Well. 2009 has been the year I never want to repeat. As I sit here with a few hours left until 2010 shows what I hope will be it’s lovely face, I inevitably think back on what the past year has dropped stinking on my doorstep:

2009 was supposed to be the year we had a baby. As each month ticked fruitlessly by, I quickly lowered my expectations from having a baby to getting pregnant. I learned that making plans is often totally pointless. I learned what it feels like to be betrayed by your body and left out of a secret, exclusive sorority called The Mommies. A sorority that people are effortlessly rushing on a daily basis.

2009 was the year when I first experienced what true grief and sorrow really is. Death touched me in a way that I had never known before with the loss of Everett. Sure, I had lost a dear grandparent before, but at the age of 90, it’s sort of what you expect out of life. But having someone taken before they should go, right out of the womb, that’s sadness. I learned what it means to feel totally helpless in alleviating the pain of the people you love. I learned how pain can bring people together in a strange, strengthening way.

2009 was the year I saw one of my best friend’s marriage end in flames. Actually, more like a bonfire made out of broken dreams (do you ever have to remind yourself why you read this blog?). I saw what a broken heart looks like and learned that they don’t mend easily. I learned what it means to support someone when things get really, really, hard.

2009 was the year that we learned we will have to go to great lengths to start a family. I learned about the beauty and terror of adoption.

2009 was the year of several friends’ miscarriages. I learned that sooner or later, the statistics will affect you or someone you love.

2009 was the year my previously-bionic husband had major leg & knee surgery that rendered him helpless for several weeks. I learned how much we take our agile bodies for granted. I learned what kind of wife I would be if something permanently tragic ever happened to Matt (the picture is not pretty). I learned how to ask for help, and in so doing, I learned that we have a particularly awesome support system around us.

2009 was the year our car got stolen. On Christmas. I learned to always double-check the locked doors.

Perhaps you can see why we have named 2009 The Year of Death, Divorce, and Reproductive Dysfunction. Sometimes I feel like I spent the year with a knife sticking out of my heart, and every couple of months, something would happen that would twist it just a little deeper. But 2009 changed my life in a way that no other year ever has. I know that while God has not caused these things to happen, he can use them to prepare us for what he wants to accomplish in our lives.

So here’s to 2010 being the year that bears the fruit of 2009.

I have heard it more than once. When hearing the news that we are adopting, people exclaim, “How much is that going to cost?”. Most of the time, I just tell them:

A lot.

It is true. Adoption is very expensive (think new car, sizable house down payment, new kitchen). The price is what keeps most people from even considering it as an option for their family. It also greatly depends on the kind of adoption you are pursuing. In a foster-to-adoption scenario, the cost is virtually nothing. International tends to more expensive than domestic, and every country is different. And then, within many domestic programs, the Caucasian children are more expensive than the minority-race and mixed-race children.

Yes, you heard me correctly.

The one agency we interviewed with such a structure said that the price difference was due to a variety of federal subsidies that offset the cost of minority-race adoptions to try encourage families to be open to such a situation. There is a great need for such families. But still. It makes me kind of uncomfortable. We decided that ultimately, we don’t want to support an agency with two different programs.

The good news is that there is a federal tax credit that will offset about half the cost of the adoption, and there are many grants and loans available specifically for adoption. The other good news is that while we do not have thousands of dollars sitting around (we went and blew them on a new roof), we have been blessed with the ability to more than pay our bills each month. Sometimes I think I can’t wait to start paying for this adoption so we can stop buying other stuff. Like a Roomba. Or two.

But if we were to rewind a few months, you would hear me complaining about how much our options would cost us no matter what. For us, without big-company health insurance, the cost of IVF would be completely out-of-pocket, and comparably priced to adoption. I remember being so angry that we would be making a large monthly payment for our child, when most people just walk in to the hospital, have their baby, and walk out. Thanks insurance! And I remember my panicked conversations about how we would manage to pay off the first child within a reasonable time frame so that we could have/adopt siblings.

And then, our friend Dale helped to put it into perspective. He said, “If someone told me that if I write a check for $100,000 dollars, they would give me Everett back, I would do it. I would gladly write that check today if I could have my child back. I would find that money.”

So one of my first prayers during this journey (I am really starting to get sick of that word. I need to find a new one) was to ask God to help me stop caring about the money. As my mom always says, “It’s just money. You can’t take it with you when you die.” I knew that I needed to get over the money thing so that I could make unclouded decisions based on things that really matter.

And you know what? He answered my prayer. I no longer care about the money. I know he will provide for me and my child, even if it means I have to clean my own floors.

Made you look, didn’t I?

If I can’t count my gestation just like everyone else (9 people now!), you better believe I am going to find something else to count. You know, so I can pretend to be a part of the club. Yesterday I decided to check the mail on my way out the door for a run. Buried in the middle of a bunch of Christmas cards, there was a letter from the agency. My hands shook and I stopped breathing for a few minutes while I tore it open to find the invitation. It was the invitation to the orientation meeting we have been waiting for. They had set the date! February 4! It is this orientation meeting that will allow us to start the application process with the agency.

You would think I had just been accepted to the college of my dreams or won 10 million dollars. YES, please let me drop some non-refundable cash to go to a meeting and be served a light dinner. SIGN ME UP. I have never written a check so fast in my life. But seriously, it is such a relief to have a concrete date to look forward to.

In other news, while we were at the hospital this week (Matt had major leg surgery), I got an email from the other agency, reminding us that they are “eagerly seeking” families for a certain kind of child. The kind of child we said we are happy to accept. In other words, if we just filled out all our paperwork, we would probably have a child right away.

Oh, do not tempt me.

I had to remind myself (and have other people remind me) of all the damaging information I had discovered about this agency. And then, as if I needed some more reminding, I got an additional “disrecommendation” from another adoptive family. You would think all this would be enough for me to just walk away. But the babies! That need homes! That could be mine! Tomorrow!

I am learning a lot about waiting during this time. I know that God’s timing is perfect, and that he is showing me, through all these glowing recommendations, which agency to use. If I can just make it through the next 6 weeks and 6 days.

Last night we finally made it to see The Blind Side. Before the movie even started, I knew I was going to love it, if not end up sobbing through the whole thing (although, to be fair, it doesn’t take much these days). I mean, how could I not love a movie with Sandra Bullock, Tim McGraw, football, transracial adoption, underprivileged children, overcoming educational adversity, and southern universities? I was right. I loved it and I cried for most of the movie. Some might say that perhaps it was a bit idealized, and I will admit that I can do a better southern accent than Sandra Bullock. But it was at least a heart-warming story that really made me think about the foster-to-adoption path. I don’t think that we are ready for that right now, but I hope that someday we are.

And then, when we got home, we flipped on the tv to find ourselves captivated by 48 Hours: The Lost Children. What a brilliant idea. I had actually heard one of the families’ story on This American Life a while ago, but this investigation went a bit deeper into the situation. The situation being that something like 85 American adoptive families, thinking they had adopted needy orphans from Samoa, had actually been the victims of a very large adoption scam. In reality, these children had been “stolen” from their loving, capable Samoan families. To say the adoptive families were the victims is not exactly accurate – everyone there was a victim. I encourage you to read/view the whole story for yourself. While I am grateful that the situation was uncovered and given the media attention, it is still sadly the only kind of story about adoption many will ever hear. Perhaps that’s why many people still have a negative, wary attitude towards adoption. More importantly, it’s why we are working so hard to find the right agency.

I found out some more damaging information about one of the agencies we visited a few weeks ago, the one we thought was a potential fit for us. I got another “disrecommendation” from an adoptive family, and then read several pages of awful, alarming reviews of the agency online. Some from birth mothers claiming that the agency stole their baby. Scary. The sad thing is that the agency is Christian, and claims they base their practices on their belief in Jesus Christ. Apparently not everyone got that memo. I will leave it at that for now. Perhaps I will open that can of worms later.

Imagine the following situation for a moment, if you will.

During a routine visit to her doctor, a young woman finds out she has cancer. Upon hearing the news, she is understandably devastated. She has her husband to confide in and comfort her, but she spends her nights crying and her days in a detached stupor.  She begins testing, treatment, more testing, and more treatment. The treatments make her ill and the process drains her emotionally. She tries to carry on with life as usual, but sometimes she is too sick or depressed to engage in life like she used to. But during the months and possibly years of treatment, she keeps her disease a secret. Nobody knows except her husband. Sometimes, she does a really good job of covering up her physical and emotional pain. Sometimes, she doesn’t, and her relationships suffer.

What would you think about this scenario? That the woman is crazy for not telling people that she has cancer? That she is missing out on the support and help of the people around her who love her?

Unfortunately, her story is not unlike that of a person facing infertility. Infertility, like cancer, is a disease. It does not threaten our lives or cause us daily physical pain if untreated. But it is still a disease. The treatment is expensive and painful, and the disease is alienating and widely misunderstood.

But it doesn’t have to be.

Since starting this blog, I have been receiving daily emails from friends and family who are in some way living a piece of this story. There are birth mothers. There are infertiles. There are failed IVF cycles. There are adoptees. And nobody wants to tell their story out loud.

Why do we feel so much shame in admitting we are infertile? Why do people get uncomfortable when we tell them we can’t get pregnant? Or that we had a miscarriage? Why do people think all birth mothers are loose, crack-addicted women who hate their babies but then want to take them back 10 years later? Why do men have such a hard time talking about their penis’ in a context besides where they put it?

Is it because our jobs as women, from the beginning of time, has been to bear and raise children? And if we can’t, our husbands will go all Abraham on us and find themselves a Hagar? We can talk about Hannah and Samuel as long as we’re in church. And they made a movie about Moses, one of the oldest adoption stories of all time.

I have appreciated you all sharing your stories with me. I hope this blog will help people to understand the journey of infertility and adoption. Because fair or not, the two worlds are inextricably linked, sometimes by their shame. And it just shouldn’t have to be that way.

When we were picking out paint colors for our upstairs renovations, we decided upon a cheerful yellow for our small third bedroom. You know, just in case. While painting that room in August, I remember thinking, this is going to make such a great nursery. Then, when we discovered our life plans were going to take a different turn, we affectionately renamed the room The Room of Broken Dreams.

This blog is so uplifting, isn’t it?

Over Thanksgiving, my baby nephew used the room for napping in his pack-and-play. The first time I walked past the room and caught sight of the crib in the corner, my heart stopped beating for a few seconds. I saw the room being used just as I had always imagined it. It was like I was watching some other version of my life being played out. It was really unnerving.

I don’t go into that room much. Granted, there isn’t anything actually in there, but it does have a really great view of the valley. We considered moving my office up there, but I knew it would be too difficult.

We have a few things to take care of before we can officially start the adoption process. Surgery, the holidays, some birthdays, more house projects. My attitude towards the upcoming months has been “just get through it”. I don’t want to give gifts, and I don’t want to receive them. I just don’t care.

But this weekend at church, Pastor Rock gave a sermon that really changed my perspective on things. You can listen to the whole sermon here, but he used Mary’s story to illustrate that before we arrive at a place of joy, we often have to walk through a place of pain first. Mary’s story was actually one full of pain. At the young age of 13 or 14, she got divinely knocked up, causing her husband-to-be to want to divorce her, and causing the community to look down upon her for finding herself another baby daddy. Her cousin Elizabeth was preggers with John the Baptist, and people were stoked about that. Nobody was excited about her shameful pregnancy. And then she had to give birth in a poop-filled stable and face 33 years of suspicious glances and whispers before her son was nailed to a tree.

Dang.

Yet, we are told that Mary counted this all as joy, and the outcome of her story was the most joyful thing our universe has known. I don’t know where the joy is at the end of my pain. I don’t know what it will look like. I don’t know how long it will take. I do know, however, that at the end of this road is a child. That child may already be conceived. And there will be pain surrounding the story for everyone involved.

I put a chair in The Room of Broken Dreams. I have decided to spend a few minutes each day there praying for my birth mother, my child, and for all the others out there that are walking a journey of pain, waiting for their joy. I know my joy is coming.

Watch out everyone, I am about to share my feelings. I know, I know, it’s like you don’t even know me anymore. Pretty soon this is going to turn into a Mommy Blog. Oh wait …

Here are some conversation replies I have been having in my head recently.

“We’re pregnant!”
Congratulations on being able to procreate!

“We’re pregnant!”
I really hope the baby makes it to 40 weeks. Alive.

“This morning sickness really sucks!”
Would you like to trade places?

“Look at this picture of my positive pregnancy test!”
Do you know how many negative ones are in my trash?

“Look at this picture of my ultrasound!”
One day I will see my baby on an ultrasound. It just won’t be in my uterus.

“I was up at 5am with the kids again!”
How blessed you are to have two healthy children at home that you get to spend extra time with!

“I really hate this pregnancy weight”
Maybe you should adopt. I heard it was easy.

“People who do IVF are selfish. There are so many children that need homes.”
Where are YOUR adopted children? You know, the ones with special needs?

“You should totally get a little black boy! They are so cute! Or maybe a little Korean girl!”
Yeah, cause it’s just like picking out some curtains.

“Your preference is for a Caucasian, right?”
Ummmm, this isn’t the 1960’s.

Don’t get me wrong. I am actually happy for you and your pregnancy, and I am not trying to diminish your joy. It’s just that your joy sometimes reminds me of my pain. And I am also not saying that adoption is second best. It is a totally different journey and I am excited and joyful to be on it. It’s just that the journey to this joy was paved with pain.

This week we met with two different adoption agencies to learn more about their programs. In total, we have met with three. Even before visiting any of them, I did some research – requesting packets, reading reviews, talking to my adoptive parent friends. Based on that information, I was totally sure going into the meetings that none of these three agencies would be in the running. But the meetings actually turned out to be really helpful and I found out that some of my objections were based on misinformation, or on situations that had been amended at the agency. We now feel like one of these three might be a good option.

Our biggest factor in choosing an agency is the quality of care that they provide to their birth mothers. Giving her child up for adoption will probably be the biggest and most difficult decision she will ever have to make. I need to be sure that the birth mother of my child was not pressured, coerced, or made to believe she would be an inadequate parent because she was not wealthy or married. I know how to find the resources I need to be a good adoptive parent. Many of the women in a crisis pregnancy do not have the resources they need to process their decision, make the best choice, and later grieve the loss they have experienced. I am counting on the agency to provide that help to them.

It was an emotionally draining two days. We have some new variables to consider. In particular, do we want to work with birth moms in other states? It would require travel to meet them, possibly for the birth, and an extended stay once the baby is born. While we are not keen on the travel, many other states allow the birth mother to terminate her parental rights after 72 hours, as opposed to weeks here. I know that sounds harsh, but those few weeks of waiting sound really, really scary. Each agency also handed us a huge stack of paperwork, including applications, reference requests, medical reports, family history reports, FBI and criminal clearances, contracts, discipline agreements, reading lists, as well as funding and financial information. As I sat at the table looking through everything, it really hit me how hard this road is going to be. There are so many hoops you have to jump through before you even get to be considered by a birth mother. Hoops that other parents will never know. For them, you have sex, wait 40 weeks (less if you’re lucky!), and have a baby. They don’t have to prove that they will make good parents.

We have one more agency we want to visit before we make our final decision. Due to it’s multiple glowing recommendations, we have a feeling it will be “the one”. We are in for a bit of a wait, however, as they only hold their orientation meetings 2-3 times a year. The next one is set for February. The wait is absolutely killing me. Especially since seven of my friends and family have recently announced pregnancies. Seven.

Mom:
“What do you want for Christmas?”

Me:
“How about a baby? Can you find me one of those?”

Mom:
“Well, did you check the bulrushes? I heard that was a good place to look.”