All my life, I've heard stories of brave heroes and heroines. I pictured epic battles of good versus evil, facing perils and danger, and being afraid, but fighting anyway. I thought being brave meant being willing to stand up and slay the dragon. Doing something big for someone else in the face of danger. Protecting the defenseless at great risk to yourself. Bravery was standing up to bullies, standing up for what is right in front of your peers. Being brave was noble, and public and I don’t know what else. And I agreed with the line in The Princess Diaries: "Courage is not the absence of fear, but rather the realization that something else is more important."
A year or so ago, I was sitting in my living room, lost in thought. I was quite content with my two little kiddos. The thought of going through pregnancy and that sleepless first year seemed so overwhelming, but even more than that, I didn’t feel a push or an inkling that there was another kid waiting for me. I remember thinking that two was a great number of kids. In the middle of my reflection, for some reason, I pictured Rachel graduating from high school and heading off to college. I could see that moment so clearly, helping her move into her new apartment, and then heading home to our empty house. I had a thought pop into my head that I know didn't come from me. I wondered if, in that moment, future me would regret that I wasn't brave now.
This was an aspect of childbearing that I had never considered before.
I've learned in the last few years that not everyone is meant to have a quiver full of children, most of the time through no lack of trying and no lack of being brave. In fact, I know so many that have bravely faced the challenge of infertility, miscarriage, and adoption over and over again. I can't even fathom what they've gone through, especially after knowing what
my heart has gone through in facing my much smaller challenges.
I realized that when it came to considering having another baby, I was full of fear—fear of another miscarriage, fear of
feeling lousy for nine months. Fear of being a cranky monster for the first
year. Fear of riding the hormone train again. Fear that I wasn’t good enough. Fear
of being a bad mom. Fear of letting down another little person with all my
shortcomings. Fear of facing all that emotional baggage I’ve been slowly working through since that first miscarriage back in 2011.
And, I knew if I felt good about another little person, that
I needed to step up and be brave. That I would never regret being brave, trying again--even if my efforts failed--but I most certainly would regret not being brave.
Somehow, this summer, I got excited about having another baby. I finally felt like there was another little person waiting to join our family. The timing felt right. I had my first positive pregnancy test on August 18, and Brian and I were giddy with excitement.
And then it hit--the awful nausea, fatigue, and the other first trimester business. On top of that, I had to play the check-the-HCG-numbers waiting game, reminding me of so many disappointing blood draws that confirmed those miscarriages. They checked my progesterone levels, and they were lower than they should have been, so my doctor prescribed progesterone tablets. Then the nurse called and said she wanted me to be on an antibiotic because of something they found in my prenatal lab work. And I got a cold to boot.
My parents Skyped one day during all this. They asked me how I was doing. I said, "I don't feel good." To which they responded, "Yeah, you don't look like you're feeling well." And I remembered about being brave.
Sometimes, being brave isn't glamorous. Sometimes, being brave is signing yourself for a whole lot of unpleasantness that no one sees or realizes is even happening because the end goal is more important than months or years of heartbreak and misery. It's facing fears, knowing full well what lies ahead, and deciding to pursue the course anyway.
Sometimes, being brave is having a breakdown in your bathroom--the kind where you dissolve into a puddle on the floor, reliving your lost babies and wondering if you will break if you lose another one. And deciding that it is still worth it. And that it's okay if you still grieve over those lost ones.
Sometimes, being brave is asking for prayers when you'd rather pretend like everything is fine. Sometimes, it's admitting you're not fine and giving someone else an opportunity to serve you.
Sometimes being brave is feeling those clothes you've worked so hard to fit into for months slowly getting tight again.
Sometimes, being brave is putting a meal in the crock pot in the morning, hoping that you will still be interested in it by the time dinner rolls around.
Sometimes being brave is letting your friends know about your pregnancy way before you really want to tell them, because you know you're going to need their help getting through this.
And whenever I'm drowning in discouragement and a little depression, I look at those two beautiful kiddos of mine and remind myself it is all worth it. That "Courage is not the absence of fear, but rather the realization that something else is more important." And if that doesn't work, I cry, and Brian reminds me that I really can do this.
