It may as well be a metal table by the standard of sterile coldness in this room. I lay still. My eyes pace from medical posters to digital equipment, ears in tune to every word the technician mumbles. He arranges each tool necessary for the procedure. Heart pulverizing my chest, I can only second guess my implore, years back, to the doctor for this test.
“Please, just give me the tube dye test to check and make sure nothing is wrong,” I begged.
“Non sense,” the Dr. said. “You’ve had one successful pregnancy and delivery, no reason to doubt it won’t happen again. You just need to relax.”
“If one more person tells me to relax I will lose my salvation while I pound their skull in the ground.” Words eager to escape my mouth, yet I restrained myself.
A glance down and my abdomen expands as the technician increases the pressure of the dye. “Sometimes if there is blockage, the dye will push it through!”
“Then push harder,” I say.
For 4 1/2 years I swallowed every pill and devoted my life to every doctors directive. Drugs made the roller coaster ride of hysteria more steep with insanely intense drops, yet did nothing to open my womb. Tears spilled like unpredictable breaks in a failing dam, never drying up. Weight gain from drugs, weight loss from depression, and failure settled as my identity.
Madly in love with my first born, striving for contentment, but desires for another child never wavered. The specialist in infertility was sought yet hope kept at bay, no need for it since I only longed for confirmation of what my heart already knew and now it was here.
I dress as the technician turns away to exit. Gentle voice beckons us to sit. “The test has concluded that your tubes are a 100% blocked. Your only chance of getting pregnant is In vitro and it offers a 20% chance at best.”
Denying hope didn’t save me from the emotional release of what I already believed and the truth realized created a hole that I believed God incapable to fill. The tears ducts couldn’t be clogged now.
I move to exit the building, my hands buckle the seatbelt to make the trek home, but my heart still lies dormant on that cold sterile table.
I go through the motions of packing for what seems to be an untimely family trip. One sleep away from our first Disney experience with my 5 year old son. I look at my husband’s sorrowful eyes and all I can muster to say is “the ‘happiest place on earth’ can’t even save me now.”
I stare out the tiny plane window where the clouds seem to reflect the fog in my head. Tears just fall. No thoughts need to spar them.
Early the next morning, a pit in my stomach, I force a smile on my face, we trudge through the gates of Disney. A shift, heart pounds, something or someone nudges me. I can’t tell if I am being transported to never, never land or if its all being brought to life around me.
The parade journeys by, Goofy high on the float, long ears flapping, Pluto’s paw blowing kisses and Mickey dances with Minnie, twirling in ways that lift and spread her skirt. Their plastic, plastered faces give the illusion of happiness, imposing hope and realized dreams of a man I never knew into my sorrow. Powerful enough that denial of the many stories of joy being expressed simultaneously through each movement seems futile. Each beloved character staring me in the face, challenging me to choose joy. My underutilized cheek muscles feel a “hurt so good” kinda pain because I can’t stop smiling. Mid-laugh a realization hits me, tears aren’t falling.
At the risk of sounding, animated and overdramatic, Pixie Dust of the Holy Spirit is being sprinkled over me and lifting my eyes to the One who holds hope and provision for the dreams in my heart. He is writing a story of motherhood that looks different than what I presumed, labor pains of a different kind.
Fourteen years have transpired since that Godly healing encounter at this unlikely materialistic earthly kingdom took place, since my happy place was born, and since I realized that stories are made when there is a need for healing and the miraculous to take place.
Walt Disney once said, “it’s what we storytellers do “we restore order with imagination and instill hope again and agan and again.”
Hope is a mindset that you have to chose above the feelings of reality and it is my desire to continue to be a story teller that changes the gloomy outlook to the anticipatory posture of praise and that God has the ultimate story of triumph and victory for the lives of those who believe in Him and convince others that one should never underestimate where He will show Himself.
My Tinkerbell tattoo symbolizes a story well developed by the Author of life, uncovered unconventionally through a mouse who was the realization of another dream.