Today has been a really horrible day. We’re coming to the end of IVF round three but the drugs seem to have stopped working. We don’t know why. If there’s no change in the next few days, the cycle will be cancelled.
‘I’m sorry’, says Glen. ‘It still might work. There are other options and this does not define us’. I look at him and I’m crying and I say It might not define you but it defines me. And I don’t want it to, and I know it’s wrong but I don’t know what I’m for. I’m swollen with hormones and sadness and the injections aren’t working and my to-do lists aren’t working and in the middle of it all there’s this hole and it’s bigger than me and it’s bigger than us and sometimes I think it’s bigger than God. And a baby won’t fill it – but I don’t know what else to put there.
We pray. I want to have faith and I want to know Jesus – but not like this. The weakness and clinging and dependence. We’re in a cafe and it’s warm and loud and it doesn’t match up. I wonder what’s real. I want someone to make this better.
I go outside and call my mum. ‘I’m sorry love,’ she says. I try not to cry.
I watch the birds, swooping and falling in slow-motion overhead. I feel like I’m falling too. I’m scared of going back to the place I went when it failed last time. I’m scared of being swallowed by sadness. I’m scared of everything being out of control and nothing to hold onto.
I hear my mum, taking a breath: ‘Whatever happens love, God knows best’.
Mum and I don’t talk much about God. I don’t expect it. But her words catch me, mid-flight.
If the drugs don’t work. If the eggs don’t fertilise. If there a very, very tiny baby that doesn’t make it very far. If there’s no baby at all. God knows best.
We pray and we trust and when we can’t trust and we can’t pray, we’re carried. Sometimes by the people we don’t expect. Always by the Lord who loves His children.