First let me say that I admire any woman who can be pregnant and still keep the normalcies of life going. The exhaustion I feel as an expectant mother rivals the exhaustion I felt when I had mono. There have been days that I dragged myself home from work and Read found me sprawled on the bed, still in my scrubs, snoring. After a two hour nap, I was able to pull myself together, eat dinner, and drag myself back to bed by 9:30. I’m also flabbergasted that my endurance is so low at work and that it takes me longer to do things. I used to be able to get so much accomplished in the few minutes I had between patients. Now I feel lucky if I can go to bathroom and get a drink before it’s time to move on to the next appointment.

In spite of the changes going on in my body and the added challenges of trying to reach around an expanding middle to gain access to the mouths awaiting my attention, I still enjoy my job and the interactions I have with my patients. I’ve attempted to record some of the highlights of the conversations, advice, admonishments, and predictions I’ve received in the last few months. Only the names have been changed to protect the guilty.

The first time someone asked me about my expectant condition, I was shocked because nothing was showing and we were not making any announcements yet. It came from a rather gruff male patient who was very nice, but always struck me as someone who would rather just get down to business than talk about anything personal. Our conversation went something like this:

Me: How are you doing today?

Patient: *staring intently at me* Can I ask you a question?

Me: Of course!

Patient: Are you… *gesturing in a round motion around his belly to indicate pregnancy*?

Me: *shocked* Yes, but how did you know? (I was looking down furiously to see if something was exposed that shouldn’t have been.)

Patient: *with a smile and a twinkle in his eye* You’re glowing and you just had that look. I’m real happy for you. You’re gonna make a great mom.

This interaction touched my heart, and, after I got over my initial shock and semi-embarrassment made my day.

Other interactions with patients have been more comical as I started to show, but it wasn’t very obvious yet. When I went to the waiting room to bring my patient back, I would notice them giving my round middle a good once-over. Most of the time I took pity on them and shared our news. This usually brought on congratulations, excitement, and sometimes a few well-intentioned suggestions or pieces of advice.

One person asked me if we would be having a home birth. I told her, no, that this baby would be born in a hospital. Her response made me chuckle; she said, “Oh, well you were homeschooled, so I just assumed you would be doing a home birth.” That poor patient would probably be dreadfully disappointed to find out that I don’t have time to grind my own wheat and make my own bread either. Some grown up homeschooler I turned out to be.

Another day, I seated a patient, and she scrutinized my expanding middle. “Wow!” she suddenly exclaimed, “How much longer do you have to go? You’re huge! Are you going to make it?” Uh, sure…? The very next patient walked in, sat in the patient chair, and pronounced, “I thought you were pregnant! You’re not showing a bit. Where’s the baby?!?” Obviously, pregnancy is in the eye of the beholder. For instance, when I blamed a blunder on pregnancy brain, another patient looked at me skeptically and said, “Oh, are you pregnant? I just thought you’d gained a lot of weight.” When I got home and told Read about the interaction, he informed me with a big smile and a twinkle in his eye that I could have told my patient that actually both were true.

Perhaps the aforementioned patient should have taken a page out of another patient’s play book that is surely entitled “How to Safely Interact with a Possibly Expectant Female.” This good-natured patient that has been seeing me for many years knew just what to say. When he saw me as I came out to the waiting area to get him, he glanced at my belly, grinned, and said, “Why, Betsy, you’re looking a little different than the last time I saw you. Have you done something different with your hair?”

In another patient encounter, I realized the woman was telling me goodbye like she would never see me again. I finally said, “I’ll be back in January. I’ll see you when you come back in six months.” She shook her head sadly and told me that she just knew I would take one look at that precious baby and not come back to work ever again. I tend to take a much more practical view of the situation: If I have to go back to work one day a week, it will force me to shower and get dressed at least once-a-week and smell like something other than baby puke. Don’t get me wrong, I can hardly wait to take care of this baby and get to “perfect” my mom skills, and being a mother is definitely my first priority, but an occasional break will be fine for both baby and me.

It’s been a huge encouragement to me to receive all of the well-wishes and reassurances from patients and coworkers alike. It will be interesting to see how things go at work as the pregnancy progresses and I eventually start to waddle. If you’re reading this, and you’re a patient in my chair anytime in the next six weeks, please know that I feel so good, I forget sometimes that I have an expanding belly; if I bump you in the head with it, or I’m sitting so close that Austin gives you a nudge with one of his appendages, just know you are appreciated and have made it into the inner circle. And If I’m a couple of minutes late getting you seated in the chair, it probably means I was either running to the bathroom or grabbing a snack so that it would be a more pleasant appointment for you.  You’re welcome.

Choosing a name for your child is so exciting and a huge responsibility. There are so many things to consider: family traditions and names that are expected to be passed on, name meanings, how the first and middle name will sound with the last name, will their initials spell something obscene. It’s a big deal.

Being the medical professionals that we are, Read and I decided to narrow the list of names we liked using a scientific method. One night I was lying in bed with the baby doing his usual nightly acrobatics; I turned to Read and told him I felt kind of funny referring to our little bundle of joy as “the baby” or “this kid.” (As a side note, the baby did have other nicknames. Among them were “Little Mr. Wall” and my dad’s nickname for him “Little Richard Dallas”—in honor of the baby’s two grandfathers.)

Read and I had agreed that we would give him the middle name “Read” and had picked out five or six first names that we liked that went well with Read. My husband, being the doctor and man of science that he is, pulled out the list and suggested we let the baby choose his name. Read said he would read names from the list and if the baby responded, we would consider that name. I giggled and agreed. To our surprise, our bundle of joy responded heartily to one of the names, only mildly to another, and ignored the rest. We put the list away, agreed we would consider the name he reacted to, and decided to take the list to the hospital and choose a name when we met him.

Our plans to wait to give Baby Wall a definite name changed quickly last week for several reasons. First, I found myself referring to the little guy in my head by the name he had reacted to more than I realized and it had almost slipped out in public several times. Second, my grandmother who had helped pray this baby into existence and had upheld him daily since we told her he was coming, started failing fast. Grandmother wanted so bad to meet our miracle baby and hang on until October, but her body wasn’t up to it. Read and I agreed that settling on a baby name and getting to tell Grandmother would be extra special.

On Tuesday afternoon, I sat by Grandmother’s bed, holding her hand tightly, and told her Read and I had good news; we wanted her to be the first one to hear it. She turned her focus to me as if I were the only person in her world just at that moment and told me she could use some good news. I told her we had officially named our baby, and we wanted her to be the first one to know. “Grandmother,” I said, “his name is ‘Austin Read’.” She smiled and repeated the name a couple of times; then in her encouraging and wonderful way, she told me what a perfect name it was for our baby and that she really needed to know that.

That was the last real conversation I got to have with Grandmother. We spent a great evening with her; family members took turns in and out of her room visiting with her, and when she got too tired to talk, we crowded into her bedroom and had a good old-fashioned hymn sing, and Grandmother sang, too. She went to be with Jesus early the next morning.

The name Austin means “great” or “magnificent.” In picking out a name, we wanted to give our baby a meaning that he could live up to. When I consider the incredible spiritual legacy that Read and I have to pass on to our children from our parents and grandparents, I am overwhelmed by all that we have been given and have to give. Because of Grandmother’s recent home-going, her faithfulness in praying for her entire family is especially fresh in my mind. I find that I took for granted that I could call her anytime or drop in at her house, plop down in a chair in the living room, and tell her anything; and I knew she was listening intently as if I were the only person in the world at that moment and she would pray for me. Oh, yes, and sometimes she would have a gentle word of advice that would help bring me back to earth and reign in my frustrations or emotions. That is the kind of attentiveness, thoughtfulness, and prayer support I want to be able to give and share with my children.

Our goal as parents is to pass that spiritual legacy on to our children. Our parents and grandparents have prayed for us faithfully, they have held to a standard that honored the Lord, and they have loved us through thick and thin. Our desire is to raise a great man of faith and to continue that legacy for generations to come, should the Lord tarry.

Naming our child did not work out exactly the way we planned. God used our “scientific method” and best-laid plans and worked His own plans for His glory. We are beyond excited to have settled on a name, and we so look forward to meeting our precious Austin Read.

During the first five months of my pregnancy, I was sick 24/7. I don’t think I could have kept the pregnancy a secret from close friends and family if I had wanted to because I looked green most of the time. I couldn’t walk into the kitchen because I could smell everything in the fridge even with the door closed and it made me terribly sick. With that in mind, I couldn’t do any cooking, other than to sometimes attempt to cook an egg in the microwave before dragging myself to work and praying that I had forced enough protein down my throat to survive seeing patients all morning without collapsing.

During those first several months of sheer joy, excitement, and extreme illness, several well-meaning people asked me how I was doing. When I told them honestly how sick I was feeling, they half smiled and said, “Well, you prayed for this. This is what you get.” It’s a good thing that I was as sick as I was at the time because the abundance of hormones that were coursing through my body made me want to share with them what I really thought of their well-intentioned, but poorly-timed remarks. Of course, they couldn’t know that I was on daily injections, steroids, and a whole host of hormone supplements just to keep my body from rejecting this pregnancy.  The steroids had caused me to retain so much water from the beginning that nothing fit, including my wedding rings, and the hormones made me terribly sick and an emotional mess beyond just normal pregnancy. It was a very difficult time.

And I was scared. I was so afraid of losing another baby. From what I understand, almost every mother who carries a wanted baby deals with that fear at some point throughout pregnancy. In my case, because of my history of endometriosis, I knew that it was possible for that disease to cause my body to betray me and kill my precious baby at any time. And so, in the midst of the joy, the excitement, and the illness, there was great fear.

One late night I got up because I was sick and hungry and worried, and as I paced the kitchen trying to think of what to try to shove down my throat that would make the hunger pains subside without making me sicker than I already felt, I prayed for the Lord to help me with this extreme fear I was feeling that I could do nothing about. In the midst of that fear and helplessness, a peace washed over me that everything was going to be okay with this child. I realized I could do nothing in my own strength to save my baby, but I could put my faith and trust in the One Who saved me from my sin and has given me an amazing relationship with Him. Since that night, things have been different. I still get concerned when I don’t feel baby movement as often as I think I should or I feel a new pain or cramp that is different, but I go back to God’s promise that He’s got this, and I can rest in Him and His plans for my future and the future of our unborn baby boy.

No, I didn’t pray to be this sick all the time. I didn’t pray to have to give myself painful, daily injections my entire pregnancy. I didn’t pray to have aching joints and swollen feet and have to rest at work between every patient I see so that I don’t pass out. I didn’t pray to be so exhausted that I could only crawl home from work at the end of the day and go to bed. But I did ask God to do what He wanted in my life whether it involved me having another child or not, and He took me in all of my brokenness and helplessness and hopelessness and made me a new creature. Not only that, but he has given me a gift of a baby to pray for and care for and love for as long as God allows on this earth. He has blessed me beyond my expectations and beyond anything I ever prayed for, and I praise Him daily for it.

Read and I are very grateful for all of the encouragement, prayer, and support we’ve received through this whole process. We continue to covet that prayer support in the days and weeks ahead.

On this Mother’s Day, I look back at the last four years and am in awe of how faithful and patient and loving God has been in carrying me through each year as He has taught me, molded me, and used me for His glory.

Four short years ago on Mother’s Day, we had just started trying to get pregnant, and my hopes were high that perhaps this would be the year that we celebrated the arrival of a new little person into our home to expand our family. I was so anxious and excited to experience motherhood with all of its joys, frustrations, excitements, and heartaches; those emotions that I would understand all too well by the following year.

Three years ago on Mother’s Day, I sat in agony in church, still mourning the loss of our first baby due to miscarriage, and begging God to help me understand what He was doing in my life. I looked around at other families and asked God why my arms were still empty. It was a tough day.

Two years ago on Mother’s Day, we had just found out we were expecting our third baby. The first two had ended in early miscarriages, but we were confident that the problem was fixed, and in eight short months we would finally have the joy of holding a sweet baby. I was so excited. And, indeed, that Mother’s Day was a precious gift from God because of all of the hope and joy and excitement I had for the future with this baby and the time we got to spend with her inside me. Unfortunately, just a few weeks later, we lost baby number three.

Last year on Mother’s Day, I again sat in church with empty arms and a hopeful heart. I was learning to trust the Lord in a way that I hadn’t understood before. Little did I know that I would be facing some of the hardest decisions and experiences of my life over the next twelve months. Little did I know that there would be times in the next twelve months where I would be clinging to the Lord and telling Him I couldn’t go on in this life He had given me. I never dreamed that God would take me through some of the hardest trials of my life, that I would lose five more children in the process, and that I would come out on the other end trusting Him in a way that I didn’t know was possible.

This year on Mother’s Day, I sit with a miracle growing inside of me. God answered our prayers in His own will and timing. I revel in every glorious day I get to spend with my baby growing and moving; I feel the tiny kicks and flutters and know this is another gift from God. There are still times of fear in the midst of the joy, but I know I can trust God because He has gotten me this far and won’t leave me or forsake me.

Looking back, I want to thank my own mother for making motherhood look so attractive and easy. She’s a huge part of the reason I have always so badly wanted to be a mother. Now, in the interest of full disclosure, I do remember the occasional moment when, above the din of noisy children, farm equipment, books on tape, music, and questions about school work; my mother would say, “Can I just get a little quiet for a minute?!?” After I was married, and most of my siblings had moved out or were gone for large portions of the day, I thought of those noisy times and figured my mom was finally getting her peace and quiet. I mentioned this to her last week, and she smiled and nodded and said, “I hate the quiet. I love it when you guys come home.” She not only made motherhood look attractive and easy, she is honest and real about it. My mom is awesome!

I also want to thank my mother-in-law for raising the man of my dreams. From my perspective, it takes an awesome woman who walks with God to raise a strong-willed little sinner to be the amazing, caring, godly man that I married.

This Mother’s Day, I look back on the legacy I have and all that God has taught me in the last few years. Shortly after we found out we were expecting this time, I was talking to God. I told Him I could see how perfect the timing of this pregnancy was with Read graduating and me being able to stay home from work more with this baby. I told Him how excited I was and how ready we were and that I could see that His timing was perfect to give us a child now. Then I asked Him why He had taken us through so much to get to this point? If He wanted us to have our first baby now, why had He told us to start trying four years ago? Why did He have to give me a life-threatening disease and why did we have to lose so many little lives in the process? Why did it have to cost us so much time and money and grief to get to this point? Why couldn’t He have made me healthy and have just told us to wait until now to try to have a baby and let all the pieces fall together in perfect harmony without all the sorrow? And as I was in the midst of questioning my gracious heavenly Father, He quietly said, “It was all for my glory.”

“To God be the glory, great things He hath done; so loved He the world that He gave us His Son.”

Going to the doctor’s office to have the first ultrasound to look for the heartbeat of our baby or babies and to find out if there was one or two, I was a nervous wreck. I had never had an ultrasound that showed a live baby, and we were so hoping that we would see two little heart beats, proof that both babies were alive and well. We had told God we wanted His will, but I hated the idea of having to say goodbye to another child.

Arriving at the office, we signed in and sat anxiously waiting to be taken back. I tapped my foot, took out my phone, and tried unsuccessfully to make small talk with Read who was equally anxious. We were finally called back to the room to have the ultrasound and I got ready and hopped up on the table expectantly. First the sonographer showed us a baby with a heartbeat and we were ecstatic rejoicing over our little miracle. Then she said, “It looks like there’s only one. Is that okay?” There was a split second when I considered telling her it was not okay; to keep looking until she found my other baby. The realization hit me that we had lost another child. God had given us one live baby instead of two.

Next we met with the nurse practitioner, and she gave us follow-up instructions, then she hugged us both and congratulated us on a healthy baby with a strong heartbeat. It was such a bittersweet appointment; we were so grateful for one miracle baby, but finding out that there was only one live baby meant that one more of our children had died.

Once we made it to the car, we just sat there staring straight ahead, trying to come to grips with our conflicting emotions. The joy of seeing a live baby on the ultrasound; the sorrow of only seeing one live baby on the ultrasound. The joy of seeing a precious beating heart; the sorrow and realization that we would never meet that other precious child this side of heaven.

Read expressed his disappointment, but I stubbornly refused to acknowledge my grief yet. I had cried so many tears over the loss of seven other children; my heart wasn’t ready to deal with the loss of number eight. I so desperately needed to be happy and joyful and excited about our good news. We had lost so much; I felt a dire need to focus on the joy before dealing with more pain and loss.

Please do not misunderstand me, we are so excited about this coming baby. We talk, we plan, we hope, we dream; but there’s still the realization that there are other members of our family missing. When I stop and allow myself to work through all of the emotions, it becomes a little overwhelming; and so I turn to the Lord and ask Him how He expects me to deal with so much. Then I am gently reminded that He gave His only Son for me so that I can enjoy eternity in a perfect place with Him and all my children. That, in the midst of the sorrow, is my greatest joy.

First, let me say that I have had the privilege of being in on numerous embryo transfers. I was there as I watched the doctor find the embryos under the microscope (he would even let my brother and I look in the microscope to see if we could find the embryos), and then I watched him transfer them into the waiting female. I saw firsthand how amazing science is and how far we have come in the area of reproduction.  As I stood there over fifteen years ago propping my booted foot on the fence and watching the work being done on the dairy cows, I never dreamed that this would one day be my own personal experience. God certainly has a sense of humor.

Now, in the interest of full disclosure, let me tell you that in some ways, the experience of the cow and the human is not far different. This became abundantly clear when we were in our IVF class learning about the process we were about to undergo, and I turned to Read and blurted out, “Oh, I know all about this part; I used to help Dad do it to the cows!” The nurse practitioner presenting the information heard my statement, grinned, and said, “You’ll have a lot in common with [the embryologist]. He got his start on a dairy, too.” That being said, there are a lot of differences between my experience and that of the cow; for those differences, I am very grateful, and I’ll leave it at that.

We arrived at the hospital at O’dark-thirty. A friend asked what time we would be leaving home for our appointment; I told him five, and he asked me if they made one of those in the mornings. Exactly what I was thinking. I used to milk cows at 5 a.m. I never planned to have to show up at a hospital for an embryo transfer at that time of day. We walked into the outpatient surgery part of the hospital and signed in. Another couple walked in close behind us that looked like they were probably there for the same thing. You kind of learn to spot others in the Good Luck Club after a while. We settled into the waiting room and were soon called back to the surgery prep area. This was the best part because Read got to be with me the whole time. There was no, “We’ll take her on back and let you know when she’s ready.” Or “Keep your pager on and you’ll know she’s done when it goes off.” Nope; we got to do this whole thing together. As Read and I headed toward the prep area, he turned to the other couple that were settling into the waiting room where we were sitting and wished them “good luck.” Ah, those two words that have come to mean so much through this experience.

Back in the prep area, the nurse pointed to a pile with a disposable gown, booties, etc. and told me that was mine and I knew the drill. Then she turned to Read and told him the pile on the chair was his to put on over his street clothes because he was going in with me. There was such an air of anticipation from the staff at the hospital as they prepared for the transfers. We were one of six couples that would be having the procedure done that day. Read and I quickly slipped into our disposable attire and prepared for the transfer. We chuckled at our appearance and took a picture of us in our garb, including hair nets.

It wasn’t long before two more couples were brought back to the prep area. One was the couple we had been sharing the waiting room with and then I saw my friend from the lab. She waved excitedly at me as she and her husband walked past our cubicle where we waited.

I have to say that while I was excited to be there and excited at the prospect of pregnancy from this procedure, I was very cautious. It’s a hard thing for those to understand who have not experienced the loss of one pregnancy after another, but it is all the more real to me how precious and fragile life is because of my personal experiences. And so at that moment, I remained cautious, begging God to help me trust Him completely with this and trusting that we were doing His will. I could hear excited chatter outside the curtain from the other two ladies there for transfers. I knew that when I left the hospital that day I would be carrying two lives within me, and I didn’t want to think about losing two more babies after all of the other losses we had experienced.

I was the first one to be wheeled down to the OR for the transfer. The nurse taking us down told Read to be sure he had his phone or camera or something to take pictures of the embryos. Now, I had seen embryos before, and there was not that much to see, but I figured these experts had done this a time or two and I should just go with it. In the OR, the people were so kind, friendly, and respectful. There was again an air of excitement. My doctor told Read to get his camera out and get right up next to the monitor on the wall to take a picture of the embryos when they flashed up on the screen. Read did, and the embryos were beautiful because they were ours. Then before I knew it, they had placed the embryos in my womb, the doctor had reassured me they wouldn’t fall out, and we were headed back upstairs to recovery.

In recovery, we waited the required hour, and then packed up our things and headed back home to wait. I had strict instructions to rest for at least two days; no housework, no dishes, no cooking, no laundry. I was queen for two days. At that point, we would not know for a time whether or not the transfer had worked.

As a human being, I think waiting is one of the most agonizing things in life. I want to know now what is in store for my future; or I want an answer to my request immediately. But God knows better. He knows what I can handle at the moment, and His plans are far superior to mine. And so I trust Him; I take each moment, each step, each process as it comes, and trust God for the results.

Having your eggs extracted is not something that everyone wants to read about, so let’s just leave it at the doctor harvested my eggs while I was under local anesthesia. The eggs have to be dealt with in the lab by the professionals, observed, determined if they are mature enough to attempt fertilization, fertilized, observed, observed, observed… They want to see how many will achieve fertilization and then how many will grow. Here’s what I’ve learned: 1. Just because you have an egg harvested, doesn’t mean it will be mature enough to attempt fertilization; 2. Just because you attempt fertilization, doesn’t mean the egg will actually be fertilized; 3. If an egg is successfully fertilized, there is no guarantee that the embryo will continue to grow and mature over time; 4. They cannot freeze an embryo for transfer unless it has grown to a certain size over the first 5-6 days after fertilization.

So, with all of that in mind, here’s our personal experience. My doctor reported to me in recovery that they had harvested 11 eggs, and he was very pleased with that. That was all we would know for 24 hours. Once I got home and was resting, I told Read that I felt like we had left our future children in a cold lab with strangers over an hour away. It was awful. I hadn’t even met the doctor that was taking care of my kids in the lab. Of course, you hope for and expect the best: 11 mature eggs, all achieving fertilization, all growing to a mature size that can be successfully transferred.

When I finally received the report I had been waiting for, they said that five eggs had been mature enough to fertilize, and three more had matured enough later in the day to fertilize. The other three eggs were not good enough or mature enough to do anything with. Each of the eight was successfully fertilized, and Read and I rejoiced over the eight new little lives that were now a part of our family tucked away in petri dishes in an incubator in a lab in Kansas City.

I find it ironic that on the anniversary of the Roe v. Wade decision, Read and I, along with five other couples who had been through the same procedures on the same day, waited anxiously to hear how our children were growing as cells in petri dishes in an incubator in a lab. On the anniversary of a decision that said a child isn’t a human being unless it’s wanted or until it’s born, we rejoiced over the lives of our children who were just cells growing and fighting for life at such an early stage. Life is so precious.

We have celebrated the lives of and mourned the loss of each of our children. Since I wrote the above, we found out that four of our little ones stopped growing on Day 5. The embryologist told me that having four embryos out of eight mature is really great. I appreciated his reassurance, but the loss is still great. But in spite of the pain of that loss, I have hope because I will get to meet all four of those precious babies one day when I get to heaven. My hope is in the Lord; not because of any good works I’ve done or rules that I’ve followed, but because Christ died for my sins and I have accepted His gift of salvation. Someday I will get to heaven and spend eternity with my heavenly Father and my seven children who have gone on before me.

I always thought wishing someone good luck was a little lame. I mean, there’s not really any such thing as luck, right? God is in control and we just trust Him and do what He says and wait for the results. …but then we started on this whole infertility roller coaster…

The first time I was getting off the phone with the pharmacy (about a year ago) and had just agreed to pay almost $500 out of our pocket for one round of the fertility meds that were going to give us a chance at a baby, the nice lady I was talking to ended the conversation with, “Good luck to you.” I didn’t think much about it at the time, but as we continued our journey and faced disappointment and discouragement and heartache, that “good luck” that I kept hearing from the infertility community became more precious. What they were really saying was that they wanted this to work, and knew it was not an easy time for us. That acknowledgement got me through some discouraging phone calls and doctor’s visits. Then we started on the IVF roller coaster, which should have come with all kinds of warning labels; seriously.

A couple of weeks ago, I sat in a lab in Kansas City waiting to have my blood drawn as another step in the IVF process. I knew that everyone going through this cycle of IVF with my doctor had to be at this particular lab between 8 and 10 AM to have blood drawn. Let’s face it, no one likes to get up early on a Saturday morning and drive an hour to get stabbed by a needle and have blood sucked from their vein.  After signing in, I sat in the waiting area and discretely looked around the room at the others who also sat expectantly, wondering who else was in the same boat I was. Three other females about my age walked in the door, one after another, wearing their hair in a ponytail and sporting casual clothing with little or no makeup, looking like they got out of bed and dressed in a hurry. I recognized the uniform because I was sporting it too, but more than that, I recognized the heart ache and semi-expectant look in the eyes of the other ladies; “This may be my last option for ever being able to bear a child, and I’ll do anything for that chance. Poke me, prod me; just let me be a mother.”

After waiting about twenty-five minutes, a nice young lady came to the sign-in window, looked at the sign-in sheet, and directed a general question to the waiting area, “How many of you are here for IVF?” (I’m sure that wasn’t a HIPAA violation.) We ponytails all raised our hands, and looked at each other knowingly. I was the first of those waiting to go back. When I came out, the next ponytail was headed back. We made eye contact; she looked at me sincerely and said, “Good luck.” I smiled to her and wished her good luck in return, but with that one look, so much more was communicated. It was understood that even though we only knew each other now by the names we had been called by the woman taking our blood, there was a kinship. We are part of an infertility club that no one else can understand, and that no one wants to be a part of. We didn’t ask to join the “good luck club”, but we are in it and we’re making the best of it.

Last week, I was sitting in the hospital waiting room at 6:30 in the morning, waiting to go back for my procedure, and desperately trying to distract myself by looking at Pinterest on my phone. Suddenly I felt a presence leaning over me; it was my friend and fellow club member from the lab. Once again, she told me sincerely “good luck” and then with that knowing look in her eye, walked on to prepare for her own procedure. I didn’t get to talk to her again that day, but it warmed my heart to know that I had a friend close by who was feeling similar things to what I was feeling at that moment.

Read and I have felt so loved and carried in prayer and encouragement by all of our friends and family who are praying for us and checking in regularly. A couple of individuals who have experienced their own time in the “good luck club” have reached out and encouraged me more than words can say. It is our hope and prayer that in all of this, no matter the outcome, God receives the glory and praise for what goes on. I still don’t believe in luck, and I still give God full credit for every good thing that happens in my life, but I am so grateful for the kind words and understanding that so many people, even strangers, have given us. I will take that “good luck” any day and give it right back with utmost sincerity because what we’re really saying is, “I know what you’re going through is so hard, and you are not alone.”

I sat rigidly in the chair in the fertility specialist’s office as I heard him say, “This is pretty much your only option left.” As those words sank in, and I heard him continue to talk about in vitro fertilization (IVF) and how this was our best bet for ever having more children, I wanted to scream, burst into tears, and run out of the office. This wasn’t supposed to be my life. When we first saw the fertility specialist, he reassured us he wasn’t concerned about us getting pregnant because we had already been pregnant and miscarried three times. Just a little tweaking and things should work just fine. We could have as many children as we wanted. But a year later, after having surgery for Stage IV Endometriosis and trying every other fertility treatment, we sat in his office hearing the devastating news that this was our last hope of having more biological children. I glared stubbornly at the box of tissues that sat conveniently within reach and refused to give in to tears. As a medical professional, I wanted to hear the medical side and understand why this was our only option. The doctor explained that my stage of Endometriosis was like Stage IV cancer: “There was only a 50% chance of you ever getting pregnant again when you walked in my door.” He went on to remind me of how sick I had been and how truly destructive my disease was. I didn’t need the reminder that this was something that I would always have to monitor through my child-bearing years because the same hormones that made me a woman and made it possible to bear children, fed the disease that would keep me from having more children naturally.

The doctor carefully and patiently answered all of my questions and then gave us a packet that explained all about the IVF process and the cost. I could not imagine ever being able to afford such a process or find the time required to attend classes, doctor’s appointments, tests, and procedures. As we talked and prayed over several days, however, we felt God opening doors that seemed impossible and insurmountable. IVF is a two month process that begins with hormone pills and ends with two different medical procedures (about a week apart) that put me in bed for several days. In between are numerous doctor’s appointments, sonograms, lab tests, blood draws, and invasive medical procedures that I would blush to describe to the doctors and nurses in my immediate family. I joke that God has opened every door and shoved me through.

We are doing IVF because we feel strongly that this is what God wants us to do. We do not have a guarantee from the medical professionals that this will result in a baby, but we do have a guarantee from God that His grace is sufficient and His strength is made perfect in weakness (II Corinthians 12:9). In II Corinthians, the Apostle Paul talks about how he pled with God to remove his thorn in the flesh, but God didn’t. Paul never expounds on what his particular thorn is; but we know it is something that was a burden to him that he wanted lifted (and I’m sure he felt he could minister for the Lord better without it); but God disagreed. Perhaps when Paul was first aware of the thorn, he felt that God would remove it right away so that he could better serve the Lord, but God wanted to work in a different way and use Paul for God’s glory; the best way to do that was to leave Paul’s thorn in the flesh. I can’t tell you how many times people have said to Read and I, “Of course God will give you children. You’re going to make amazing parents. You’re too good of people not to.” I want to say, “Right?!? I’ve been thinking this very thing!! We’re on the same page! Now, if we can just get God on the page with us, we’ll be golden. I’m pretty sure if He can make a virgin ‘with child’, He can fix or connect whatever needs to be fixed or connected in me so we can have kids.” But my God doesn’t always work that way.

Several months ago, when I was at the end of my rope, and things seemed so bleak, I finally raised my voice to heaven and told God that I could not live the life He had given me; I was not strong enough; I did not have enough faith; and I had absolutely no idea how to survive it. There was almost an audible voice from the Lord that said, “Finally. I’ve just been waiting for you to let Me take over.” I’m embarrassed to admit that it took me three years of struggle to get to that point where I realized I couldn’t continue life while carrying any portion of the load; I had to let God have complete control and just take a back seat and coast. Now, don’t get me wrong, I thought I had given God complete control many years ago; but this was a whole new level of letting God take over that I didn’t realize existed. And once I realized it existed and dumped the mess of emotional turmoil, expectations and disappointment, and all of my hopes and dreams on God, my world became so much lighter and brighter.

Since the day we started courting, Read has prayed that God would use us for His glory. God is using my thorn in the flesh of Endometriosis and infertility for His glory and to help me see that He wants complete control of my life; I can’t handle any part of this life He has asked me to live. But with God all things are possible (Matthew 19:26). Oh, the joy that precious promise brings my heart!

Now, lest I be misconstrued as a saint due to my previous description, let me assure you I am still very human. Once we left the doctor’s office when I found out I couldn’t have children naturally, I cried buckets of tears, and I’ve probably cried over something every day since then. The hormones I am currently on make me very sick, very tired, and very crazy; I cry over the silliest things, overreact to everything, and have decided that the best thing for us to do next is to adopt a puppy. (This may seem like an obvious fix for some folks reading this, but our schedule is not conducive to house training any pet at this time, and my crazy hormones would drive a wedge between me and the canine the first time he made a mess or destroyed something in my tidy home.) Read, on the other hand, could easily gain saint-hood after putting up with my mood swings and craziness. He is an amazing encouragement and always willing to do anything to help or make me feel better. This man is truly a blessing.

For now, I’m taking this life moment-by-moment as God reveals how He wants me to walk. I can’t handle attending baby showers right now, but please don’t feel that you need to hide a pregnancy from us because others can easily reproduce and we can’t. If anyone can understand the blessing a baby is, it’s us; and we rejoice with others over every one of those blessings. That being said, sometimes I cannot handle sitting with a friend over coffee to listen to them talk non-stop about baby issues; if that is your life right now, it is probably all-consuming, and I support you in it. I just can’t relate and it hurts too bad to listen right now. Don’t give up on me, just please understand that my emotional tank teeters on empty most of the time and baby talk rubs salt in a gaping wound.

I want to thank everyone who has reached out to see if we’re okay; it means so much. We’re okay. Thank you to those who have and continue to pray for us on this journey. We truly covet your prayers and encouragement.

Today marks the third anniversary of the loss of our first baby. Many would have considered our child just tissue at that stage of pregnancy because I was only a few weeks along. But I know that from the moment of conception, a child is a living human being; and that my baby was, in fact, so much more than tissue. From the moment our precious was baby was conceived, we treasured the very thought of being her parents. We dreamed of what it was going to be like to raise a child in our home and fill it with love and laughter. And then, in the blink of an eye, she was gone. Our hearts were broken at the loss, but because she was so much more than tissue, we know that she is safe in the arms of Jesus, and we will spend eternity with her. We named our baby Zion Lee, meaning “a memorial to the Lord.”

Psalm 50:2 says, “Out of Zion, the perfection of beauty, God has shined.” The perfection of beauty. That description is so apropos for someone that is living in the presence of the Savior. A perfect body, in the perfect place, in the presence of a perfect God. I discovered this verse several weeks after we lost our precious Zion, and I knew that God had put it there for me. It gave me hope that my precious child was now perfect and living a life in glory, and one day, we will join her in glory. I have a hope of meeting her one day because I know beyond a shadow of a doubt, that she was so much more than tissue.