The Odds of My Body Being a Home

The first time I remember experiencing the deep desire to be a mom, I was twelve. I mean, I’d expressed that I wanted to be a mom before! The care I took in “raising” my American Girl Dolls was evidence enough – they were always dressed for school, changed into play clothes, and wore pajamas to bed each and every day. They had very distinct personalities, and each girl had her own unique needs that I faithfully sought to care for. For example, Kit had a reckless streak that often ended with her injured– she spent one summer in a wheelchair! I “signed her up” for equestrian lessons as a “healthy outlet” for her active energy.

I don’t remember what triggered the desire at age twelve. I just wanted kids of my own one day! I wanted to hear little feet running down the stairs, calling, “Maaaammmmaaaa.” I wanted to recreate the best parts of my childhood – the parts my own mama gave me – for littles I could call my own.

The knowing came at age fourteen.

Again, I don’t know what the trigger was. I just know that I knew. I knew that I would be a mom one day. It was a promise the Lord embedded in my soul.

I went into total organ failure right after my 18th birthday. I missed the last two weeks of high school as my medical team tried to stabilize my body and make a plan. My body had rejected all the medications that would keep a flaring autoimmune disease at bay, and I didn’t have three months to wait for a new one.

So a month later, I had my first of three major abdominal surgeries.

It was supposed to take six hours to make five incisions, remove my large intestine, pull my small intestine out through my stomach, and sew me back together.

And while I had no idea what life was going to look like when I woke up, I had every expectation of eating supper on the night of my surgery – perks of being a type 1 diabetic and having the 6 AM surgery slot 😉

And let me tell you – I was distressed to wake up in recovery at 7 PM and discover I wouldn’t be having supper!

See, that six-hour surgery? It took nearly ten. And with my slow metabolism of anesthesia, I was out the rest of the day.

In the days that followed, as my brain slowly cleared from the fog of anesthesia and heavy pain medication, I was told about the complications they found when they entered my abdomen.

And I was informed that my ovaries had been outside of my body for most of the surgery.

See, I had what is known as a “super-colon,” and despite how it sounds, a “super-colon” is more supervillain than super-cool.

I have a distinct memory of my surgeon smiling and telling me, “We wrapped your ovaries well, and they looked great when we put them back in.” I didn’t think much of it at the time, but following my second surgery, my surgeon commented that, “Your ovaries looked great! We didn’t see any adhesions from last time.”

I don’t know where in my year of surgeries, complications, and hospitalizations that I was told, but at the ripe old age of 18, a freshman in college, I was told that it was unlikely I would ever conceive and bear a child.

I remember the disbelief on my mom’s face. These surgeries saved my life, but no one knew it came at the expense of my fertility. I remember my then-17-year-old sister sitting me down to talk about surrogacy. This was not the last time she would offer her body as a vessel for my family.

I remember looking up the numbers. Doing the math. Trying to figure out the odds of my body being a home. For a woman with no complications and no other autoimmune diseases, there was only a 20% chance of conception and pregnancy.

I am not her, though.

I had complications. With all three surgeries and all three recoveries.

I have other autoimmune diseases. A list of them, actually.

My colorectal surgical team said there was little-to-no hope for my fertility. My gastroenterology team confirmed that.

So I wove that into my fabric.

But not as a certainty – my God is too big for that!

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When TR showed up out of the blue the night I graduated college and announced that he loved me, he asked if I would go on a second date with him.

I agreed to a second date.

The man took that “yes” and began calling me his girlfriend. I know, I know. He has a much better handle on communication, clarity, and consent now 😉

Two weeks later, he drove six hours for our second date. I sat him down and said, “I can’t date you until I know your answer to three questions.”

He answered my first two the way I hoped he would, and then I said, “I can’t promise you biological children. I’ve been told I won’t be able to have them. If you’re not open to fostering kids and/or adoption as ways to expand a family, we’re not going to work.”

We went on our second date the next day.

I told him I loved him the day after.

Seven months later, we got married.

And almost four years later, we started talking about growing our family.

In our Knotty Living community, approximately 45% of the women are either trying to conceive (TTC) or struggling to conceive.

You do not wait alone. You do not grieve alone.

And since this is a space is dedicated to these hard-to-navigate, sensitive, tangled moments in our lives, I’m going to go first.

I’m going to share my story.

So that you might believe you are not alone.

My story is going to be different than yours – that’s why I’ve told you about the odds of my body being a home to a child. Because my story starts in such a wildly different place than most.

The beauty of our stories are the threads that weave us together. Our stories, though different, bind us together. As women. As sisters. As images of God that have the capacity to shed blood and give life.

You’re not alone, sister.

I promise – no matter your story or stage of life – this is true.

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And I’m going to tell you this next thing, so you can prepare your heart in whatever way you need and because I don’t believe in trigger warnings.

My story includes pregnancy.

It includes miscarriage, both chemical and early.

And it includes life.

You do not wait alone.

You do not grieve alone.

You do not walk your fertility journey alone.

Talk soon 🖤