Part 4: When Dim Turns To Darkness

A few days later (after my check up appointment), I get the phone call I never want to get. 

It was Monday, April 10, 2017....6 days before my 33rd birthday.

I’m at work, so I duck into an empty room. The doctor on the other end sounds so serious. This can’t be good. 

And already, mind spinning, mouth dry.

I piece together his words, like a nightmare of a puzzle, one I’d halfway expected and at the same time never thought would actually be a reality. 

“Your anti-mullerian hormone level is really low. It’s a level we expect to see in someone in their 50’s, not their 30’s. It indicates diminished ovarian reserve. If this is accurate, I'm going to send you to a specialist right away.”

Anti-malaria what?! I’ve never had malaria. I’ve taken malaria pills before...oh my gosh, did that cause this?!

Diminished ovarian reserve? what the heck is that? how? oh God, HOW?

why are my ovaries acting like they’re 50? who told them they could do that? 

my eggs are gone? where the heck did they go? 

And through the racing thoughts, I hear him say it might be a mistake and he would like a redraw. 

But I know. 

I know after months of let-downs, not to let my hopes up. It’s not a mistake. I’ve known all along, haven’t I?

So I hold back sobs enough until I find a coworker friend and bawl on her shoulder. But then I have to make the dreaded phone call to Stephen. He needs to know. Needs to know that his wife really is a failure. 

Her body really is failing us. 

I go to the back hallway, sneak into an empty room, close the door...call Stephen and ask if he’s got a few minutes, if he’s sitting down, as I sit down myself. I recount details the best I can, my head throbbing for holding back the tears, willing my voice to be normal as a rush of emotion is dying to come out. 

He takes it all in stride. I’m not really sure if he knows what it all means. But he sounds strong, steady. Sad, but sure. He says we’ll talk more when I get home.

I hang up and try not to lose it. Try not to let the dam break loose. 

Not here. 

Now now. 

In an empty birthing room, all by myself. I let some sobs out. Enough to hold the rest of the pressure inside. I have a shift to finish, laboring patients to take care of. Three more long hours left. 

It’s a day where everything changes in an instant. Where the fear in my gut finds a voice, but in that same moment as my body goes hot and cold and numb, where my eyes sting with a rush of tears, there is that steady Voice answering...

I am in control.

I Am.

I Am that I Am.

That is the One in control.

Another hour slowly passes. 

I get a chance to sneak into the bathroom, and as my world spins, I steady myself on the bathroom sink and repeat the words from Psalm 46 that He etched into my heart only two nights before:

God is our refuge and strength,

A very present help in trouble.

Therefore we will not fear,

though the earth gives way

And though the mountains slip 

into the heart of the sea;

Though its waters roar and foam,

Though the mountains quake at its swelling pride.

There is a river whose streams 

make glad the city of God,

The holy dwelling places of the Most High.

God is in the midst of her,

She will not be moved;

God will help her when the morning dawns. 

I needed His help.

I finished my shift, and drove home. 

But it didn’t get better that night. I felt like I was spiraling downward. And fast. 

I didn’t know what to think, to feel. Numbness set in pretty quickly. 

But Stephen was hopeful. He knew God was bigger than this. 

That afternoon after our phone conversation He went to Scripture. To a verse that was paramount for Him in our dating relationship.

So I say to you: Ask and it will be given to you; seek and you will find; knock and the door will be opened to you. For everyone who asks receives, the one who seeks finds; and to the one who knocks, the door will be opened. 

Which of you fathers, if your son asks for a fish, will give him a snake instead? Or if he asks for an egg, will give him a scorpion?

Wait. An egg?? That’s not what it said last time he read it! He looked again. It said egg. How could that be? What’s happening? Then he looked at the book he was in: Luke 11. 

The verses God had revealed to him years before was from Matthew 7. It says this:

Which of you, if your son asks for bread, will give him a stone? Or if he asks for a fish, will give him a snake? 

Oh my sweet Lord, you brought him right to that verse in Luke because you had a message for him. For us. 

You will give us an egg. 

You’re not giving us a scorpion. This journey might feel like scorpions all around. But You, God, You have an egg.

What a sweet reminder, a direct Word from God immediately following the hard news.

But for me, the next morning happened in slow motion. The day before’s lab results still a reality. The night before’s conversation of how my body was failing us still in my mind.

We woke up, Stephen held me before he left for work, told me he loved me, whispered in my ear “I choose you, today and every day,” and off to work he went. (He had no idea how in the coming months, those words would be a lifeline. A reminder of his steady resolve to choose me, no matter what, children or not. It’s amazing how the mind can play tricks, tell you things that are so far from truth. Why would he want to be married to you? You’re not pretty enough. You’re not faithful enough. And on top of it all, you can’t even have children! Then these words would softly come back to me in the midst of those dark thoughts. I choose you, today and every day. I would take a deep breath and choose to trust him.) 

But this morning, I grabbed the tissue box and went back to bed. The dam finally gave way. Mind a mess of thoughts, none good. Tears, big crocodile tears, running down my face. 

Then sobs. Thank goodness for pillows. And being in a house all alone. Somehow the sobs don’t seem as bad muffled in a pillow. 

And somewhere in the middle of it, I remember what I learned in nursing school about self-care and grieving and I know you can’t stay in bed all day. I get up to try to eat something, and I want to go to the park. 

I get as far as the kitchen before I melt in a puddle on the floor, gutteral sobs coming from my body. 

A sound I’ve never heard before. 

It scares me enough to pick myself up and move again. I go to the park. 

Outside. 

Where God always is. 

And no one would know me. Phone in hand, I stumbled - quite literally - down the path. It was too noisy. I turned around, drove to another park. More secluded. No people. No street noise. 

Just me and God. 

And this song “Psalm 46 (Lord of Hosts)” found its way through my phone speakers. It was on repeat. 

Lord of Hosts, You're with us
With us in the fire
With us as a shelter
With us in the storm
You will lead us
Through the fiercest battle
Oh where else would we go
But with the Lord of Hosts

Thank You, Lord, for helping me when I was literally at my lowest. Truth washing over my soul when my thoughts couldn’t be trusted. 

I think I managed to shower when I got home, put on some make up and have something ready for dinner before Stephen came home that night, his shell of a wife could at least look the part.

I took this picture that day at the park. I'm not sure why really.
I was laying on a picnic table, the "Lord of Hosts" song on repeat,
and the sky was so massive, so beautiful. And the sun, so piercing.
It's ironic now, the intense light in the darkest of dark,
that's right where God meets us...in the dark...
and He is the Light.

Thank the Lord, our journey doesn't end there. Part 5: Easter Eggs coming soon!