Standing In Front of Closed Doors

I sat in my therapist’s office, most of my body engulfed by the overstuffed couch. The topic for the day centered around what it typically does - my struggles with the potential of being “one and done” and not having any more kids. I talked in circles with the intent of spiraling in towards something of therapeutic weight, with periodic stops at proverbial conversational benches along the way. I’d wax and wane about different aspects of this struggle, and chose to spend a fair amount of time discussing the possibility of being pregnant again – possibly through embryo adoption - and how it is the “safest and simplest” option. (I know calling pregnancy, birth, and all that is thereafter simple and safe is laughable, but I wasn’t in the healthiest emotional spot at this point.)

I continued to pontificate about how this was the best option for our family, as if I was trying to sell my therapist a used car. She dutifully listened, waiting for my sales pitch to conclude, so she could insert the classic accentuated pause that tells me she’s about to point out something I don’t want to hear. She then observed,

“But that’s not truly an option for you, right?”

Therapists are so annoying.

She’s right. It isn’t.

For a variety of reasons, pregnancy, birth, and postpartum carry health risks for me - it’s not impossible, but it’s not safe and it’s not practical. So despite the fact that I’ve made up an ideal situation in my head, it in fact can only exist there - in my head. And yet, I’ve made an altar for this idea, and I return to it on occasion to admire its perfection. I’ve written stories in my head around it; the plot line is detailed, the narrative arc dramatic and touching. In this story, the scenes are euphoric and blissful, and all the conflicts resolve. The discord softens and is woven into the resolution.

It’s a beautiful story, really.

And it is fantasy. 

Why do we return to closed doors?

Is it denial, a single-minded refusal to acknowledge the truth? Is it intellectual laziness, a cognitive refusal to tackle the hard things? Or maybe an avoidant coping pattern - the longer I meander through this fantasy, the less time I spend sitting amongst the sharp edges of reality?

While it could be a bit of all three, for me I think that it’s more a process of mourning. By returning to the thing I know I can’t have - another pregnancy - I’m also reminding myself once again that it isn’t possible. I’m dreaming, I’m remembering, and I’m mourning. Sometimes it’s healthy, and sometimes it’s not. Sometimes I need to kneel in front of a life I’ve dreamed of, acknowledging that the desire for that life is real and good and true, and let tears fall... and then stand up to go soak up the life I do have, one is also full of things that are real and good and true.

This process has been a restless one for me, and I’ve really struggled to find a place of peace and contentment where I don’t ignore or suppress the pain, but also spend the majority of my time fully immersing myself in all the good, juicy stuff that fills my life. I have, right in front of me, a tangible, long-awaited answer to prayer, and he calls me Mommy. Mothering him is the greatest privilege of my life. And I also can’t deny there is an unmet hope of our family growing, although I am entirely unsure what that could look like. As I look for a place of contentment to rest and escape the uncertainty, I find refuge in the statement that kept me going through years of infertility treatments - I want to remain open to being surprised at how God might fulfill this desire.

Open to being surprised.

When I reflect on why I was so focused on pregnancy when my first experience was so difficult, it isn’t lost on me that the central theme of that is control. For some reason, I had elevated that one path to parenthood as the creme de la creme, the place that felt the “safest” and where I could feel the most “in charge”. And yet, if I’ve learned anything about this parenting journey, it’s that my ideas of how it should be are not always the best. Some of the greatest joys in my life came not from my own efforts or direction but emerged from the periphery. Had I only been open to things directly ahead at twelve o’clock, I would’ve missed some tremendous blessings.

Indeed, the most peaceful place I can come to is that I am not in charge, and there is great joy in this. If I am not in charge, I don’t need to constantly run ahead on the path I’m on, constantly kicking away sticks and trying to fill in potholes. I can have a general idea of where I’m going without constantly checking the map and obsessing over which path I might take, because the reality is that I can only be on one path at once. Looking at the map and planning the route ahead can only serve me to a certain degree, as sometimes roads close and I might be diverted entirely.

So, I can choose to keep staring at the map, or look up at the scenery around me and also appreciate where I am. I can acknowledge that by being open to being surprised, I’m more likely to notice beautiful things on the periphery. Remaining open to surprises might mean that a new path emerges, or it might mean that I maintain a sense of awe and appreciation for the path I’m on. But if I’ve learned anything, it’s that keeping my expectations narrow causes me to miss out on beautiful views, and rigidity doesn’t prepare me to handle the bumps ahead. Holding too tightly to control causes me to lose it, so I’m working on throwing my hands in the air and enjoying the ride.