Deferred Hope

Navigating the vulnerability of the unknown

There’s a proverb that says, “Hope deferred makes the heart sick…”¹ If I’m honest with myself and others, that’s how I feel: heart sick. It’s not the state of the world or the weight of grief that has marked much of my year—though those would be reasonable reasons to feel this way. Instead, my heart is sick because I am in a season of deferred hope.

Every twenty-five days, I pee into a cup, dip a paper stick, and wait five minutes to look at the test. Every twenty-five days, I see one dark line—no hint of a second. It’s a cycle of hope, disappointment, and hope again. Except the longer it goes on, the harder it is to hope. That’s why I test every cycle—it feels like an act of defiance against disappointment. Every twenty-five days, I tell myself, “Maybe this time it will be different.”

I know women for whom, due to prior or recurrent loss, pregnancy itself is a tender and vulnerable experience. My heart aches with them.

For me, it’s the journey to pregnancy. Nothing bares me open quite like the surrender of my fertility.

As someone who grew up in an unpredictable home, control is how I protect myself. But, unlike some people², this is an area I have no control over. Zero. I can’t look at my wedding photography schedule and plan a baby around that, though I have friends who can. I can’t say, “Okay, it took five months or so with Wesley, so let’s assume it might be the same this time.” Because it didn’t take five months, it took twelve and a round of Clomid. If I don’t want to take medication, because of the risks,³ I have no barometer. Will it take twelve months? Will it take more? Could it possibly take less? I don’t know, but I know this: that level of surrender undoes me.

Since starting to try, I’ve reorganized my library, cleaned my guest/craft room, purged my closet, and decided to handmake most of the gifts I’m giving for Christmas this year. Why? Because I can control those things. If I have to walk in this season of deferred hope for an undetermined amount of time—I cope by trying to control something. It’s not entirely healthy but it could be worse. I know I can’t control my husband, son, or even the animals in our house but I can crochet five different amigurumi⁴ in six weeks. I think.⁵

If I’m honest, sharing this struggle feels lame. I can list several reasons why “TTC” shouldn’t be that big of a deal for me.

1. I already have a child—it’s selfish to want more.

2. So many women have it much harder than me—my mom waited ten years before she had me and I have an amazing friend who never had any children. Her story is heartbreaking but her faith is beautiful.

3. I can trust God—He’s never failed me.

Those things can be true and I can still feel a heaviness in my heart. They aren’t mutually exclusive.

I’m crying as I write this and the deeper I dive into myself, the more I realize that trying to have a baby isn’t what’s so tender to me. I can see and hear announcements from other people—friends, family, strangers on the internet—I don’t feel envy, jealousy, or sadness. I feel joy for them. I truly believe that if Wesley is all we’re blessed with, that would be enough. He’s the best boy. I’ll also be okay if I never know if I can get pregnant on my own—because who cares about that anyway?

No, the part of me that hurts so much—even tip-toeing around it brings tears—is the idea of surrender. It’s the dying to self that comes from trusting God that feels like it might break me apart.

Logically, I know it’s irrational. My life is a testament to God’s goodness and faithfulness. Exhibit A: Wesley. But logic doesn't matter when you’re feeling vulnerable. It’s also not necessarily the trusting God, part. It’s the not knowing that untethers me.

If I could know definitively that I would never have another child or that it would take exactly seven more cycles or even twenty-three, both would be fine. I would know. I could make plans. But I don’t and I can’t.

So every twenty-five days, I’m going to pee into a cup and hope, once again, that there will be two pink lines. The seemingly endless cycles of deferred hope strip me raw, forcing me to face parts of myself I don’t quite like, but this act of surrender is worth it.

Proverbs 13:12 doesn’t just end with heart sickness. Instead, it goes on to say, “…but a desire fulfilled is a tree of life.” If I look at my life, I have forests full of fulfilled desires. So many trees that point to God’s kindness and lavish love. They don’t negate my reality, but they are reminders that while some desires remain unfulfilled, some have grown beyond my expectations. This journey of surrender will take a lifetime. Trying to conceive is just one small part of it.

So I’ll pee and hope and wait and crochet and maybe someday—I’ll see two pink lines.

---

This post is part of a blog hop with Exhale—an online community of women pursuing creativity alongside motherhood, led by the writing team behind Coffee + Crumbs. Click here to view the next post in the series "Tender."

1. Proverbs 13:12

2. 30% of people get pregnant on their first try and I am convinced that 90% of them go to my church.

3. I found out after I took it that Clomid can increase the risk of ovarian cancer and after my mom’s diagnosis with breast cancer this month and a friend’s diagnosis of ovarian cancer this year, I’m all set with purposefully increasing cancer risks.

4. Amigurumi are those adorable crocheted small stuffed toys that The Woobles made popular.

5. Check back in a week—I have two left to finish!