Signs

This past weekend, Grey and I journeyed to our sanctuary. The journey was not without complications, as we encountered a snow storm while making our way down the coast. At one point, the storm was so bad that we almost didn't make it. At that moment, we looked at one another, remembering similar moments during our journey through infertility and decided to chance the road for a few more minutes.  Through luck and cautious driving, we made it to our destination.

Sunday morning, I awoke to familiar panges from menstrual-like cramping. As I cursed my body while hunting for the Advil, I turned over and looked out onto the ocean.The view from our room is the same as the one above.  I began to watch the waves as they rolled into the shore. As each wave crested, slamming into the shore, so did my cramps peak. Before long, I was left only with the waves. Mesmerized with the peaceful roar and they're steady pattern, becoming lost in their beauty. It was only then, as the snow began to fall, that I knew it was time to let go of my fear of the future and move to the final stages of my grieving process. Acceptance, reconstruction and hope. 

Being at the ocean has always been a spiritual experience of sorts. I grew up around lakes and always found peace with being near water. But the coasts of the Pacific Northwest have an added element due to the cooler temperatures, leaving them shroud in mists a lot of the time. Though sunbathing is a rare event in the winters, I've learned that wandering through those mists can be incredibly therapeutic when all seems hopeless in the world. 

This time as different from anything I have every seen before, though. The winter storm brought with it lots of precipitation in the form of snow and I saw some of the fattest snowflakes I've ever had the pleasure to behold. With the snow was an added level of silence, muting the roar of the waves so that it all seemed like a dream. Moments later, the clouds parted and suddenly a large rainbow appeared in the sky. Wide at the base and with a full arch. And with that rainbow, peace finally returned to my heart. Somehow, things are going to be okay.

Grey and I spent the trip reconnecting and regrouping. We talked candidly again about the plan, with me offering options that I never would have considered before. Finally, in a moment where I felt like I would lose myself, he held me and reminded me that we promised not to break ourselves in order to bring a child into this world. Because the reality was, if we were broken, how could we be good parents? It doesn't mean we'll be giving up, it just means that the plan is firmly in place for the next 6 months. We will try again. We will give it our all. And no matter the outcome, we will move forward together.

Today, I'm no longer frightened. I don't know what the future holds for us, but all doubts from decisions in the past are gone. Sure, there's everything that I could have done. But there's no guarantee that the outcome would have been different or for the better. I've made the best decisions I could during those times and despite how much infertility sucks, I don't know if I would have done things differently.