Everyday I help women bring their babies into this
world. I help and rejoice and listen to
the wonder in their words and watch the amazement in their eyes. I watch and listen to this and can’t help but
think “Why not me?”
I’ve driven home in tears because of beautiful deliveries
and beautiful families and not knowing when my time will come. I trust that God knows what he’s doing, but
that doesn’t make this time any easier.
I’ve had those patients that have struggled with infertility
for years and finally they get to welcome a new baby into their family. I’ve had those patients who didn’t know they
were pregnant for months. I’ve had those
patients that do drugs throughout their pregnancy and don’t deserve to be a new
parent. I watch people of all kinds of
backgrounds come through the hospital and I do my best to love every one of
them. But then I go home and wonder why
them? Why not me?
I wonder if I’ve done something or am doing something. Is this my fault? People reassure me that it's
not, but I’m at a loss. Would I be a bad
parent? God promises that he will set
the barren woman in a home as a happy mother of children, but I know people for
which this doesn’t happen.
I get down on my knees in prayer. I weep and cry out to
God. I beg and cry; I get mad at
him. Nothing that I do makes any
difference. It seems to me that my
prayers aren’t being heard. I’m surrounded by pregnant women at work both my
patients and co-workers, at church, my family…it's hard. As happy as I am for all of them, it's hard to watch their happiness and not know if my dreams will every be fulfilled.
I help others bring their babies into the world but I can't help myself and my husband. Every month the hope grows only to be crushed...again. And again. Hope hurts.
People ask me all the time when we're going to have kids and its like a punch in the stomach, or in the heart. It's not up to me. It's up to God. I keep praying and as much as I don't want it to, the hope keeps coming back.
