Why I Wear Orange

This week is National Infertility Awareness Week {April 19-25, 2020}. While we are now parenting on the other side of infertility, it's still a topic that is close to my heart. It's part of our story, and the journey we walked before we became parents through Embryo Adoption. There has certainly been healing since we were walking the dark days of infertility, but the scars still remain. 

One in eight couples experience infertility. So even if it's not an experience you have personally faced, you probably know someone, even if they don't make it known to you. Facing the news that you will not be able to build the family that you dreamed about the way you had hoped is devastating and life changing. Even "on the other side," I have to admit that surprise pregnancy announcements still sting a little, and I still grieve the loss of our own genetic child. The pain is not as raw now as it once was, but I still feel the ache in my heart sometimes. And I don't think that will ever go away. 

While you're walking through infertility, you can feel so alone. It seems as though everyone around you is getting pregnant, and so easily. Why does it seem so hard for you? But month after month passes by, and you are constantly left with a negative pregnancy test, wondering when {and even more scarily, if} it will ever be "your turn." 

One of the things I am grateful for in our journey is all of the people we talked with who could say "me too." There is something comforting and empowering knowing, for a fact, that you are not alone. Don't get me wrong...it still felt lonely. Because the people closest to me weren't walking the same road and couldn't relate, no matter how hard they tried. But along the way, we met so many couples that felt the sting of infertility, struggled with the financial aspect of building a family, and just simply understood what it meant to be infertile. I am so grateful for those relationships, for the men and women who opened up their private lives to mere strangers, willing to share their story. 

And I pray every day that I can do the same for others. The Lord has placed numerous people in my life with whom I have been able to share our story. Even at the risk of being the weirdo stranger, I have reached out just to let them know they're not alone, and I am available to talk if they needed. Some people never responded, and I can understand that. Infertility is such an intimate thing. But the vast majority have responded, and I pray that our story has been an encouragement to them. I have prayed alongside countless couples, through their appointments and procedures or in their monthly waiting, and have had the privilege of grieving with them in their losses and rejoicing over the babies the Lord has provided. 

There are so many "unfair" things on the infertility road. It's unfair that you can't get pregnant, but your brother just has to look at his wife and BAM! they're pregnant. Again. It's unfair that you have to shell out thousands of dollars just to have a chance at getting pregnant. It's unfair that you do everything right, go through all the tests and procedures, only to miscarry. It's unfair that there is no insurance coverage for fertility treatments. It's unfair that you have to wait another month because you already depleted your savings, or your hormone levels aren't right, or you simply can't get the time off work to go to that appointment. And right now, I am thinking about and grieving with all the couples whose cycles, procedures, appointments have been cancelled because of all this COVID-19 mess. Just one more unfair thing on this road. 

So today, I wear orange for them. For all the couples still walking the heartbreaking and exhausting road of infertility. For the couples that just heard the life-changing diagnosis of infertility. For the couples grieving the loss of the family for which they hoped. For the couples exhausted from all the trying, the appointments, the procedures, the negative pregnancy tests. For the couples whose doctor appointments and procedures have been put on hold yet again. 

You are not alone. I see you, I grieve with you. And I'm "on the other side," hoping that you can hear me when I say that it gets better. This journey will definitely change you, but if you let it, it will make you stronger. This won't always be your life. You will be ok.