I follow many bloggers’ stories: ones of infertility, ones of a single miscarriage, ones of recurrent pregnancy loss, ones of rainbow babies. Often left in awe of their courage through the desperate struggle to have a child, the words “I could never handle that” float around my head like a revolving record of fearful admiration.
During a phone conversation, my dad’s encouraging words of “you guys are brave” humbled me to a confusing mix of emotions. Moments of our journey over the past five years have leant themselves to acts of bravery on my part: enduring an amniocentesis after hearing our baby will likely die, contemplating the decision to terminate the pregnancy, enduring labor and delivery of a baby born too soon, choosing two more times how I wanted to experience my miscarriages. While Jason’s experience of each event is forever unknown to me, I cannot help but admire his strength in helplessly watching me go through each wretched procedure, each painful moment, each despondent attempt at saving all three of our babies. He, too, had impossible decisions to make. He, too, had to watch each baby slip away from our dreams, our lives, our future.
Put together each horrendous decision made, each frightful doctor’s visit, each worrisome moment of our pregnancies, and what is left is our life. It is nothing more than what we had to do, what we have to do, and what we will have to do. Every life is merely made up of moments. Every life, when crammed together through a lens of hindsight, demonstrates bravery through difficult journeys and persecutory trials. Viewing others’ lives, I see immense bravery. Viewing my life, I see what was given to me and what had to be done.
After reviewing our past, reliving many moments in vividly intimidating flashbacks, navigating the future is just as harrowing. Is continuing on this path how my life is meant to unfold?
Is it brave or crazy?
Maybe a toxic mixture of both is required to survive–and thrive.