A Day in the Life of Infertility
by: Becca W.

I woke up early, rubbing my eyes, and looked at the clock. Six-thirty again. No use trying to sleep in these days. I reached over to grab the thermometer and slid it into my mouth for what seemed like the thousandth time; it was the three hundred and fortieth to be exact. After writing the number down, I got up and pulled on my worn flannel pants. It was time to start the day. 

The bathroom was only a few steps away, but today it seemed to take forever. My feet were like lead as I trudged into the bathroom. Toothbrush in hand, I started my daily routine. Then as I sat down, I saw what I dreaded every month. That was what I had been feeling-- it wasn’t nausea. It was the ache, that painful heaviness from my waist to my knees. With a deep breath in, I stood and looked at myself in the mirror for a long time. I pulled my hair into a ponytail and washed my face, fighting the urge to slip under the covers again and skip the day altogether. I reached down to kiss my dogs, and they licked me like they hadn’t seen me in weeks.

I opened the shower doors slowly and quietly, careful not to wake my husband. Then, stepping into the steaming waterfall, I closed my eyes and felt the water run down my aching body for what seemed like hours. Here I could cry and not feel the need to wipe my face or check my mascara. Instead, I let the shower wash my tears down the drain, undistinguishable from the water. Choking down my last sob, I reluctantly turned off the shower and stepped out. I rubbed a circle into the steamed mirror big enough to look at myself again. I was covered in red, blotchy patches from the heat, and my hair had already started to curl. I stared straight into my own eyes with hurt and fear. What if this body that had been without problem was suddenly failing to do what it was made to do? The separation of my mind and body was becoming increasingly obvious.   

After walking into my home office, I noticed I suddenly didn’t like the color of the walls. Red didn’t seem like the best choice for that day, and it was staring at me from all directions. I sat down at my desk for my morning Bible study, a ritual I had tried hard to make a habit. Opening my Bible and study book, I thought hard about the title. Becoming a Woman of Faith: how appropriate for that day, for my life.

My kitchen was a gathering place, a restaurant, and my haven all at the same time. Today it would be my therapist. I got out the five ingredients and read the recipe aloud as I followed its directions. There was something about making bread that made me feel like I had really accomplished something, like it didn’t matter how I messed up in other areas of my life because I could make really good bread. After mixing the ingredients, I threw the dough onto the counter and began to knead it with all my might. I focused on the repetitive motions until my mind could think of nothing else. When I had formed the dough and let it rise, I slid the pans into the warm oven with a sigh. In one way, I wasn’t ready for the process to be over; and in another, I couldn’t wait for the calming smell of bread to fill my house. 

With the bread in the oven, I got a load of towels from the dryer and dropped them on the couch. I plopped down beside them, feeling their warmth. Scooping a few towels onto my lap as a heating pad, I closed my eyes and laid my head back. When I woke up fifteen minutes later, my nose was filled with the aroma of my childhood, of Sunday lunches and homemade bread. I folded the towels and wondered what I would make for dinner.

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