Is Foster Care Right for Your Family?

Interview with Delilah
Introduced by Amy

You know how you meet certain people and you can just tell that they got smarts?  Like they just know what's going on.  That's how Delilah is.  She is funny, capable, thoughtful, and welcoming to everyone...she is such a cool momma!

I met Delilah at church when my husband and I moved to our town about 2 years ago.  (Remember the Epic Treehouse Playdate post?  Delilah and her kids came!)  As I got to know her better, I was amazed at her journey to motherhood.  She has four kids; the first three are adopted-- each of them came to their family first through foster care.  Then the miracle baby, Jasper, came unexpectedly when Delilah became pregnant after experiencing years of miscarriages and infertility.

This is Delilah! With baby Jasper at my parent's treehouse.

I was so interested to hear about her experience being a foster parent, especially since she also has the background of a social worker/foster care educator.  My personal interest in foster care started when I met my friend Lawanna, a sassy, hilarious girl from inner-city, Little Rock, Arkansas.  She was living as a nanny with a family in my town.  When the nanny job ended, I invited her to stay with my family until she knew what she wanted to do next.  She stayed for two months...we laughed our heads off every day!  It was fun being roomies, even though she made fun of my white girl dance moves. (ha!)  As we became close, she told me stories about her difficult childhood and I was appalled to hear about some of the foster homes she was in.  Most homes she bounced in and out of, and she often dealt with neglect and abuse.  I remember being so frustrated thinking, "These kids deserve and need sooo much better!"

I've thought about foster care ever since meeting Lawanna.  These children need safe homes, they need love, and they need stability--especially the older ones who people aren't generally clamoring to bring into their homes.  When I was teaching Jr High and High school Art, many times it was the troubled kids who gravitated toward me and confided in me.  It was pretty heartbreaking to hear their struggles. I was so glad I could be a trusted adult in their life, but I felt so limited in the amount of practical good I could do as their public school teacher.  It made me want to do more; even one person's positive influence can change a life!

But foster care is a big choice.  Sometimes you hear the sad stories where there is a foster child brought into a home, and then that child abuses one or more of the other children in the family, because they are just acting out on what they have been victims of themselves.  I have to admit, this scares me.  I would have such a hard time forgiving myself if I had allowed harm to come to one of my own children, even in trying to help another.  I think that is a valid concern and one that takes careful consideration as to the ages of the children you will have placed in your home, their genders etc. in comparison to your own children, as well as the specific struggles in their background.

But, the one question I've wondered, over and over is: Can I (can we--my husband and I) do it?  These children are  coming from hard situations.  Can I be patient, loving, and firm enough to be a good foster mother?  Do I have the emotional resilience myself?  It's been a wake-up call to have my own child...parenthood is not easy.  So am I really a good fit for the extra challenge of foster care?

But then I think, "These children!  They have lived through so much suffering by no fault of their own. No child should grow up without knowing security and peace."

It's a big decision, one that my husband and I are not ready to make right now, having a toddler and a baby on the way.  But it has been so nice to talk to Delilah and get a realistic idea of what it actually entails to be a foster parent, for that time in the future when we are ready to make a decision.

I am SO happy Delilah agreed to share her insights here at SOM; I hope that you find this interview helpful, whether you've ever wondered if foster care would be right for your family or even if you're just curious about the process.  Enjoy!
-Amy

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Ok, Delilah...How did you first get involved in foster care?

Well, I was a social worker and a lot of my friends worked at child protective services. I was working at the domestic violence center and I had a friend who was frustrated looking for a family for a child--we often talked about our jobs and she expressed this need. I was newly married, for about a year, and wanted kids.  I thought, "Ya know, I can be a mom to these kids till my family comes." So we signed up and took the classes and did the background check and we got a baby within two months of finishing the training. It wasn't overwhelming cause I worked in daycare all through college and I am the oldest in my family so it wasn't a big deal to me. It was really fun and we had him for 8 months. He ended up being adopted by one of his relatives. Now, he’s growing up with his cousins.

What is the goal of foster care?

Reunification. That means, you are caring for kids temporarily while the parents have the time they need to get healthy. And foster parents need to know and be ok with that. We want the children to be able to return to their parents. Most kids go back to their families, but that number is dropping everywhere in the nation. There’s a big push nationally for kinship care, so when a child has to be taken from their home, they try to place them with kin (blood relative comes first) or anyone that the family deems as kin (like a neighbor that the kids have grown up with, someone close to the family.) When a kid goes into care, they hold a family meeting and everyone who is connected to that kid can come to have a say. Even their school teacher can be there. They are trying to see what support there is for this child.  It’s usually at that meeting that someone will step forward to say that they can care for this child.  If there isn't someone among the kin who is able and willing to take in the child and be their foster parent, then they will look for another foster family to place the child in.

How does a child get put into care?

There has to be a law broken for a kid to end up in care. A super dirty, unsanitary house is considered endangerment of a child. Law enforcement declares a child in imminent danger, then they press charges, and then the social worker comes in with law enforcement to take the child into custody. A neighbor may call in who is worried, who knows something is up, and a social worker can come in and visit the family. If they see a problem they will contact the law.

How can you know if foster care is a good fit for you and your family?

When you come to the foster care training it lasts 9 meetings and that’s really where you can go through the process of deciding if it fits or not. Sometimes people think "I’ve always wanted to do this," then in the classes they realize it’s not what they thought it was. And’s that’s totally ok. We would rather people go into that class and opt themselves out, then go through the whole process, then we place kids with them, and then they change their minds and we have to move the kids again. We are trying to prevent as much loss and change as possible for these children. We need to keep the kids in a stable place, that is the goal.

Foster care is hard. There’s nothing easy about it. The families that do well are those who want to provide a service for kids in need. Sometimes we have couples who have already raised their kids. But they may have limitations because of their age, so maybe they could have a 10-year-old, but not an infant. They can do well.  They have the skills. They are talented parents. They are calm and let things roll. They understand child development. And they do a great job.

But you don't necessarily have to have already raised your kids. Every couple has to decide during that training what age of children they can take.  They have to look at their own families needs.  And there are guidelines: for example, kids of opposite sex can’t share a bedroom. Any foster child has to be in a room that has an egress window so a firefighter can get in and out. It depends on space and what the family wants. Most families want a baby or a younger kid. But, will we call you if we have a sibling group of 10, 11, 12?  Absolutely. When there’s a need, we call. And, you completely have the right to say no.  You wouldn't end up in any situation you didn't agree to. But, we want people to know, when you sign up for a service, sign up for a service. If they are really narrow in what children they are willing to take, they just sit on the list. We can't utilize them for the need. Most often, we have sibling groups who need to be placed and we want to keep them together. My family has mostly had younger kids, but we also had a girl come at 14, and she stayed till she was 18.

In the training we coach foster parents what questions to ask, so that they don't end up in a situation that they aren't aware of.  Like “Has there been sexual abuse?" or "Are they behind in school?”  Whatever info the caseworker has about the child that would be helpful, then they will give that information. They don't always know about all the problems, but they can tell what they do know. Sometimes a child will start talking more about what was going on in their home once they are in a safe place and feel ok talking. They don't always talk through words though, they talk through behavior. They are little--they don't know how to communicate what they are feeling. I mean, even as adults we have a hard time with communicating!

So what then would you say are the most important characteristics of someone who would make a good foster parent? How can someone know personally if they can hack it?

It takes desire. They need that motivation: they want it to work. If that’s there, it seems to be ok. They figure it out. And really, all parents are figuring it out as they go. Oh, and they need endurance. Cause there’s a honeymoon stage at first, and then it gets real.

What are the hard parts?

Foster care kids have counseling, behavior workers...your appointments double.  They have visits with their birth parents to go to, doctors and dentists, cause usually they are behind and you're catching them up. They may also need tutoring. And court dates. Your schedule is busy.

From my personal experience, a really hard part is the bad behavior. I didn't struggle with the system or rules or the regulations…the things I struggled with personally are when it really got real. And, surprisingly, that didn't happen till after adoption. Tayja finally realized she wasn't going anywhere else. She was so angry at her situation (she was 5 when we adopted her)--it was a living hell. She was so mad, and since I was the closest person to her, she was mad at me. She was mad at this mom idea, and here I was standing in place of the mom that she wanted, and I was the mom that she got. It wasn't her fault. And I was having my own process at the same time. I was tired. I got two infants, one after another. Draden was a year and a half old, and then I got a brand new baby, Chloe, and two weeks later I got Tayja. I was alone, because my husband is a firefighter, and he was away fighting fires. It was sad too, cause Tayja's mother did all the work to get Tayja back, but the night before she was supposed to get her daughter, she ended up in jail. I think she got scared that she couldn't do it, so she sabotaged it for herself. Technically, a child can only be in care 18 out of 22 months consecutively--they file termination of parental rights at that point.  But, because Tayja's Native American, she was in two different systems, and she had been in care off and on till she was 5. They have to try to place native kids in native homes, (they try to keep a child within their culture) and my husband is native, so they called us first.  So after thinking she'd finally be back with her mom, it didn't happen.  She was also losing a sister, cause she had a sister who was placed in another home. Tayja was angry because of loss. She was grieving. It was hard.

So as intense as the problems were, that's how intense the behavior will be.  They are communicating pain. For most of the kids, in the homes they came from, there’s love there, but it’s not a matter of a lack of love. I want foster families to understand that. It’s not that simple. We are people and we are not that simple. It’s harder than what we understand. There's problems and addictions that are so hard to overcome, even if they want to. When a child has to be taken from a home, it is very traumatic for the child and the parents. But, there is usually some small amount of relief on the parent’s part. But, for the kids, it is always just loss. They are grieving. And they often go into shock the first night, like it’s not truly sinking in until the next morning.

I would say though that truly the hardest part was recognizing that I had limits--dealing with the bad behavior brought those limits out. I needed more education and learning. It was very humbling. We both were in different processes at the same time, and it was really emotional. I was angry for Tayja too. I had known and worked with her mother for years. I loved her mother. It was hard to see her not succeed.

What are the parts that make foster parenting worth it? What makes you passionate about foster care?

It’s all worth it if a child isn't sad or hungry for the night. You make a difference in their life daily. You can show them that there’s love and hope and goodness in this life.  They have seen the bad and the ugly, way too much for their age, and they want to believe that good exists, but they are having a hard time believing it, because of the actions of others. They are little people living these big problems. If we can help them have good in their life, then it’s all worth it. You instill that there’s another way to live. You're lifting the weight. It’s totally wrong for kids to be in pain.

I love this family!

How can someone get started as a foster parent?

In Idaho you call 211 (the Idaho careline) and they will help you get an application-- paper or online. When you complete that, it is sent to the coordinator, then phone calls are made, and fingerprints are taken. And then you go to the classes. You can also check out informational meetings, typically held at a local library about every two months. These are a great introduction. You get to talk to foster parents and ask them questions.

Ok, final words!

Not one of my children came easy. God’s hand was with every child through the whole process. That’s what helped me to keep going--God's little testaments to me that said, "This is my plan."  And now, Tayja believes that we will be there for her. She believes that her family is permanent. She believes in God. So there’s a life changed. Foster care is harder than I ever imagined, but more worth it than I ever knew. Sometimes I would think, “I'm failing, I'm not good at this.”  But, my outlook changed when my husband’s friend said to me, “That doesn't matter. Because whatever their life was, they are doing so much better than they would be. You are making a difference.”  And it's true!
--Delilah

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Thank you SO much Delilah for sharing your wisdom and experience!  I know personally that she is making a difference.  Her daughter, Tayja, was one of my art students...she is loving, respectful and kind--an amazing girl who has come so far!

I hope you found this as helpful as I did! :)  I love that Delilah reiterates the fact that this isn't for everyone, and that's ok.  It's an amazing service of love to give to a child in need, but there are many factors that go into a decision like this, and it needs to be the right fit for your family.  Personally, I am grateful for prayer....if the possibility of foster care continues to be in my heart in the future, that is a decision that my husband and I will spend a lot of time praying and thinking about.  I'm sure God will guide us in that choice--and if I can be His hands in reaching out to a child or children in need that we specifically can help, then I would count that as a privilege.  I'd probably be super scared going into it, but, I'd know that The Lord would be by our sides to enable, bless, and guide us in serving one of His precious children.  After all, He said "Even as ye have done it to one of the least of these, ye have done it unto me."

Friends, thank you so much for reading!  Posts like this help me to feel excited and fulfilled in keeping this blog going.  Sometimes I wonder if I really make a difference or if the time I spend writing and managing the blog is worthwhile when there are so many other things to do in life.  But, I SOO appreciate providing a platform for other women to share their stories and knowledge about the things that matter most to them.  Don't get me wrong, I love to hear and tell funny stories--life is awesome, we gotta enjoy it!  And there's all sorts of fun, hobbyish interests that I love gabbing with you about.  But it's hearing your voice--sharing the real, important stuff--that keeps the bloggy fire aburnin' in my heart. :)  So if you'd like to hear more stories from awesome ladies, (Or share your own!) then be sure to click the "Join This Site" or "Like" button, or follow along through BlogLovin.  We'd love to have you!  :)

Friends, please share this post!  I feel like foster care is such an important topic that most (myself included) just aren't very experienced or knowledgeable about.  And there are so many kids in need!  For many of us, the current time and season of our lives isn't right to look into it ourselves.  But, maybe you sharing this post could touch the heart of someone who will decide that the timing is right for their family to look into foster care...ya never know!  :)  Anything we can do to help one of these children, is worth doing. :)

Thanks for caring, thanks for reading, thanks for sharing!  And please leave your comments and thoughts below!

I love you peeps. :)

PS. Read this incredible post by a momma who is currently a foster mom to 4 sisters, as well as caring for her two own kids. (Amazing, huh!?)  I loved it.
PSS. This post is linked to the Be.YOU.Tiful link party...go check it out! :)

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Our Pregnancy Story

By Hannah 
Introduced by Amy

Hi friends!  Here is Part 2 of Hannah's story.  (Read Part 1 here--"To My Friend Battling Infertility") And, just so you know, if you haven't had kids yet, before you read this and decide, "I'll stick with dogs."...pregnancy usually goes muuuch smoother than this.  :)  And, as I'm sure Hannah would tell you, even with complications (for her that word is quite an understatement) the result (a beautiful baby to love!) is worth the sacrifices.  It was so cool to hear that all was well in the end and they have their healthy little girl!  What a warrior of a momma. Thank you, Hannah!
-Amy

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Our pregnancy story is not like most. Even in the beginning is was a struggle. I have Polycistic Ovarian Syndrome, which makes getting pregnant very hard. I am categorically infertile. Much like my biblical namesake, I cried to God for years to give me a child. I educated myself out the process - something much more complicated than "birds and bees." We used the medicine Clomid to aid us. Clomid causes menopausal symptoms as it "tricks" the body into producing extra hormones and hopefully ovulation. It is stressful on body and spirit and relationships, and can only be used under careful observation of an OB/GYN because it carries a risk of ovarian hyperstimulation.

After eight months of Clomid, we were scheduled to take a break from fertility treatments. That's when I had my first miscarriage: January 2008. Needless to say, we were devastated. But Anthony found a good job, we moved out of our student apartment, and got our dog Ajax. Having a dog, we thought, was a lot like having a child, and we doted on Ajax. I quit work and became a stay-at-home "dog mom," mostly to reduce any outsides stresses and focus on fertility treatments and appointments.

That summer, we resumed Clomid treatments. I got pregnant again. At the first appointment, around 10 weeks, the ultrasound showed no heartbeat--a blighted ovum. Two days later I miscarried: August 2008. This time was worse. The physical pain had me doubled-over and in tears for 24 hours before we decided to go to the ER. Recovery took well over two weeks, and I was forced to confess to family and friends what we were struggling with.

 It was so hard to watch my siblings, my friends, and everyone at church get pregnant and have babies like it was nothing. I couldn't understand why God would punish me like that.

That Christmas, the recession hit hard and Anthony was laid off. By March, we'd moved to Texas to live with my brother. I found a full-time job, but Anthony was not so lucky. It was hard to live with our niece and nephew and not feel constantly the pain of our own infertility. When my parents wanted us to house-sit while they served a mission, we agreed happily. It was wonderful to have privacy again, even if the house wasn't ours. Anthony found work again, I taught Seminary, and we called Ajax our "substitute child."

But the heartbreak was real and constant. We shared so many tears over dreams that seemed lost. I received a blessing which reassured me that I would be a mother and that Anthony would be able to provide handsomely for our family.

We continued to wait, putting away a little money each month for a "baby fund." Still, it seemed hopeless until our first pregnancy miracle occurred: with my sister's help and encouragement, my younger brother and hi wife donated enough money to cover the cost of our next fertility treatments: gonadotropin injections. For a week in April, every evening I would sterilize and fill a syringe with gonadotropins, plunge it into my pelvis, and cringe as I pushed the burning fluid into my body. My right ovary produced five viable follicles (we freaked out a little at the idea of quintuplets), and on April 27, 2011 we got pregnant, luckily with only one baby.

We hardly dared announce it, but all our family were waiting to hear, and soon it was impossible not to tell because by May I was in the ER. I couldn't stop throwing up, though we'd expected that part, and I had a pain in my abdomen so intense that I couldn't walk or stand. It was the worst physical pain I'd ever known, but it was only the beginning. My right ovary, which had worked so hard to create a baby, was hyperstimulated. Three of the five follicles remained on the ovary as cysts, and as they grew and filled with fluid the pain increased. But due to the delicate nature of my pregnancy, there was nothing to do but wait.

And so we waited. I loaded up on Zofran for the nausea and Vicodin for the pain, and somehow kept teaching Seminary until June, although I couldn't wear my usual heels and had to dart to the bathroom a few times to puke.

As summer came, the sickness got worse. I was throwing up at least six times a day, I couldn't keep food or liquid down, and it hurt to walk. So I spent most of my time in bed, keeping the trash can nearby and attempting to distract myself with reading. I used an early ultrasound picture as a bookmark to remind me why I had to suffer.

Can you see Yoda?

I was identified as a high-risk pregnancy, so we had a lot of doctor's appointments and ultrasounds. We got to see the baby's heartbeat as early as May - a single glashing pixel on the ultrasound screen. that meant life. The first picture we have is so tiny and blurry; when we looked at it just right, we saw what looked like Yoda, so that's what we nicknamed the baby .

Soon we had a collection of pictures showing Yoda's face, and every ultrasound showed my ovary was even bigger. It grew to 8 cm - a normal ovary is only 2 or 3 cm, and supported three large cysts. I got frequent comments from ultrasound techs like, "That's the biggest ovary I've ever seen!" and, "Wow, that must hurt."

My first OB finally showed concern when I finished the first trimester weighing only 85 pounds. He suggested I drink milkshakes. I scowled at him. He said if we couldn't bring my weight back up we'd have to hospitalize me. I knew how expensive that would be, so I did my best to drink and keep down Ensure for a couple weeks. Anthony could only feel my ribs when he held me, but I gained just enough weight to keep me out of the hospital for a time.

In July, Anthony got a new job which had much better health benefits. It was just in time, because my next ER visit resulted in a hospital admission. I couldn't even drink water without throwing it back up. They tried different anti-emetics and pain-killers and sent me home. I was wheeled back in the next day literally vomiting every five minutes. They tried new things for a few days, sent me home, and saw me come back only a couple days later.

They tried putting me on steroids and Reglan next - a perfect recipe for a CRAZY Hannah. I had panic attacks ALL.THE.TIME. I couldn't calm down, I couldn't think logically. I was dramatic and crying, worrying over nothing, and suddenly desperate to be not pregnant. I was in constant, excruciating pain.

Finally, they assigned me an OB: Dr. Leigh. Our eighteen-week ultrasound finally came--the big one. Dr. Leigh told us that the ultrasound technician would take pictures of every organ they could see and the doctor at the lab would look it over before sending us home. She said if everything looked good, we'd go home right away; otherwise, we'd have to wait while they figured out what was wrong.


Anthony took a long lunch break so he could be there to see the baby and its gender. Yoda was a girl! That actually wasn't much of a surprise, since we'd both felt as much from the beginning of the pregnancy. Still, we were excited to see her little fingers, toes, and various parts in the ultrasound. I remember being so relieved when the tech focused on Yoda's spine--despite the poor nutrition I'd been getting, everything looked perfect.

Anthony had to go back to work, so I waited on my own for the all-clear to go home. Except the tech came back in and said she needed more pictures. Then she left, only to come back with a different tech to take more pictures. Something was wrong. Eventually, they told me to go home and expect to hear from the doctor.

Dr. Leigh did call, and told me not to worry (of course I was terrified); the placenta was growing in front of the cervix (placenta previa), which only meant I'd need a c-section if it hadn't moved by the time I would deliver in January.

She also said the ultrasound gave good pictures of my ovaries. My right ovary was the particular problem. Likely due to the fertility treatments, three large cysts had formed on the ovary. It was 15 cm long now - five times normal size - and in danger of twisting. She recommended a laperoscopy to drain the cysts. How did tomorrow sound? There was a 5% risk of miscarriage with the procedure, but it should relieve the pain and resolve the hyperemesis, too.

We went back to the hospital for the surgery. I was scared--for me, and for the baby. I didn't want to lose her. The day before surgery was the first time Yoda deliberately kicked me--just two really hard kicks, as if to say, "I'm here, Mom. I'm gonna make it. We'll be fine," I cried, and felt such hope from those kicks.

I was still scared about the surgery but everything went fine. I woke up with the worst sore throat I've ever had from having a breathing tube down my throat. I also had two small scars from the laperoscopy incisions. We spent our 7th anniversary taking walks of slightly increasing lengths around the maternity wing. But Dr. Leigh promised I'd feel better in no time.

When they sent me home, I was as sick as ever. Throwing up everything that crossed my lips. At 19 weeks, I weighed 12 pounds less than my pre-pregnancy weight. Dr. Leigh was concerned that it might be afftecting the baby, so she recommended TPN ("Total Parental Nutrition"), an intravenous fluid to provide all the nutrition I needed but couldn't eat myself.

Another hospital visit - the nurses all knew us by now - and I had a PICC line inserted into my left arm. Starting near my elbow, it was an IV tube extending all the way to my heart valve. Every night for the rest of the pregnancy, Anthony would help me assemble a big bag of smelly, white fluid that would be pumped into my heart over 18 hours. I carried a backpack containing the fluid and a pump everywhere, covering the whir-click-whir noise with a pillow to try to sleep at night.

Meanwhile, Dr. Leigh recommended I see a perinatologist at St. Vincent's about the placenta previa. He was not very talkative, but over several visits, I learned that what I really had was vasa previa: the umbilical cord attached to the placenta directly in front of the cervix. If I started labor, the baby's head would push on and rupture those membranes and she would bleed to death in a matter of minutes. That meant to avoid labor, I'd need to be hospitalized early and have a c-section at least one month before my original due date.

Thus our baby was scheduled to be delivered on 12/20/11. The best news I'd received all pregnancy: I didn't have to do 9 months!

The weeks that followed were torturous and slow. Over time, the TPN helped me regain minimal strength. I could walk to the bathroom on my own - but it hurt. Mostly, I was forced to sit all day (vomit bag close at hand) and try to pass the time. Mentally, I wasn't doing too great. I think my mind decided the only way it could survive the pregnancy was to temporarily vacate the premises - though sometimes I wondered if it had gone for good.

The cysts on my ovary had not gone away, but almost immediately refilled, leaving me in the same condition as before the laperoscopy. I simply couldn't think beyond the physical pain and discomfort. There was only pain. My entire world was pain. Nothing else matter but making that pain stop. Anything to make it stop. Literally anything. Throwing myself down the stairs, slipping in the shower, taking an entire bottle of painkillers - anything. Those thoughts were real and forceful; it was the most frightened I have ever been and I was frightened of myself. Except it wasn't me. The drugs and steroids and primitive survival mode my brain were in had turned off all the parts that made me me. I was terrified that I would be stuck that way permanently: always in the darkest abyss, never able to feel happy or light, or breathe deeply again. I lived with that terror for months. I clung desperately to Anthony's company. He couldn't get anything done because I would beg him to stay close to me. He was the greatest comfort I had.

At one point, I remembered a Seminary lesson I'd taught about the power and influence of righteous music. Since my thoughts were so dark, I thought singing hymns might help drive away the demons. It did! Amazingly, I felt dark presences leave, and peace and comfort fill their place. That's not to say I was suddenly bright and optimistic, but I was noticeably better. Anthony, again my hero, agreed to add hymns to our bedtime scriptures and prayers. We'd sing until I felt safe, or until my ambien kicked in and I could sleep; some nights took longer than others. Anthony developed a unique skill: he could sing in his sleep, He spent my pregnancy as exhausted as I did, and he would eventually drift off to sleep as we sang our 20th song that night. I always knew when I'd lost him because the words he sang no longer made sense. But he always sang with me, to help me feel better.

Meanwhile, Yoda had discovered that she liked to kick. The stronger I got, the stronger she got, and she was enthusiastic! Non-stop, day and night, she'd kick my ribs, my bladder--anything she could reach. And she could spin around so fast that she could reach anything. She learned how to stick a foot or an elbow out - visibly an inch - from my belly and slowly slide it across the front of my stomach. I felt like I belonged in a science fiction movie. Anyone who watched me would see my hands constantly on my belly, pushing parts of Yoda back into place. When I tried to drink soda, she would flutter with glee. When I threw up the soda, she would stomp and punch as if to say, "Hey! I wanted that!"

Just before Thanksgiving, the severe pains I'd been having in my ovary got worse. A LOT worse. We decided I had to go to the ER again; this time to St. Vincent's. After way too long in triage, I was admitted so the perinatologist could see me and decide what to do. While the doctors ran tests and ultrasounds and deliberated - all day - I was writhing in pain, nearly breaking Anthony's hand, repeating, "It hurts so bad!" and "Help me!' Worst pain of my life!! They gave me an IV and a morphine pump: "Just push the button until you feel better, honey," I mashed that button for all I was worth, but couldn't mute the pain.

Finally, at the end of the day, the on-call doctors changed. The lead doctor on the new shift came straight to my room and explained. My ovary had twisted and lost blood supply; the organ had died and it needed to be removed quickly before it became toxic. There was a chance the baby would need to be delivered, and at 7 months gestation, that meant a chance she wouldn't make it. But if we left the ovary in - well, things would be worse. Did I want to do the surgery? ("Hell, yes! Get that thing outta me already!") Things went fast then. We barely had time to call a few family members and ask them to pray for us before I was prepped and in the OR. Anthony would have to wait in the lobby.

Waking up from anesthesia was much different this time. I was still in the operating room; I could see a clock on the wall; and I couldn't breathe. Not at all. My body, having been so weakened over the past 7 months, couldn't shake the paralysis from operation. I remember the anesthesiologist pulling a mask away from my face and telling me to breathe. I couldn't. I couldn't move my lungs. I couldn't move any part of my body, even my eyes, to indicate that I was suffocating.

Just as I started to black out, the mask was returned and precious air was forced into my lungs. Only to be removed again with a stern, "Hannah, breathe." I don't know how many times we repeated the exercise (later the anesthesiologist said he tried for two hours). Enough for me to wonder what it was going to feel like to die. Enough for the anesthesiologist to give up, sedate me, put a breathing tube in, and send me to the ICU.

When I finally woke up again, I had three questions. I couldn't ask any of them efficiently - my voice was blocked by a breathing tube and my hands were tied to the hospital bed lest I panic and try to remove the tube. But a very sympathetic, tired nurse with purple hair understood me.

Why did my throat feel funny? They hadn't removed the breathing tube yet; they would soon.

Was the baby okay? Yes. (I couldn't help the tears that overflowed with that news.) Yoda had done fine. The nurse - Brandi--had been there all night just to watch Yoda's heartbeat in case anything happened. Although everything was prepared, my baby would not be delivered that night.

Where was my husband? He had been pacing the lobby for me all this time. All he knew was that I was in critical condition. Maybe once the tube came out he'd be allowed to see me.

So I touched my belly softly and thanked God and the angels that Yoda was alright. Then, for some random reason, I began counting backwards from 9, repeatedly, until they took the tube out. The first words I squeaked were, "I want my husband." I must have sounded like a broken record, because eventually Anthony was by my side, holding my hand. Honestly, I've never been so happy to see him. I'd almost died; he was the person I wanted to cling to in this life.

When they transferred me back to the maternity wing on Thanksgiving morning, they had me hooked up to a morphine drip, a magnesium drip (to prevent contractions), and a blood transfusion. Actually, one transfusion wasn't enough, I needed two. I remember they removed my catheter and, stubborn me, I refused to use a bedpan. So the nurse brought a bedside potty chair over and she and Anthony helped me slowly get out of bed. As soon as my feet touched the floor and I shifted my weight onto them, I collapsed in their arms. It was ridiculous how weak I was and how many days went by in a blur before things got real again.

But I healed. Slowly. They'd removed my entire right ovary, claiming it was as big and black as Anthony's head. It took away a lot of pain. But now I had new pains: recovering from major abdominal surgery (a 6-inch vertical slice down my belly) while a growing baby stretched and kicked the incision from the inside. When I could finally walk (just around the maternity wing) I felt like my belly might just split open and let everything fall to the floor. But the stitches and staples held. Anthony spent every other night with me, sleeping on an uncomfortable window seat, being my strength.

We started a countdown on the small whiteboard in my room: only X days left!

December 20th finally came. Anthony got all suited up in white OR clothes. They unhooked my IVS and we walked down the hall to the OR.

The spinal took no time at all. Behind the blue tent between my face and my lower half, I could hear the assistants ask, "Should we mark her?" (Normally a sharpie is used to mark where the surgeon will cut.) The doctor just laughed and said, "She's already marked." We were ready.

Yoda was transverse. The doctors had to push to get her head down. It hurt so much I thought they were going to crack a rib! And I wasn't supposed to be able to feel anything.

Finally, the doctor popped to the side of the curtain and said, "Look over here!" where he held a tiny, purple, rather perplexed baby. Lana. She hadn't cried yet. But knowing my Lana, she was just getting her bearings first, wondering why in the world we'd want to remove her from her comfy spot.

She did eventually scream. I cried. I kept saying, "It's too much! It's too much!" Which, I guess, might be interpreted as "I'm overwhelmed by happiness." What I really meant was directed at the anesthesiologist: "I can't handle any more, just put me to sleep already!"

Lana was born on 12/20/11 at 12:51 pm. She weighed 4 lb. 14 oz. and was 18 1/2 inches long. She seemed perfectly healthy - ten fingers and ten toes.

We loved every perfect part of her.

Looking into her eyes for the first time all I could say (and still say) was, "Thank you. Thank you for being my daughter. Thank you for being strong enough to fight through that hell of a pregnancy with me. I'm so happy you're here. Thank you."

-Hannah

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Wasn't that an amazing story!?  I am so inspired by this couple faith and by Hannah's strength.  

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To My Friend Battling Infertilty

By Hannah 
Introduced by Amy

I am always humbled and amazed by the outreach that comes after a lady tells her experience with loss of a baby, miscarriage, or infertility.  There are so many brave, strong, courageous women out there that keep going on despite enormous challenges and trails.  Hannah sent me the gut-wrenching story of her battle with infertility and her extremely difficult pregnancy--and yet, after all of that, she still has the grace to look back on the experience and see the blessings and the role her trials had in shaping her and her little family.  Pretty amazing!  We all will carry different burdens in this life--I am grateful for Hannah sharing hers with us.  Tomorrow, here on SOM, I'll post her Part 2--the story of her insane pregnancy (it seriously blew my mind.  Made me grateful for own my silly bloodclot!  Ha..) and show pictures of the little miracle baby!  Thank you, Hannah!
-Amy

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My name is Hannah.  You don't know me, but if I could, I would throw my arms around you with a great, "Oh, honey!"  And I would sit you down and listen - through the tears and the anguish, the bitterness, the confusion, the roller coaster of hope and grief that you've been on.  There is nothing you could say that would shock or offend me because I've been there.  I've been where you are right now.  I know.  And I want you to know that YOU ARE NOT ALONE.  You may already understand this, but I hope I can help you feel it a little more.

I want to tell you my own story of infertility.  It's a little long, sorry - I'm a bit of a writer and it's a hard habit to kick.

My husband and I met at BYU and married young.  I hadn't planned to be married at 20, but I knew Anthony was the one.  We've been married for nine years now, and he's proved to be my perfect husband in more ways that I could have imagined.

So there we were, 20 and 23, and still a couple years away from graduating.  We decided to wait at least a year before considering getting pregnant.  But long before our allotted year was up, I had major baby lust, and that's a hard thing to cope with at BYU where parents bring their babies to history class.  Still, because of our starving student circumstances, I dutifully waited a whole year - with the firm belief that we'd be pregnant within months.

Well, we weren't.  We did the basal body temperature charting, we timed things right.  But I knew there was a problem, and I knew it was on my side.  I'd always had irregular cycles - I'd go months between periods (talk about false pregnancy hopes) - so I went to the Dr. very early.  We ran a lot of tests and determined that I have PCOS (polycystic ovarian syndrome).  In layman's terms: my hormones all peak and the wrong times for unknown and therefore untreatable causes, so when my ovary forms a follicle, it never gets the signal to release an ovum; instead, it turns into a cyst on my ovary and stays there until it ruptures.  And yes, that's very painful.  With all the testing, of course we checked Anthony's sperm.  The results showed he had outstanding count, mobility, etc., and should be able to get any woman pregnant.  Anyone, that is, but me.

So right from the start, I took all the blame for our infertility onto my tiny shoulders.  As much as my sweet husband assured me otherwise, I knew it was my fault. I was broken. I was an inadequate woman and wife because I couldn't have children.  God must be punishing me - I even had specific reasons why he should punish me.  One Sunday, early in our fertility battle, a new mother at church expressed her thanks to God for trusting her enough to raise one of His children.  So not only was I being punished, but God didn't trust me, either.

As you can see, my frustration with infertility was aimed at two targets: God and myself.  And I am not ashamed to say what you may need to hear: I hated us both for it.  I didn't hate God in a "I'm going to stop believing in you" kind of way, but you can bet He heard a lot of angry prayers from me.  A lot.

Here's what I learned about those kinds of prayers: God loves them.  He gets them.  He UNDERSTANDS them.  And even if we're too angry to feel it, I visualize a daughter sobbing into her father's chest, beating her fists against him in helpless, overwhelming emotion; and the Father, wrapping His arms around His precious daughter, resting His chin atop her head, and crying with her.  So don't be afraid to vent to God - He is right there with you.  This is a hard thing, and He understands hard things.  He knows this isn't a time for "pretty please with a cherry on top" prayers (although a few of those couldn't hurt).

We started clomid treatments.  What a roller coaster ride!  Week 1: Menopausal symptoms - no fun for anyone, especially poor confused husbands.  Week 2: BBT charting and carefully timed sex to the extent that it becomes a chore, and trying every old wives' tale you can find.  Week 3: The waiting.  So hard!  Do you be hopeful like the nurses tell you and start painting the nursery?  Because apparently attitude makes such a difference in these physiological things.  Not!  Bite your nails; keep busy; wait.  Week 4: Wait some more.  How soon is too soon to take a test?  This one's negative; maybe I'll try one more, just to be sure.  Dang.  Well, it comes in a 3-pack anyway, so we might as well.  Then, despair, frustration, depression, and it's back to Week 1.

We did that for eight months.  Finally, the Dr. told me that we had to give my body a break.  "Thank God!" I thought. "I really do need a break."

Guess what happened.  My period was late (not unusual) and I felt distinctly different at work - a little nauseated, a little too sensitive to smell, a little tired.  When I got home, I decided, "What the heck?  I've got enough of these sticks anyway." Positive.  I stared at it, not believing.  I tried one more.  Positive!  When Anthony came home we did a happy dance in our kitchen.  Finally!  Finally!

My glee lasted until the next night when I began spotting and cramping.  I googled it: no worries, that's totally common for early pregnancy.  But I woke up in the middle of the night and knew.  I was bleeding, hard.  Bye-bye, baby.  The physical pain only lasted a couple days, and I told the three people who knew about it, "At least we know we can get pregnant."  I was obstinately cheerful.  But still, my body had betrayed us.  My fault.  My fault.  My fault.

We graduated from college and hit the two-year mark of infertility.  Suddenly, my bitterness extended outward.  Look at all these women popping out babies like it's nothing.  Literally planning, to the month, when they would have their next.  Constantly commenting on how wonderful motherhood was. didn't they know it was KILLING me? (They didn't, because I hadn't told, but I wouldn't factor that in until later.)  I saw their glances - suspicion and blame, I saw.  In hindsight, I bet most of those glances were curious or even sympathetic, but that's not how I saw them at the time.

My friends, who'd all married later than I had, started getting pregnant - all of them.  And I had to go to baby showers and be happy for them.  I confess, to this day this is a struggle and heartache for me.  So here's one phrase I learned to help me through those (even if I only repeat it in my mind): I am happy for you! I'm just not happy for me."

We started clomid again, adding a few extra pills, hormones, or whatever to get me pregnant.  There were far too many appointments.  Finally, one ultrasound showed an ovary with TWO viable follicles on it.  The nurses referred to me as the twin-mommy, and - you guessed it - we got pregnant.  Weeks passed.  I indulged every food craving and avoided bacon like the plague.  Every night I inserted progesterone capsules vaginally to help me stay pregnant. It was working.

At week 10 of pregnancy, we finally had our first ultrasound.  "Let's see that baby!" the nurses all cheered.  I crossed my fingers for two babies, to make up for the one we lost.  We watched the monitor excitedly as the Dr. probed around.  Is that a head?  Was that movement I saw?  Those things are so blurry.

Finally, the Dr. turned off the monitor and dismissed the nurses.  "Where's my picture?" I wanted to ask.  Instead the doctor told me I had a blighted ovum.  Layman's terms: I was pregnant, but when the embryo split, it made the placenta correctly, but somehow missed the making-the-fetus part.  No baby. He said to go home and wait to miscarry.  We could start trying again in a few months.

This miscarriage was worse.  So so so much worse.  It didn't happen right away, and I desperately clung to the hope that maybe there was a baby after all.  But I did miscarry - and it's a lot tougher at 10+ weeks than at 6.  I was doubled-over in pain and tears for 24 hours before Anthony called the Dr., who said, "Get her to the ER straightaway."  They checked to make sure my body was miscarrying properly (it was), then loaded me up on painkillers and an order for "pelvic rest" for two to three weeks.  Despite my stubbornness, I really could not to a thing for myself during those weeks.  There was just too much pain - physical, emotional, spiritual.  Someone from church called one day and asked if I could take dinner to another new mother in our church.  In exasperated tears I explained why I couldn't.  Someone brought to me dinner that night.

That was when I realized I HAD to tell people. It wasn't something I wanted to do - I'd made it into a dark, shameful secret for so long - but I had no choice.  I needed help.  I shouldn't have been surprised, but I was: people were sympathetic and caring.  Not too many could truly empathize because we lived in a young neighborhood and none of my family had any fertility problems (the opposite it seemed).  But they were sensitive to my sensitivity, and that made a difference.

I tried reading books for empathy.  Unfortunately, either by luck of the draw or simply because of who bothers writing books, what I read were tales of couples who never had children.  They talked about coping with infertility permanently: when to stop trying, whether to stay childless or try to adopt.  At three years of fighting, I wasn't ready to give up, but I felt hope slipping away.

I tried to make light of it.  I had a joke I used whenever someone felt too sorry for me - you know, the kind of sorry that says even they've given up on you.  "I am every high school boy's fantasy: I'm smart, sexy, fun, and you can't get me pregnant!"  I know, way to focus on the silver lining.  But you do what you need to do to get through.  Not everyone will understand it - even if your style isn't resorting to dumb jokes - but it's not something to beat yourself up over.  Whether or not you've given up the fight, infertility still sucks.

Unfortunately, just when we'd waiting long enough to try again, the Recession of 2008 became reality for us in a big way.  A week before Christmas, with no warning, Anthony's work laid off a dozen employees.  He was one of them.  He just came home after working late like he usually did, sat down on the floor, and said he didn't have a job anymore.  And since I'd quit work to focus on being healthy and "pregnable," that meant we had no income.  We'd spent all our money on fertility treatments instead of saving.  Forget babies, we had to get jobs because those unemployment checks aren't enough to pay the bills.  The problem was no one was hiring.  By February, we were out of money, out of a lease, and out of options.

We moved in with my older brother in Texas, whose house had room to spare.  Gracious of him, lucky for us, but hard.  My identity as a woman was diminished because I couldn't be a mother; my husband's identity as a man was diminished because he couldn't be a provider.  Worse still, my brother had two adorable children and my sister-in-law got pregnant a month after we moved in.  Every day felt like a slap in the face - we at their food, lived in their home, and I had to listen to a daily dose of "being pregnant is so hard."  (You want to talk about hard?  Lady, let me tell you about hard.)  Solidify bitterness towards pregnant women forever?  Check!  That was not my dear sister-in-law's fault; it was a reflection of my own inner turmoil and anguish.

By the end of the summer, we were jumping at the chance to house-sit for my parents, who decided to serve a two-year church mission since the economy wasn't giving my self-employed father any income anyway.  In Oregon, Anthony finally found work, but there wasn't enough money to try for a baby the fancy way, so we waited.  Oh, we were still trying, but let's face it, it was never going to happen for us without help.

After four years of infertility, you'd think I'd have been battle-hardened, a little less sensitive.  But you'd be wrong.  I'm sorry to tell you that this doesn't get easier.  I just doesn't.  So do whatever it is you need to do to cope.  No one but someone who's been where you are has a right to judge - and trust me, we'd never dream of it.

Our 4-year "anniversary" of infertility rolled on by us.  At an adult meeting, one of our church leaders gave a talk, no lecture, about couples who waited to have children for the wrong reasons.  He may even have wagged his finger and "tsk-tsked" at us.  Okay, probably not, but he may as well have.  Anthony held my hand very tightly, maybe to keep me from standing up and shouting, "So what about US?"

In a righteous fury, I was quick to remind myself that this wasn't my fault.  If God wanted me to have a baby I would have had one.  Heaven knows we'd given Him ample opportunity.  And hadn't I broken my heart with weeping just like my biblical namesake?  Hannah-in-the-Bible got a child; she got a freaking prophet!  But me?  No, not me.  I wasn't worthy enough, or trustworthy enough, not something enough.  God had taken away TWO pregnancies and then our means to try for more.  How dare this man condemn me for what God controlled?  (Because, you know, how could I not take it personally?)

So we went to a bishop of our church.  More accurately, I went and made Anthony come.  Then I told him pretty much everything I've just told you and said, "So what are we supposed to do?"  

Our bishop was kind and wise beyond his years.  Still, he was only 35 and had five sons, so I know his counsel was inspired by a higher power.  He explained the nature of "patiently waiting on the Lord" so tenderly that even my wounded heart was moved.  He counseled us to put whatever we could spare from Anthony's minimum-wage job unto a "baby fund," and also to seek a blessing from the Lord.  (In the LDS church, the priesthood has the power to give someone a blessing of healing or comfort, and we believe that the priesthood holder has the ability to speak the words God would speak to the individual being blessed.)  Our bishop agreed to provide me with such a blessing, after fasting and prayer.  That blessing was beautiful.  It was healing to my soul.  It was straight from God, and I knew it.  All three of us were in tears by the end.

If ever your sorrow and despair threaten to overwhelm you, follow that counsel.  The very best advice I could give you would be that bishop's.  Don't give up.  Keep working, waiting patiently, and saving.  Don't lose faith.  Seek Divine guidance and help by the means available to you.

Your results may be different than mine.  I'd expect them to be.  But I bet you want to know what my results were.  In that blessing I was told that I truly was not to blame.  God had very specific timing for when my children would come, and they would each have specific missions to fulfill on earth.  I was told that the time was "not yet," but would come even after what I thought was the "last corner."  Whether by pregnancy or adoption, my preparation would be the same - and I had to be fully prepared.  (I learned why later.)  In the meantime, I was promised to find joy and fulfillment as I served others' children (I taught 10-year-olds in my church's Primary).  I was told my body would function as it should (I started a period that day).  And I was told that Anthony would be able to provide handsomely for our family (the fulfillment of that promise came later).  That was the medicine we needed.  The strength to carry on.

Soon after, I was called to teach a Seminary class for LDS high school students.  Who calls a 25-year-old to teach thirty 14- to 18-year-olds about the gospel, life, and everything?  God does, I guess.  I thought serving others' children referred to my Primary kids.  Nope.  It was these kids.  They became my kids in a way only a teacher can claim.  For a year I found so much joy and fulfillment in teaching them.

Meanwhile, my older brother had his fourth child and my young brother became a father-to-be.  We lost a third pregnancy.  I was still waiting to turn that "last corner."  We knew our next fertility treatments needed to be more elaborate - the kind that costs thousands of dollars - and we were averaging about $50/mo. for our baby fund. (I didn't get paid to teach Seminary.)  So that corner seemed very distant indeed.

THEN... inspired by my sister, my younger brother and his wife, both with high-paying jobs, offered to cover the cost of gonadotropin injections and treatment.  THE WHOLE COST. I learned later that my sister-in-law's mother heard of our situation and said, "This is a small sum to you - one of your paychecks - but this is the world to them."

We quickly found our fertility specialist and made arrangements for my next cycle, which for the first and only time in my life had been as regular as clockwork for an entire year.

It worked.  On the first try. My baby's heart was beating visibly on a monitor shortly after Mother's Day 2011.

 The rest is a different story - My Pregnancy Story.  You can find it on my blog: wildtofu.blogspot.com.  But be forewarned - it is not pretty.  Heaven and Hell waged war over my child entering this world and I was the carnage-strewn battlefield.  So if you're not ready, or if you're the skittish type to be scared away from fertility drugs, don't read it.  You can still check out my blog though and see the miracle that is my daughter.  Just remember, she's not "just another baby."  She's the conclusion to a 5-year battle with infertility.  She isn't there to taunt you, but to give you hope.

There is so much more I could say, but really what I'd offer is a listening ear, a shoulder to cry on, a cheerleader, and a righteous fury supporter.  If you need one, now or later, just get in touch - I'm all yours.

- Hannah Trujillo

 P.S. If you read the Bible, notice how many of God's most precious daughters were purposefully tried in this way.  The Old Testament is full of happy endings to infertility.  We're part of a pretty amazing group of women, if you think about it.

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Amazing, huh?!  It is soo cool to see the miracles that came to this amazing couple amid the heartbreak...remember to come back tomorrow for Part 2...the story of her pregnancy and the miracle baby!  And remember to leave your comments...I'm sure Hannah would love to hear from you!  :)  

Also, if you are new to SOM, welcome!  If you'd like to hear more stories from awesome, every day women (like you!) then click the "Like" button and/or "Join This Site" button on the right side of this blog.  We'd love to have you! :)  

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The Dream of Being a Mother

By DaNae
Introduced by Amy

DaNae is the younger sister of one of my best guy friends from all growing up.  She is easy-going, kind, and so fun to be around.  Even though I'm about 5 years older than her, I always loved hanging out with her at her brother's happenin' parties!  (You can tell I had a pretty hard core group of friends, since younger siblings were allowed to hang out with us while we watched movies and got wasted off of Sprite and M&M's.)  

Today, DaNae is sharing her struggle with infertility, and how she and her husband finally got the little baby they'd been waiting and praying for.  (Yay!)  Infertility has got to be such a lonely and devastating struggle--the hoping, waiting, then dissapointment over and over, while constantly seeing close friends, family members, strangers with little infants or pregnant bellies.  So many couples struggle silently; I'm so honored DaNae offered to open her heart and share her story with us.  
-Amy

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I have always dreamed of being a mother.  I remember a song I used to listen to when I was a little girl that said, “When I grow up, I want to be a mother, and have a family….”  I have 7 siblings, lots of cousins, and several nieces and nephews, so being a mother was something I looked forward to—I love kids.  But I also always thought in the back of my mind that I would have a challenge getting pregnant.

I got married April 10, 2010, to my best friend, Kevin Barnard.

I had completed one semester of college and so had he, so we decided we wanted to wait a while before trying to get pregnant.  We both felt very strongly that I should finish my college degree and figured that would be more doable without a little baby. Besides, we were both young (18 and 21), so we were not in a big hurry to start having babies—we wanted some time with just the two of us.

We went to school at BYU-Idaho, and it seemed like everyone there had babies!  So, I will admit, I got baby hungry at times.  Kevin and I decided it would be a good idea for me to go to school year-round, so that I could finish my degree faster.

After we had been married for a little over a year, we both felt it was time to go off birth control.  I still had one year left before I would graduate, but we figured that if we got pregnant immediately, we would make it work for those last few months of school with a baby.

I had always had irregular menstrual cycles, and had hopes that birth control may help regulate them.  I went off birth control in July of 2011, and at the end of November, we decided to go to the doctor since I had not yet had a period, and I also was not pregnant.

They did several tests, and came to the conclusion that for some reason, I did not ovulate.  So the Nurse Practitioner put me on Provera, a medicine to start a period, and then on Clomid, a fertility drug to {hopefully} help me ovulate.  I did this for three cycles, and did not ovulate once.  Waiting for those results each cycle seemed like an eternity!  Kevin and I knew we were moving in a couple months, so we decided to take a break from doctors for a bit and we would go to an Infertility Specialist when we moved.

I graduated in July of 2012, and we moved to Idaho Falls that month.  On September 20, we had our first appointment with the Infertility Specialist.  He said we would try Clomid one more time at the highest dose he was willing to give, and he also let us know that there was another fertility drug called Femara that we could also try if the Clomid did not work.  In the meantime, we were to get a Semen Analysis since we had not done so yet.

The same day that I got the results from the doctor that I did not ovulate on the Clomid, we also got the results of the Semen Analysis, and with those results found out that getting pregnant would be even harder than we thought.  The doctor told me that we could try Femara, and if I ovulated, the day of ovulation, we would have to do an IUI (IntraUterine Insemination).  We could try IUI’s three times, and if we did not have any luck, the next step would be In-Vitro Fertilization (which is much more expensive than IUI’s).  I was heartbroken.  But I had my husband by my side to help me through the heartbreak.

And guess what?  The Femara worked!  I ovulated, and had my first IUI in November of 2012, but it did not get me pregnant.  I started to lose hope, but knew that we had two more chances.  I took Femara again, and on December 28, 2012, our little boy was conceived via IUI.

The journey seemed so long, but it was nothing that I couldn’t handle without the love and support of family and friends, and most importantly, my husband.  On September 19, 2013, our healthy little Braxton boy was born.

Because we did not get pregnant right when we went off birth control, we got to do a lot of things we would not have otherwise done.  For one, my sister and brother-in-law took us to Disneyland with them!  I was able to graduate with my social work degree, and get licensed as a Social Worker.  I also got to work for one year in my field of study before our little guy was born.

And just before Braxton was born, Kevin got a job offer that made it so I could stay home with Braxton instead of continuing to work like we had originally planned.  Kevin only had to finish one last semester of school before he graduated when Braxton was born.  The timing could not have been better.

I believe that God had a hand in our journey to conception.  I believe that He knew when the timing would be right, and even though it was hard, we made it through.  And I would not trade Braxton or the wait we had to get him for the world.  I know that everyone who struggles with infertility has a different story, and my heart aches for those who do.  Please know that there is hope!  I have a good friend that has been able to have two children through adoption, and they are the cutest little kids.  And she is no less of a mother because she adopted.

Love, DaNae

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Yay!  Such a sweet little baby boy.  I am so happy for this family...I knew Kevin in high school too...they are both so kind and friendly--they pretty much make an amazing couple.  :)  Thank you, DaNae for sharing your story!

As a blog where we often talk about being moms, being preg, birthing babies, toddler rampages, etc...this may not be the easiest place for a lady who is dealing with infertility and I never want to be insensitive to her struggle.  I tried to clumsily express my feelings about this when I talked about expecting baby number two (when I had an obese, blood-clotted leg to go along with my pregnancy...ha) but, if you don't mind, I hope it's ok if I repeat myself to all you ladies who might be reading DaNae's post with a heavy heart cause you haven't gotten your happy ending yet:

"For those who are struggling with infertility, I hope this post isn't a slap to the face...though it probably is. :(  It is hard not to get super excited and want to blab all about having a baby on the way, but at the same time, I know that to some, it's like salt in a wound.  I've had a few close friends who struggled to be able to start a family, and they told me it is such a bitter hurt to hear that yet another one of your friends got easily pregnant.  I don't know what else to say, but I love you, and I sincerely and completely hope that you get the desire of your heart!  You will make a wonderful mother.  I don't understand why timing isn't always how we want it, especially when we are pleading with God for something that is so good and unselfish, like having a baby to care for and raise.  Don't lose hope!  I know many friends who struggled with infertility, who now are pregnant, have a baby, or even several kids!  And, I know others who have welcomed children into their home through adoption--what a beautiful way for yearning couples to finally receive the children they prayed for, while giving the children the chance for a family where they can be best cared for and loved!  So, there is hope!  Friends, just know that we love you and are praying for you."

We can never know what another is going through till we take time to listen and hear their story.  This also means that no one can understand OUR journey till WE can gather up the courage to share it! That's why I am so passionate about having a place for YOU to share your stories, so we can love and support each other in the bad times, and party together through the good! :) 

Didn't Zac Efron say it best?  "We're all in this together!"  

Um, sorry, was quoting High School Musical taking it too far?  Ha.

I love you swaggin ladies!  And, if you are new here at SOM, Welcome!  Take a look around, like us on Facebook, and/or join this site (both by clicking the happy little buttons on the side of the blog!) so you can hear more real-life stories from amazing ladies, like you! :)  We have a lot of fun around here. :)

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