On November 1, 2013, we buried our daughter.
2 months and 8 days we cared for her. Fought to give her a real life, not one shadowed by the horrifying knowledge that it would end far too soon. We walked into the joyful holiday season broken.
On November 1, 2014 we were newly expecting our son.
7 months we worked through the embryo adoption process, desperate to fill the physical void left in our home. An empty crib. An unused room. Broken hearts now pasted insecurely together with thin hope and threatened by anxiety.
On November 1, 2015 we joyfully entered the holiday season as a family of 4.
The relief of holding our healthy son brought with it a flood of grief that had been carefully packed away. Guilt, sadness, confusion, mostly hidden to the world that saw our family now “fixed.”
On November 1, 2016, we grieved the failure of our 2nd embryo adoption.
Once again striving forward, tucking away the loss to push forward yet again. Day after day surviving until our arms might once again hold the physical manifestation of our hearts desires.
On November 1, 2017 it was quiet.
No baby. And, soon after, no hope in trying again.
On November 1, 2018 I entered the holidays tentatively content.
Months of sorting through the anger and disillusionment, the physical aftermath of a drawn-out FET, and the overwhelming “what nows” finally gave way to an exhale of bottled up expectations.
Waiting for the flood of emotions. Dreading the wave of sadness.
Instead, I found a joy that I had fought hard against many times before. A comfort with the grief. A coming to terms with our disappointments in a way not marred with bitterness. A heart broken for the brokenness of the world, not just for my own longings.
I don’t know what November 1, 2019 holds for our family, but I trust that God will continue growing me and stretching my faith in ways that will bring Him greater glory than I would know how to do on my own.
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