My husband is an amazing man who always seems to know exactly what I need. I didn’t tell him about my morning cry/spiritual awakening, but he knew I needed to enter the clinic that afternoon with him. He arrived at the hospital parking lot before I did (as usual) and waited for me to walk in together. We interlocked our arms and looked at each other with a “Let’s Do This” smile and nod. He actually said, “Let’s do this. Leroy Jenkins!” as he chooses to do adding humor to even the darkest of moments. (If you don’t know that reference, you should definitely google it for a laugh). We found our way down the winding hallway and outside a large wooden door. There was nothing special about the door- it didn’t even have the name of the clinic on it, just the suite number on the side.

The waiting room looked like any other waiting room: chairs, sofas, a TV, and a receptionist behind a glass-sliding window. “Put your name and time on the log, please.” She could probably tell that we were new the way we looked like deer in headlights, observing and taking in the new surroundings. We sat down facing the other wooden door- the one where the nurse comes to take you to your magical destination. I glanced around the room. There were a couple other couples there, and even what appeared to be an older mom and her daughter waiting with us. One lady, sitting by herself, had a binder. I wondered to myself, “Should I have brought a notebook for notes?”

My husband was talking about something… whatever was on the TV or in the magazine he was perusing. I only half listened, as I was too deep inside my head at that moment not knowing what to expect. There weren’t any pictures of babies or families hanging on the walls- like you’d see at most OB offices. A woman in scrubs showed up at the door and called my name. I didn’t hear her, but my husband tapped my lap and looked at the door. As I stood up, he grabbed my hand and gave it a small squeeze to say, “Let’s Do This!”

We were seated in a consult room. It was a room just big enough for the round table and 3 chairs, and had a window. The sunlight was refreshing. The insurance guru for the clinic came in with a large binder. “A nurse and doctor will be in to talk about all of the medical stuff. I’m just here to talk about what your insurance covers and the legal forms.” There were A LOT of forms. We had already filled out our medical history and other questions online before the visit, so I didn’t think there’d be this many actual forms to fill out and sign. Turns out, they like to make sure you know 100% that they cannot guarantee you a baby. It doesn’t matter how many treatments you go through. Even if it works, it could take years, and unfortunately for some, it doesn’t seem to work. I could feel a pit in my stomach. After what seemed like an hour of review forms and signing, she left and the nurse came in. We did a basic review of what we’d been through- miscarriage, trying for a year, not being successful, semen analysis, family history- basically a rundown of our combined medical record. She let us know the protocol for all new couples to the clinic and tests that had to be done before choosing a treatment program. There was a gambit of tests to choose from. I HAD to do the genetic testing to rule out being a carrier for certain diseases, as well as a screening test for all of the major diseases (including HIV/AIDS), and then lots of abbreviations that stood for specific tests for my uterus. I don’t think I’d ever really thought of tests for my uterus before, but man, were there a bunch to choose from. We basically agreed to all of the necessary tests, and declined the tests my husband could optionally do. She left after more form signing and told us the doctor would be in shortly.

Now we were about 2 hours into our consult when the doctor arrived. Instantly, after she walked into the room, she greeted us with a smile on her face. Her happiness made me calm. We did a brief review of our situation (again) and she told us all of the treatment options that we would most likely have to choose from. She reiterated what we’d heard from the 2 people before her: we, however, cannot guarantee you a baby. My husband started crying. I have seldom seen him cry. She stopped mid sentence and comforted him asking if he needed a minute. He said, “I keep hearing that we will not have a baby. I’m not seeing any hope.” She looked at him and said, “Listen, you’re both relatively young, and your tests don’t show me any reason why you can’t have a baby.” That was what he and I both needed to hear. I had come in thinking “I can’t have a baby.” Now it changed to, “There is no reason you can’t have a baby.” I don’t know if she knew it, but her words were life changing.   She continued to discuss possible options for treatment, and left after we felt incredibly comfortable with the entire process.

The insurance guru came back in letting us know that she couldn’t get an answer from my insurance company about if they would cover even the basic diagnostic tests. She said my husband’s would, if that was an option to switch at all. However, she worked out the costs for the tests and initial treatments without any coverage. We were still feeling positive- we had learned that there really wasn’t any reason to fear the darkest extreme. We signed more forms, basically saying we would pay for any care received, and she left. We were now 3 hours in.

After a while, the nurse came back in and took me to a separate exam room. While inspecting my uterus with her magical trans-vaginal probe (this will become a common thing to expect at all future visits), she exclaimed, “Oh wow! There’s a lot of eggs getting ready in there.” She made a mention that I had some similarities to PCOS (Polycystic Ovarian Syndrome), without actually having the syndrome. I, for a slight moment, had a sense of relief with thinking that we could have found the reason- and therefore could fix it. Alas, we would learn later that my tests would reveal I didn’t have PCOS, and I became categorized as “infertile- reason unknown.”  I felt like it had taken us a year to get here, and I was looking for immediate answers. Little did I know, our journey was only now beginning- our infertility journey.

After months of waiting, it was finally the morning of our fertility consult. The consult wasn’t until the afternoon, so my husband and I both went to work that day. The days leading up to the consult, I had done some research on adoption/fostering options just in case. I never really processed the idea that we might not be able to have children together and have to adopt until the morning of our consult. Of course it didn’t hit me before my husband excitedly left for work, or even when I was showering as I did every morning. It’s as if the idea was a leaf, gently falling from a tree, and finally landing right as I was putting the final touches on my makeup. I rarely wear makeup, but today was different. I wanted to look my best and needed some faux confidence for the meeting that afternoon. I guess, in hindsight, I knew I was uneasy, but it didn’t hit me until that moment.

The conversation in my head (while staring at the mirror) went something like this:

• I’m so excited to find out what we can do.
• Finally! Someone to help us know why we haven’t been successful.
• I wonder if they can tell me why we couldn’t carry the first time.
• Wait, what if they tell me I can’t get pregnant?
• What if they tell me I can’t carry a baby full term?

Then the thought “What if they say, we can’t have our own kids?” Wow, that escalated quickly. In that single moment, as quickly as the thought came, I had a flood of tears.

The funny thing was, I didn’t even know I could feel this way. A few months before meeting my husband, I had decided that I wasn’t going to have kids. I wanted to work with orphans and help them, instead of my own children. In fact, I used to pray as a child that I would not have kids. This was actually a prayer I said… repeatedly… to God. I had literally prayed for infertility for many, many years.

In that moment, I finally realized why I had been researching adoption/fostering. Secretly, I was afraid I couldn’t have kids. That I was broken. Something was wrong with me and there was no way for me to now experience my new heart’s sole desire. What a horrible time to actually come to this realization- I was now running late, and I was doing that ugly cry. I mean, real, soulful, deep crying that I didn’t think would ever end. I suddenly felt alone, vulnerable, and it was too quiet outside of my head. I decided to turn on some music to at least numb my brain from thinking so much. I turned on Pandora and the song “I Need You” came on. I found the words to be expressing exactly what I felt in that moment. Lord, I truly need you. I need your wisdom, your guidance, your grace, your mercy, your love. Something reaffirming that he has me in the palm of his hand. There was a line that stuck out to me “When I cannot stand, I’ll fall on you.” I realized in that moment, I couldn’t stand (I was crouched over holding onto my counter- I told you, it was a deep, ugly cry). I found the song and played it 5 more times. The first time I was crying because I needed God. Around the third time, I realized I needed to trust in God. By the end of the fifth time, I wasn’t crying anymore. I was actually praising God for being everything I need. I decided I would just fall on him, and let him carry me through the day. This became one of the songs that I would use (and even my husband who doesn’t listen to Christian music) to get through my infertility journey. Little did I know that this was the beginning of a strengthening of me, my husband, our relationship, and our faith (individually and together). That deep cry became my beautiful beginning.