The Pain and Brokenness of Infertility – Part 2

Originally Posted on Friday, May 20th, 2011

That first post last week was difficult for me to type. I wasn’t sure how it would be received knowing that I had NO experience personally. After I resigned myself to tackle what God had laid on my heart I wondered, “Now what?”. I knew it would touch some people in such a personal way and I was hoping it would prompt some to share their stories that they might minister to others. However, there are a number of reasons why someone might not be comfortable sharing. I could have felt frustrated or discouraged (which would have been my typical reaction) but instead I prayed and chose to contact author of the book, “Empty Womb, Aching Heart” Marlo Schalesky and she kindly and graciously agreed to share some bits and pieces of her story.

So with her permission, I’m sharing today her first piece which was written years ago in the midst of her 20 year struggle with infertility. That’s not a typo — I know…for some of you the thought that this struggle could go on for that long is devastating. Maybe it’s been 2 years or 5 years for you and you can’t even fathom 20 years of this roller coaster. No words of mine, nor words of Marlo’s for that matter, can comfort your aching heart. Only God’s word, His presence, His promise, and His truth can set you free from the destruction and devastation that comes with infertility. He is…the ultimate comforter and friend.

The Rainbow’s Promise – by Marlo Schalesky:

It wasn’t supposed to happen like this. Even when I was a little girl and boys had cooties, I knew that someday I’d grow up, get married, and have children. After all, didn’t everyone?
But the years passed, and no children came. No morning sickness, no rounding belly, no baby showers filled with cute little booties and boxes of diapers. Soon, hope turned to fear and trips to the mall changed to travels to the doctor’s office. But still, no babies. What was happening to all our dreams?
Infertility, I have found, is a journey, a monthly journey that swings between hope and disappointment, and rarely leaves me unchanged. It always starts the same, with that insidious whisper of hope. Could this be the month? Could I be pregnant? I feel a little pain and wonder if it means something. My stomach flutters, and I think that perhaps it’s morning sickness. I know I shouldn’t get my hopes up again, but I can’t help it. I count the days. Twenty-six, twenty-seven, twenty-eight. I hold my breath. Twenty-nine, I release it. Thirty. Two days late. Thirty-one. This is it! Thirty-two. The bleeding starts. My heart breaks. Again.
This month was no different. I sat on the edge of my bed and told myself not to cry. But I cried anyway. Great, raindrop-sized tears. I wrapped my arms around myself and looked out the window. Storm clouds gathered in the sky. I shivered, hating the weather, hating the tightness in my throat, the wetness on my cheeks. Every month it was the same, hope and disappointment chasing each other in countless loops along the path of my life.
The sound of a chair scraping against linoleum penetrated my senses. A dish clattered in the sink. I grabbed a tissue and tried to stifle my tears.
Footsteps echoed in the hallway. I sighed and opened the door. In a moment, my husband Bryan reached the bedroom. For a full minute, he stood in the doorway, not knowing if he should come in and try to comfort me, or just turn around and walk away. Our eyes met.
He shook his head. “Not this month either, huh?”
I didn’t answer.
Slowly, he left the bedroom and ambled back to the kitchen. I returned to the bed and sat on the edge. My hand moved over the rough patchwork quilt made by my grandmother. An heirloom, something to be passed down from generation to generation. I frowned and reached for the sweater that was tossed across my pillow.
Then, something unusual happened. Something that didn’t happen the previous month, or the month before. A shaft of light, bright and warm, sliced through the clouds to illuminate a patchwork rose. I watched the light, then glanced up and out the window. There, in the distance, beyond the storm, a rainbow arched through the sky. Purple, blue, green, yellow, orange, and red, the colors stood in brilliant contrast to the grayness of the day.
I caught my breath and remembered a promise given thousands of years ago. A vow from Genesis 9:12-17 that it would not rain forever. God’s assurance of love, His guarantee that the sun will shine again.
I stood and rested my elbows on the windowsill. Outside it was still dark, still dreary. But in the distance, I saw a break in the clouds. There, the sun flickered through. And in that moment, I got a glimpse of the path of my life. As I live through the storm of infertility, the way is dark and full of tears. But somewhere out there, the rains will cease. Someday, all this will be behind me. God has promised me that much. God has promised that He will not leave me nor forsake me. He has promised me the rainbow.
So, for now, I look to the future and learn to see this month’s disappointment against the backdrop of eternity. I tell myself to keep my eye, not on today’s pain, but on the goal of a life lived in a way worthy of Christ, who calls me His own. For I know that someday I will bask in the Son.

Once again — I thank Marlo for her openness and willingness to share and her passion to reach out to others like her, are battling infertility. If you want to read an excerpt from her book or find out more about Marlo you can visit her website here: http://www.marloschalesky.com/books/nonfiction/