tender mercies

***Warning: this post is long, and contains a lot of personal information. Possibly too much information. But it's part of our story. And we're ready to share it.

  I've always wanted to be a mom. As far back as I have memories, I've known that I would grow up, get married, and have babies.

  I was eight years old when my littlest brother, Drew, was born. That made me old enough to help feed him, change his diapers, and hold him and soothe him when he cried. People made comments about me being his second mom, and I was so proud that I was already such a good "mother". He was my buddy, and he liked me better than almost anyone else.

  I look just like my mom. All of my life, everywhere I went, people knew exactly who I was, because I look so similar to my mother. I've always secretly loved that, because my mom is the best person I've ever known, and I was thrilled to have that special connection with her. I wanted to have five kids, three girls and two boys (because I didn't think it was fair that I had THREE brothers and only one sister, when all of my brothers had two brothers AND two sisters. I was going to even the score.), and at least one (if not all) of my girls would be a younger version of me. That's the way it worked. Or so I thought.

  When Kenny and I got married, we were both in school, and I had a year left of nursing school. I didn't want to get pregnant before I graduated from the nursing program. I was a totally typical young married mormon girl, and I was baby hungry by six months in. All those young married students in our married student ward were rubbing their little squishy babies in my face. So when May came around, graduation was imminent, and I was done with clinicals, I gladly stopped taking the birth control pill that I hated so much. I was SO ready to go ahead and have myself a baby.

  In the meantime, I got a new job at the hospital as a brand new nurse, and we were planning a move up north for Kenny to continue his schooling. Life kept us busy, but always in the back of my mind was the fact that I still wasn't pregnant yet. I knew it could take a few months, or more, so I wasn't too worried, just disappointed it hadn't happened yet.

  After we moved up to West Jordan, we got busy with new jobs, new school and new apartment. After a while, I realized it had been a little more than a year since we had started "trying". They say that after a year of trying without success, you fall into the "infertile" category. I made an appointment with an OB/GYN because I was starting to get very impatient, and just a little worried.

  I am forever grateful for the doctor that we saw. He was kind, optimistic, and talked to me like a person. He basically said that they would run some labs, check to make sure there were no blockages in any of my tubes, and he would start me on clomid right away. No need to wait any longer than we already had. Oh, and we would need to get a semen analysis done. So we went home, and went about our business. We went and had the semen analysis done. Most humiliating thing we've ever had to do (besides the Sadie Hawkins assembly). I started and finished the five days of clomid. The five days I was on clomid could be a post all it's own. I was dizzy, nauseous, and an emotional basket case. I cried for no good reason, couldn't stand up without getting sick, and I missed three days of work in a row. But it was worth it because I would get a baby out of it. Or so I thought.

  On whatever specific day of my cycle that I was supposed to, I made an appointment and went in. He was supposed to do an ultrasound to check how many follicles there were. We didn't want too many babies! When the doctor walked in, he looked a little surprised to see us. He first asked if we had gotten the results from our tests yet. I don't know how he thought that would have happened, but no, we told him, we hadn't. He then sat us down and told us that the semen analysis had come back showing zero sperm. Zero. Things didn't click right away. He told us that in all his years as a doctor, he's never had that happen before (yay for us, for being original!!). I remember him saying that we wouldn't need to continue the clomid, because all the clomid in the world wasn't going to help us. He talked to us about our options, which included in-vitro fertilization, sperm donors, and adoption. It didn't hit me until he left the room, that he had just told us that we wouldn't be able to have children without significant medical intervention. I cried. And sobbed. I called my mom and cried to her. She could barely understand what I was saying. That day we called LDS family services and asked them to send us some information.

  My doctor had referred us to a fertility clinic, so we went there for our "free consultation" where he told us that he wanted to run a second semen analysis (yay! because the first one was so much fun...). He talked to us about basically the same things the OB/GYN told us. In-vitro. Sperm donor. Or adoption. In-vitro would involve a testicular biopsy to retrieve sperm, and it would involve tens of thousands of dollars. For each try. The infertility specialist referred us to a urologist to have a testicular biopsy done to see if in-vitro would even be possible. The second semen analysis came back with the same results. Zero. Zip. Zilch.

  We saw the urologist, who suggested we do some labs first, before we went as far as doing the testicular biopsy. Thank goodness for that. The labs came back saying that Kenn's FSH and LH were super high, while his testosterone levels were low. That told the doctor that his brain (or the pituitary gland) was sending overkill signals to his testes to do what they're supposed to do (produce sperm), but the low testosterone level said that they weren't responding. There was no sperm to retrieve, via biopsy, or otherwise. There would be no making children that were biologically ours. No babies that look just like me.

  Over the next year or so, I cried a lot. At the very least, every day. I had dreams of being pregnant. I prayed for a miracle. Slowly, though, I got more used to the idea of adoption, and more used to the idea that I would never be pregnant. Never feel a baby kick from the inside. Never see my belly swell and grow, knowing that I was carrying a precious child of God. I threw pity parties, and felt very very sorry for myself. Whenever I saw a pregnant woman, or heard a baby cry, or someone asked me "so, when are you guys gonna have kids?" I was perfectly pleasant, and polite, then I would find a corner all alone, and cry, mourning the kids I never would have.

  Soon we were blessed with Aiden, and I stopped crying. For at least the first year, I forgot I was sad. I was SO happy. I had everything I wanted, plus some. After Aiden got older, and I started getting baby hungry again, the old infertility beast came back, and I felt sorry for myself again. Suddenly everybody I knew was pregnant, and I remembered that I was incapable of getting pregnant. I loved Aiden, of course, so much that when I thought about him, I was grateful for my infertility, because it brought him to me. But. I wished it would please go away now, because I'd like to have a baby now. Please. Thank you.

  Then we got our little Capri. And all over again, I was so grateful that we hadn't been able to get pregnant, because otherwise, she wouldn't be here with us. We are so blessed. I don't doubt that we would have had fun with some of our own, biological kids. We would have loved them, I'm sure. But to think about my beautiful kids not being mine. Not being with me every day, it makes me hurt. It brings tears to my eyes, it stops my breath.

  I recently read a blog post written by a friend and neighbor who has had eight miscarriages. Eight. One of her babies made it to 27 weeks, before he was born, and then died hours later. It was heartbreaking, and horrifying. And I can't imagine living through it.

  Heavenly Father knows me. He knows what I can handle, and what I need. He knew that I could handle not being able to have children, but that given the chance, I would have tried whatever I could to have my dream of being pregnant. Insemination, in-vitro, whatever, I would have spent thousands of dollars, with no guarantee of success. I would have had to take multiple fertility medications, each with side effects far worse than the low dose clomid I had taken once. And I wouldn't have felt ok about stopping, if there was a chance. I would have wasted years of my life trying to achieve my dreams of being pregnant and having children that looked like me. I could not have handled miscarriage after miscarriage. And my Heavenly Father knew that. I could not have handled having a premature baby, just to lose it. He also knew that I wouldn't have been able to stop trying. So He made it so that I wouldn't have to go through any of that. He, in his infinite wisdom, gave me an out. It was a tender mercy from my Heavenly Father, that the doctor said "no chance". Don't bother trying.

  I am so thankful for the life that I have. It's not the life I dreamed of, hoped for, or planned on. It's so much better!! I have the most amazing children, and without this big, massive trial that we went through, that I thought would kill me, we would not have them. And that is something I definitely could not have lived through.