption, especially since IVF would be the next step and the concern of a difficult pregnancy if we did succeed. When that decision was made there was a lot of grief. This was it, this was what "giving up" felt like. This was saying goodbye to those photo albums in my head of what it would be like to be pregnant and give birth. This was closing the door to knowing what it would be like to feel a life growing in me, to feel the kicks, to get the ultrasound pictures. This was saying goodbye to the pregnancy that would never exist. This was grieving the child that had been carried in my mind. There were tears, there was anger, there was frustration. In my grief I struggled with my relationship with God. I felt as though I was being a poor example of faithfulness because I was giving up. I was angry because there are so many examples of women in Scripture who were infertile but conceived because they had been faithful. (i.e. Sarai/Sarah; Rachel; Hannah; Michal; Elizabeth). I screamed "have I not been faithful, Lord?" I felt betrayed by God. I felt betrayed by the body God had given me. Why was this not meant to be for me? Wouldn't I be a good mother? Wouldn't David be an amazing father? What had I done so wrong to deserve this...? It hurt. It took months of prayer and anger and sorrow to get to a healthier place. Here's the thing, though, a healthier place doesn't mean that the grief is gone. Friends, the grief is still here. One of the most overwhelming and frustrating parts of infertility is the difficulty people have understanding the grief that I had and still carry. It is almost an impossible task to explain what it is like to grieve something that never existed. I spent a lot of time, energy, tears and words trying to share with people exactly what I was feeling. How do you help people grasp the concept of mourning over something that didn't ever physically exist. This kind of grief is so painful because it is really hard to get closure on this kind of loss. It's the loss of everything the could have been. In that grief I mourned for the child that I would never have the chance to watch grow in my uterus. It was grief for losing the part of my identity that I had tied up with my ability to conceive and carry a child. The tears were for the fact that I won't have the chance to look down at a child and see David's eyes, my nose, and see what a little us would look like. It was sorrow for the photo album I had in my brain of the future and it became a future I would never have. The other part of this grief was tied up in embarrassment and feelings of being a terrible person. Whenever I would see a baby announcement on Facebook, or a friend would call with pregnancy news, or when new baby pictures were passed around, when I would baptize a baby, I would smile and in my heart, there was happiness for them, but at the same time I was angry and heartbroken. It tore the scab off of the wound that was still on my heart every time. I struggled mightily with this because I felt like an absolutely awful person for being jealous and angry because of someone else's good news. Particularly difficult for me were my friends who had been in touch with us because they knew we were working on the adoption process and wanted advice for how to begin because they'd been having difficulty conceiving, and then it seemed like weeks later they were sending me the news that they had conceived. I was beyond hurt but it is not something that is socially acceptable to express in that moment. Six and a half years ago we officially made the decision to no longer seek to conceive. Our beautiful boy Lucas came into our life four years ago. Two and a half years ago I was switched to 3 month birth control. I lost it when that change happened because it felt even more permanent and final. And it still causes an ache under my joy when loved ones share their pregnancy news. This grief is where our adoption journey truly started. By saying goodbye to what never was and what would never be. It's also where our journey continues because this grief comes on like waves. Sometimes it is low tide and it barely laps at my toes and it almost feels like letting go. Other times I feel as though I might not be able to catch a full breath because I am sinking under these waves that crash over my head repeatedly, my lungs hurt from holding my breath, and the tears stream down my face, and I just hold on as best I can until the water resides. My grief for what never was and never will be takes nothing away from my love for my son. To try and deny it would be more harmful. Therefore, I swim, I tread, I hold my breath, and I watch as the tide goes out again, knowing that there is grief but by the grace of God I have a much larger capacity for grace and love.
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AuthorI've been Robyn for my whole life. I've been a wife for 10 years and a mom for 5 years. I've been a pastor for about 10 years. I'm still stumbling, but I'm still standing. Archives
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