I'm Not Obsessing

Really, I'm not. I prefer to call it "analyzing." Predicting, even. But obsessing? 

Just because I like to know my numbers --all of them--and I like to compare them to previous cycles doesn't mean I'm obsessing. 

Just because I google "follicle counts during IVF stim day 7" or "endometrial growth per day" or "success rates third time IVF" after every appointment just means I like to have information--the more, the better. 

I tried explaining this to Mo yesterday. I know that I can't control the outcome of this cycle. I can't control how many follicles grow, or how thick my lining gets.  I can't control how many eggs get retrieved, how many fertilize, or whether or not they implant. But, somehow, knowing what's going on gives me a sense of control -- even if it's a total illusion. Knowing my numbers doesn't stress me out -- it's not knowing that makes me crazy. Even when things aren't progressing like I wish they would (just 9 follies? Lining at 7.7 mm?), KNOWING is better than not knowing. 

We've had several minor non-events this cycle, including a cyst at baseline that had to be aspirated, missing e2 levels from a local Labcorp, slow-to-respond ovaries, and running out of meds while out-of-town. I have tried --oh, how I have tried! -- to roll with the punches and not to freak-out. But, I will admit, this IVF is consuming a little more head-space than I wanted it to.  I am 95% certain that tomorrow's appt. will be our last before trigger, and I am incredibly nervous. I know exactly what to expect, and I know exactly how little control I really have. 

And so I google, and I analyze, and I hope for the best. 

Obsessed? 

What IVF patient isn't? 

Becoming An Atheist: Natural Disasters

This post is the latest in a series I am writing about the many varied reasons I have questioned my faith and eventually grown comfortable identifying as an atheist. The views I post here are strictly my own, and I welcome CIVIL discourse, sincere questions, and respectful disagreements. I will NOT tolerate hate speech of any kind, so please moderate your comments, so that I don't have to. :-) For more posts on this topic, click the "Becoming an Atheist" tab at the top of the page.    

I am sure, by now, that many of you have seen the "unprecedented" reaction of Rebecca Vitsum when asked if she "thanked the Lord" for her survival in the devastating tornadoes that hit Oklahoma a few months ago.  She was genuine, if a bit awkward, and incredibly brave for admitting that she doesn't believe that God had anything to do with it.

And, watching all the wreckage, I honestly wonder how anyone else can.  How can these natural disasters be attributed to God?  Or, perhaps more accurately, how can your survival, amid the devastating deaths of many, be due to "God's plan?"  If these events are planned, and under God's control, then he is sick, twisted, and evil.  How can such events be described as anything else?  What "good" comes from the death of children, helplessly buried in the rubble?  (For that matter, it simply kills me that people will publicly proclaim how "blessed" they are to have been spared, receiving nods of agreement from all sides--while standing next to the parents of dead children.  How is that merciful?  How is that "good?"  Even if you privately believe that God spared your life for some yet-unknown divine plan, uttering such thoughts in the presence of grieving parents seems beyond tacky.  Had my child died in such a tragic way, I would not have been nearly as polite as Ms. Vitsum in expressing my thoughts on the matter.)

On the other hand, if these events are not part of God's "plan", then he is not omniscient nor omnipotent.  If there are things he cannot control, then is he really "God?"  It's similar to the argument for evil, and it's the kind of logic that I have yet to see Christians have a satisfactory answer for.   Unlike in ancient times, most people today(Fred Phelps, notwithstanding) do not believe that natural disasters are a punishment from God, nor the weather a result of our prayers.  Yet we still believe -- or at least, profess to believe -- that he intervenes in our daily lives, from helping us to find our lost car keys to curing our latest cold.

Rebecca Vitsum defied traditional safety precautions and saved her own life -- and that of her son.  Had she stayed in her "safe spot" in her bathroom, praying, instead of getting into her car, there is no doubt that neither of them would be with us today.  Natural disasters take many lives, all over the world, every single day.  They devastate communities, families, and countries.  They destroy families.  Apologetics will blame this on "sin" and the fall of man, leading to an imperfect world.  Beyond raising even more questions (which it does, and which I will address in another post), this answer fails to explain how God can be both in control and blameless at the same time.

My heart aches for those who have been affected by recent disasters -- Hurricane Irene, the Oklahoma tornadoes, the wildfires in California and Colorado.  I, for one, do not believe that those people who have lost their homes, their family members, and their livelihoods, are being "punished" by an unseen deity, any more than I believe that those of us who remain (as yet) unaffected are somehow "blessed."

We live on Earth, and natural forces create natural disasters.  God's got nothing to do with it.

A Rebuttal

**Note: I almost didn't publish this post. You guys had my back, and did an awesome job responding to the few negative comments.  You said it better than I could.  Still, I felt like I had more to say on the subject, and so here it is.  

Most of the time, I write a post in a single sitting.  I hit "publish" before I have the chance to chicken out.  A lot of what I write is emotional, written in the "heat" of the moment.  Even my more academic posts are written after a lot of thought -- but only one session at the computer.

This one is different.  It has taken me several days to find the words to say that I wanted to say, without giving more fodder to an anonymous person who clearly has already formed quite a judgmental opinion of me.  I hope that Jenny and the other various bloggers who disagreed with my initial post will read this and better understand the point I was trying to make.  You do not have to agree with me, but I think there is value in trying to understand different points of view. So here goes:

Dear Jenny Blogger,

I wanted to take a moment to respond to your comment that was left on my blog (in other words, at MY house) on Mother's Day, a particularly painful day for me and millions of others.

You weren't the only person to disagree with me, but your comment stood out because of the hurtful things you said.  I have tried to look past that, however, and to give you the courtesy of thinking about and digesting what you had to say.

Because that's what I do.  Instead of writing a scathing reply to an unknown stranger and calling them names, I prefer to really think about your comments and try to see where you are coming from.  And so I have.  I can honestly say that I think you misread some (though not all) of my statements, and you clearly missed the big picture I was trying to get across.  Here's what you had to say:

"I am sorry for the pain that infertility has caused you.  But you are so far off base its saddening and maddening all at once. By your logic, no one should celebrate anything because those who can't celebrate it are marginalized.  Should we not celebrate sports victories?  because some people have injuries or handicaps and can't play.  Should we not celebrate birthdays?  Because some people have died and can't celebrate anymore.  Should we not celebrate graduation?  because some people aren't smart enough or don't have enough time or money to finish.

  Have you stopped to think that maybe society is onto something with the way mothers are held so high? Its true that you can know love and take care of others without being a mother. But the love a mother has for a child --whether adopted or birthed -- is unlike any other. Sure there are moms who fail their children and shouldn't be mothers.  There are failures in every role in life. 

 If knocking others and diminishing the reality of motherhood makes you feel better, then so be it.  But your words really just make you look like a bitter, angry woman who is lashing out at mothers out of jealousy."  

Whew.  Let's tackle your comments one at a time, shall we?  You begin by apologizing for "the pain that infertility has caused me."  You immediately follow this up with a big word: BUT.  Which, as an adult, I know that you realize pretty much negates the previous statement you just made.  Think of the last time someone you loved said, "I'm sorry, but...."  How did that make you feel?  Did you feel as though that person truly understood your point of view?  Or were they just throwing out the obligatory apology before telling you that they really AREN'T sorry, and that you are wrong? You would have been better served leaving that insincere apology out of your comment, seeing as though it seems as if you didn't really mean it. (You don't even know me, so I don't know that I really blame you for that, but it still irks me that you have tried to sound kind while at the same time ripping me a new asshole.)

In the next few sentences, you give some examples of things that you believe I think (or said) that we should not celebrate.  You state that you are simply following my "logic."  Well, logical or not, I don't agree that we shouldn't celebrate those things.  I love birthdays, am an avid MyState College football fan, and celebrate my students' "graduation" every year.  I would like to point out, though, that neither sports victories, birthdays, or graduations are national holidays.  Stores do not have "Jo's Birthday" sales (though wouldn't that be awesome!), and no one (except my husband) is guilted into buying me gifts or saying sweet things about me on a particular day of the year.

But beyond all that superficial stuff -- and this is really where my biggest gripe lies -- no one posts stories on the Internet (that are "liked" by lots of people) saying that people who can't walk don't understand what athletic competition is like. Neither would it be acceptable to say that people who haven't graduated from college aren't "real" adults who don't understand how hard it is to have a good-paying job with benefits.  No one is marginalized when you celebrate the achievements of someone you love.  The problem lies in society's expression of the myth that to be a "real" woman, you must have children.  Mother's Day is just a small part of that prevalent thought process, one that is expressed in a thousand small ways every single day of the year.

In the next paragraph, you ask me if I have "stopped to think."  Um, yes.  I think A LOT.  Especially about motherhood, feminism, and the role of women in society.  I think about how to go about achieving motherhood, and what I am going to do if I can't.  I think about why society venerates motherhood, and in my opinion, it has less to do with celebrating their hard work and more to do with maintaining the status quo and keeping mothers in a specified role (that of caretakers of children and the home).  I spend an ungodly amount of time thinking about motherhood, its role in my life, and its role in the lives of other women.

I will not argue with your statement that the love a mother has for her child is like nothing else.  I do not dispute that, as I have no personal experience as to whether or not that's true.  I would tend to disagree with a blanket assumption, though, that it is true for every parent. I see evidence to the contrary every single day in my profession. The acceptable propaganda is that being a mother surpasses all other achievements in life, but the reality is that it is different for every woman.  To assume that the love you feel for your child is the same love every mother feels for their child flies in the face of all of the horror stories we read about and hear on the news, way too often than we would like to admit. 

I thank you for agreeing with me that people CAN experience love outside of parenthood.  Again, though, you do the rest of us a disservice when you elevate one type of love (that of parent-child) over other types of love.  Isn't all love great?  Shouldn't all love be celebrated?  I dislike the hierarchy of love, and the point I was trying to make is that all humanity benefits from humans loving each other, in all the various forms that takes.

I am unsure about what your comment about "failures" has to do with what I was trying to say.  Unless you were just trying to point out that women who don't parent, or who parent the "wrong" way, are failures.  In which case I both agree and disagree.  There are horribly abusive parents out there that probably never should have had children, and I think we both agree that they have "failed" in their role as parents.  But to say that there are failures in all roles in life smacks loudly of a judgemental attitude that I just don't share.  What constitutes a failure to you?  Is a woman who doesn't have children a "failure?"  Because that is a common, unspoken attitude held by many and we childless women are confronted with that myth on a daily basis.  What other "failures" are you referring to?  Is a person who doesn't graduate a failure?  A person with a crappy, dead-end job?  A person who is alientated from their family? A person who makes poor choices and ends up in jail?  I have personally known people from all of these walks of life, and would classify none of them as "failures."  But, again, that's where we differ.

You then accuse me of "knocking" and "diminishing" the role of mothers, in order to feel better about myself. I did not intend to "knock" or "diminish" anyone's choices -- including that of becoming a mother.
In fact, in my post, I pointed out that I know lots of amazing moms.

**Sidebar:  Several others apparently read my post this same way, and I have re-read and re-read my words, trying to see where I demeaned motherhood.  I didn't, and it was never my intention to do so. All was trying to say was that mothers aren't the only ones who sacrifice and love others. **

My point -- and the one you missed -- was that it's not only moms that deserve our recognition and respect.  That LOTS of different kinds of people -- many of whom are not parents -- do similar jobs, and that we should recognize ALL types of "mothering" and of love and self-sacrifice.  In so doing, I noted that mothers are particularly self-sacrificing, that they put others ahead of themselves, and that they do tedious and difficult things every day.  How is that "diminishing" their role?  I don't believe it is.

I do believe that pointing out that other, non-moms, are also capable of doing tedious, hard, and loving things for others makes me feel better.  Knowing that I am valuable, that my worth is not defined by my ability to bear or raise children, makes me feel better.  So, on that point, you are right.  Writing my post DID make me feel better, which is kind of the point.  To put my feelings into words, to validate them, to organize them, to make sense of them.  All of this makes me feel better, which is why this blog exists in the first place.

I believe that mothers have a particularly difficult job.  They, however, do not have a monopoly on hard or difficult jobs.  I am a teacher at a low-income, high-poverty school -- my job is oftentimes heartbreakingly hard and difficult.  I would never say, though, that anyone who is not a teacher, or who doesn't teach at the same kind of school,  doesn't understand what a "hard" or "low-paying" job is.  Because the reality is that LOTS of jobs are difficult, low-paying, and often unrecognized. When you specifically exclude a segment of the population, and you claim that they are "less" than you because they haven't had the same experiences, well, that's just wrong.

Your final statement, in which you call me a "bitter, angry woman" who is "jealous" of mothers is probably the most accurate statement you made (and, as you intended, the most hurtful).   I am both bitter and angry at all that infertility has robbed me of, and I've written about that many times before.  I am most certainly jealous of other mothers, another troubling feeling that I have written about as I try to deal with my jealousy in the least destructive way possible.  But I ask you this: does the fact that I am human and possess these human feelings negate what I was trying to say?  I suppose that to you, it does.  Because I am not a mom, you dismiss my arguments out of hand.  Because I am not a mom, I don't understand and therefore you don't have to listen to what I have to say.

And THAT is the problem that I was railing against.  I have no issue with giving your mother flowers, or taking her out to dinner, or with every mom on the planet receiving breakfast in bed one day a year.  None of that matters.  What DOES matter is how we make other people feel, every day of the year.  What matters is that we, as a society, diminish non-moms and dismiss them because they don't have children.  What matters is that we recognize only one kind of mother, and we ignore all of the others that don't fit that mold.   What matters is that we don't recognize, publicly, that your value as a woman is not tied to the state of your uterus.  

I am positive that I will get a chorus of moms disagreeing with me on this, and your perception is valid.  As a mom, you may or may not have experienced what I experience as a childless woman.  I don't know how long you have battled infertility, if at all, or what scars you carry with you.  I don't know what common ground we share.  It is not difficult for me to imagine that you think I am crazy, that I am imagining these perceived slights because I am jealous, and angry, and bitter.

And, maybe, you are right.* But, maybe, just maybe, you are not.  Maybe childless women ARE treated differently.  Maybe, just maybe, women who do not have children (whether by choice or not) do feel undervalued, diminished, and ignored by the more prolific population. ** Maybe our decisions are questioned, or met with scorn and ridicule.  Maybe we are told, over and over again, that our lives do not truly begin until we become mothers. Maybe that meme you forwarded, expressing how only moms know what "real" _____________ is caused more heartbreak than you know.

My post was intended not to bash mothers, but to lift up those who are continuously battling the long-held stereotypes of womanhood equaling motherhood.  It was intended to let those childless/motherless/abused/infertile/uninterested/career-minded/single/babyloss women know that the love and sacrifice and joy that they spread every single day is just as valuable as that given by moms.

I've looked carefully, and nowhere in my post did I say that we shouldn't celebrate Mother's Day, or birthdays, or graduations.  What I did say was that the WAY we celebrate it, and more specifically the way our society treats women who AREN'T mothers, upsets me. And then I attempted to reach out to those who are sitting down with me (while everyone else is standing and getting the accolades), and to let them know that they do matter, that they do have worth.

Think of it as elevating all women to honorific status, not as tearing down mothers.  Mother's Day itself isn't the problem. The problem lies much deeper, at the heart of our society's veneration of motherhood, deserved or undeserved. It lies in the lie that motherhood is an achievable and desirable goal for all women, and that mothers do something that other people cannot. 

And, my friends, that is simply not true. We are all capable of love, and worthy of honor and respect, whether the person we are taking care of is six years old or sixty. 

And, despite your harsh words the other day, I believe we are all capable of compassion, and understanding, and forgiveness. And so I apologize to you, Jenny, if you felt belittled by my post. I don't agree with your interpretation of my words, or of my goal in writing them.   I do think that, as women, we really should strive to build each other up instead of tear each other down, even when we approach issues from opposite sides of the fence. Instead of calling names and making the rift between us even greater, wouldn't it be nice if both moms and non-moms alike could work together to make sure that everyone on Planet Earth felt valued, appreciated, and honored for the work that they do?  

The ALI-blogosphere has always been a safe place for women in all stages of child-loss, child-seeking, child-rearing, and even permanent childlessness to express themselves.  I'd like it to stay that way.  The only way for that to happen, though, is if we open up our hearts and really listen to what each of us has to say.  You are more than welcome to write a post about what Mother's Day means to you, or why you hate Cinco de Mayo, or what your favorite recipe for salad dressing is.

I promise that, while I won't agree with you on any of those points, I will value you as a contributor, a woman, and a human being -- no matter how many kids you do (or don't) have.

END RANT.  :-)

* You aren't. 

** We are. 

Did I Do That?

Wow!  I seemed to have sparked an *ahem* heated conversation with yesterday's Mother's Day post.  Though I am definitely opinionated and outspoken, I have to admit that I was a little taken aback by one or two of the comments.

Let me just say this:  you don't have to agree with me.  In fact, I think the world is a richer place for our differences of opinion, and I am open to discuss many different issues with people who don't agree with me.

HOWEVER -- please keep in mind that, when you comment here, you are entering MY HOME.  More than that, you are entering my sacred space, my safe haven.  This is the place where I am allowed to "let it all hang out."  It is where I discuss those dark, ugly, feelings that aren't acceptable to talk about in other places. It's where I work out a myriad of emotions,  and I don't want to feel the need to put a pretty facade on them.

It is my hope that readers here find posts that make them think -- even if they ultimately think I am wrong.  And you are welcome to tell me that I am wrong, as long as you remember to do so in a polite and respectful way.

Some of you agreed with me, and some of you did not.  That's okay.  Thank you to those of you who tried to remember where you are, and tried to put yourselves in my shoes when you responded.  I appreciate that, even if you told me I was wrong.

To those of you who either forgot where you were for a moment, or lack the manners I expect in my home, please be assured that I have more thoughts to share.  I am trying to choose my words carefully, though, because I do not think that lashing back at you (even though you were quick to do so with me) is the right way to handle the situation.

Just remember one thing -- fair or not, agree or not, no one makes you read my blog.  If you don't like my content, please click away -- and take your name-calling with you.

Why I Hate Mother's Day

I am sure that there are women -- most of them mothers, and including members of my own family -- that will tell you that I hate Mother's Day because I am not a mother, and I desperately long to be one.

And they are right.

But their analysis is shallow, and incomplete, and doesn't do my loathing of today the justice it deserves.

You see, Mother's Day is more than just a day we celebrate our mothers.  Mother's Day is the day we glorify and elevate the job of motherhood to near sainthood.  Mother's Day is the day we sensationalize (on an even more grandiose scale) the hard, tedious, and sometimes unrecognized things that moms do every day.

(Please note that I am not attempting to minimize the task at hand, Moms.  Your job is often hard, and tedious, time-consuming, and difficult.  However -- it is not the ONLY job that is hard, tedious, time-consuming, and difficult.)  

Mother's Day is just one more way that our society marginalizes women who, for a variety of reasons, have not chosen (or were unable to follow) this particular life path.  It assumes that Women of a Certain Age are mothers, and are happy about it.  It completely ignores the rest of us, not just the infertiles, but the women who chose not to bear children, or chose not to raise them, or who lost a child.  It ignores both men and women who have strained relationships with their mothers, or none at all.  It ignores those people who have lost their mothers, or never knew them to begin with.

In short, in its "celebration" of motherhood, it makes a large segment of the population feel like shit.  And yes, I know, other holidays do this, too. But Mother's Day is particularly grating in its narrative.  Mothers today are already bombarded with messages that They Are Awesome, and it's never limited to just one day.  My FB news feed is regularly flooded with poems, and anecdotes, and epic novels about how I, as a person who is not a mother, have NO IDEA what "real love" is like.  I have NO IDEA how hard it is to be a mom.  I am, in short, not a "real" woman until I parent a child.  And it's that message, a message that is pushed down our throats all year long, that rises to an intolerable level of BULLSHIT every second Sunday in May.

Because it's not true. 

I know some moms out there will disagree with me, and that's fine.  But I want to say it again, and I want you to hear me:

It's NOT true.

Even if you aren't a parent, you are capable of experiencing love.

Even if you aren't a parent, the work you do is valuable.

Even if you aren't a parent, you know what it's like to take care of others instead of yourself.

Even if you aren't a parent, you can know what it's like to clean up someone else's shit.

Even if you aren't a parent, you can know what it's like to experience sleepless nights.

Even if you aren't a parent, you know what it's like to worry about someone else.

Even if you aren't a parent, you know what it's like to wonder if you're fucking it all up.

Even if you aren't a parent, you can make sacrifices for others and put their happiness above your own.

Some moms are awesome -- that is true.  My mom is.  My sister is.  I know lots of awesome moms.  But I also know lots of awesome non-moms who "mother" all year long without the recognition that moms get.  And to them I want to say this: fuck Mother's Day.  You kick ass all year long -- whether you are caring for your parents, an ailing spouse, a small child, or a huge segment of the human population.  Wherever this life's journey has taken you, I want you to know that there are people who recognize your value is not tied up in being someone's mother.

You are defined by the choices you make every single day, not by the recipient of those choices.

Parenthood, while amazing, is not the defining aspect of what makes us human.

You are real, with real life experiences, whether you end up becoming a mother, or not.

And so, today, let's celebrate being human.  Let's celebrate the variety of life choices that exist, and be thankful that so many human beings are willing to put the good of others ahead of personal gain.  Let's celebrate loving others, and sacrificing for others, and doing the hard, tedious, daily life tasks that make everyone else's lives run smoother.  

Let's just not assume that mothers are the only people who do this.

Happy You're-A-Valuable-Person Day, my friends.  Thank you for everything that you do.

Becoming An Atheist: The Power of Prayer

For me, as a Christian, prayer was how I connected with what I believed to be God. I sought him diligently, daily, and in all things. I prayed for others more often than for myself, though I would be lying if I said that I never asked for things to go my way. For years, I bought into the myth of "God's timing" and failed to do anything beyond pray, fervently, for our lives to be blessed with a child.

As the years passed, and things with Mo became more and more strained, I prayed nearly constantly for my husband's salvation. I literally begged God, in tears, with all the fervor in my heart, to save him. Likewise, as I lay in bed losing my first child, I once again turned to prayer, as I had been taught. After all, doesn't the Bible promise that God will answer our prayers? If we ask, without doubting, our prayers will be granted. It doesn't say it will be granted IF it fits in with God's plan -- it says that if you ask, you will receive.

Quite obviously, my prayers were ineffectual. At first, I blamed myself. Perhaps I didn't believe enough, didn't trust enough. Perhaps my motives were ultimately selfish, undeserving of being answered. Then, I turned my blame onto my husband. If only HE would pray, if he would see the error of his ways, THEN God would answer our prayers.

It didn't occur to me, for many years, that maybe God wasn't there, and that prayer was, ultimately, an exercise in futility.

It wasn't long after I first realized that I was, indeed, a non-believer, that I came across this site. While many Christians will dismiss it out of hand, I found it to be extremely thought-provoking. Why IS it, I began to think, that people believe that God is helping them to find their car keys, or curing their sniffles, or granting them a promotion -- when millions of small, innocent, human children are dying each day of starvation and disease? Are those children not praying correctly? Does their lack of Christianity (an accident of birth and geography, and no real fault of theirs) mean that God doesn't hear, or feel the need, to answer their pleas? What about the Jews of the Holocaust? Those were God's chosen people, and I guarantee they prayed to their God during their horrific experiences. Did God answer their prayers?

Some will say he did: there are survivors who believe he did. But what proof do they have? Not one person alive today can produce definitive proof of God's interference in the lives of man. And why did he answer only some prayers, and not others? What makes a prayer worthy of being answered? If you find your keys -- did God hear and answer your prayer? Or did you just think of a new place to look? Did God cure your husband's cancer, or did the chemotherapy do its job? Were your prayers finally answered with the birth of your child, or did you just finally figure out the right treatment plan and roll the dice enough times to get the outcome you desired?

Studies have been conducted over the years, all of which prove the inefficacy of prayer. People who are prayed for have no better outcomes than those who are not. This, of course, is explained as being part of God's mysterious plan. If things go the way you want, then God heard and answered your prayers. If they do not, well, there are unknowable reasons why. It's actually a good gig if you can get it -- somehow, Christians have twisted their theology to give God the credit when things go well, and none of the blame when things do not.

There are, of course, limits to prayer -- even the most devout Christians know that God will not (cannot?) answer impossible prayers. An amputee will not sprout new limbs, no matter how many people pray for him or how strong their faith. A woman without a uterus will not give birth to a healthy child. A person who has died will not come back to life. If these things are beyond God's capabilities, the he is not the omnipotent being many believe him to be. If they are within his reach, and he is simply choosing not to answer those prayers, then Jesus lied. Either way, Christianity fails logically when attempting to explain prayer, when reconciling their teachings in the Bible, with everyday experiences.

There are few people in our country today willing to leave everything in God's hands -- in one way or another, we all take advantage of modern science and medicine at some point in our lives. And how many of us would be willing to leave the health or well-being of our own children up to prayer? If your child has cancer, for example, how many of us will elect to do nothing but attempt to pray it away? When religious fundamentalists do just that, we accuse them of neglect, even child abuse. We say they "let" their child die. If we acknowledge in that example that God is incapable of answering our prayers without human assistance (in the form of radiation or chemotherapy), then is he really answering them at all?

I have long since given up on prayer. I see no point to it, and quite honestly, it aggravates the hell out of me to see God being given credit for the hard work and skill of other human beings. Prayer is not powerful -- in fact, for many, it is an excuse to do nothing, and yet feel as though they did something. It gives human beings a sense of control in an uncontrollable and unpredictable universe -- but ultimately, it's a false sense of control.

There are many things I CAN'T control -- accidents, disease, other people. I can, and will, offer my sympathies, my abilities, and my humanity to others when confronted with these unfortunate realities. What I will not do is spend my precious time sending inaudible thoughts in their direction -- both they, and I, are better served if I get off my ass and make them a sandwich. It won't fix anything -- but, then again, neither will prayer.

Becoming An Atheist: The Problem of Evil

My first real doubts about the existence of god came around the same time frame of our first IVF, though the two were not related. I had recently left the first school I had ever taught at, and was teaching at a magnet school for sixth-eighth graders. We taught in "streams" -- six week courses designed to incorporate all subjects around a bigger theme. My first stream was Conflict, and it featured an in-depth look at WWII.

I had read about the Holocaust before, of course. I had studied it in middle school and high school myself. I read Anne Frank and numerous other books written by survivors. I had taught the book "The Devil's Arith.metic" by Jan.e Yo.len for several years in my reading classes (it is a fantastic example of historical fiction). The Holocaust has always fascinated me, in a somber, heartbreaking way. It was such a terrible, dark, part of human history, and my empathetic nature can't help but put myself in the shoes of the women and children who endured horrors I can hardly imagine.

As part of this particular unit, I chose to read aloud to the students from El.ie Wei.sel's memoir, "Night," a little each day. I had read the book before, of course, and I remember that I was moved by it. But -- something different in me responded this time. There was a particular passage I remember reading to my eighth graders. The room was silent, and my voice broke as I described, secondhand, what Elie witnessed: Nazi soldiers throwing infants into the air and shooting them in front of their mothers who had just finished digging their own graves.

(I will pause for a minute and let you go back and re-read that last sentence. Sit with it for a moment. Let the image sink in.)

We couldn't even discuss our reading that day. I closed the book after finishing that page, and we all just kind of looked at each other for a few minutes until it was time to dismiss. Nobody twittered or fidgeted or tapped their pencils. The air was thick with emotion, and we just sat in the stillness for a moment, afraid to break the spell. I still don't know what was going on in the minds of my students that day -- but I know what was going on in mine.

At that moment, it became impossible for me to reconcile what I had been taught about God and what had unfolded throughout history. How any omniscient, omnipotent, and omnibenevolent being could allow something like that to happen (and other, far more gruesome things that we never touched on in class), became impossible for me to understand. (It was several years later that I became aware of Epicurus' famous quote, but it certainly hit home for me that day).

I had been told that humans could not understand God's motives, and that his plan made sense on some grander scale that we could not fathom. But at that moment, I began to wonder. What possible reason or plan was God fulfilling? How was he powerless to prevent such evil? I understand that Christians believe that god gave us "free will" and they use that to explain why evil seems to flourish -- but, really? God, had he any power at all, could have prevented the suffering of millions by simply not creating one being in the first place. And, being all-knowing, he knows this. But he does it any way (assuming that God is the creator and giver of life.) How is this benevolence? How is this showing love and mercy? How does the slaughter of millions further God's plans?

I didn't stop believing in God that day, but the very first cracks in my faith began to appear. And the more I thought about the Holocaust in particular, and evil in general, the more I began to doubt in a hands-on, interventionist deity. After all, people around me were praying to pass tests and find their car keys -- and claiming that God answered those prayers -- while he remained silent at the pleas of those suffering more than you or I will ever know.

Though many atheists are themselves portrayed as evil, I would venture to say that for most atheists, evil itself is a reason supporting their very atheism. We are not evil because we reject the notion of a deity -- rather, the presence of evil concerns us so much that it has caused us to spend a great deal of thought trying to reconcile the problems we see every day around us with the notion of a loving god.

And, unfortunately, the answers we've been given do not pass the test. Theists love to give God credit for the good things, and are quick to blame humanity for the bad. Logically, though, the arguments break down -- either God is in control,or he is not. If he is, then he is allowing and/or causing some terrible shit to happen, on a global scale, every single day. If he's not in charge, then he's not God.

You can't have it both ways, though I know that some theists try. (I will tackle the hands-off Creator God in another post). Either way, both theists and non-theists must acknowledge that evil exists (or, to put it another way, bad things happen). The question becomes, whose fault is it?

There are, of course a variety of provable causes: nature, disease, other human beings. But God? How does he fit in? Is he the causer of evil, or the bystander?

According to both the Old and the New Testaments, God is not only capable of intervening, but he has done so throughout history. Why then did he choose this particular point of human suffering, on such a grandiose scale, to disappear? Where was he during the Holocaust? Where is he today?

I'm afraid that the answer is that he is where he always has been -- locked inside our own minds. Neither the perpetrator nor the bystander -- just simply a comforting figment of our own imaginations.

Becoming An Atheist: A Little Background

I was born into a "mixed" marriage of sorts -- my mother was a Methodist PK (that's preacher's kid, for those of you not hip to the slang), and my father had grown up LDS (more commonly known as Mormon), though he had rejected the faith. In 31 years, I still don't know why -- we've never discussed it. I just knew that my mom was a Christian, and my dad was not.

We didn't go to church often growing up -- sometimes, depending on where we were living, we want to a local Methodist church. I remember going to see my grandfather preach when we went to visit them. But mostly I grew up believing in God, but without much religion or ritual behind it.

When I was 14, we moved to SLC. And, if you have ever lived there, you can imagine what it was like for a non-LDS girl. I wasn't ostracized by any means -- but I also was not well-versed enough to fend off the attempts to convert me. And there were many! All of my friends invited me to church, which my mother vehemently objected to. Maybe because I was 14 and needed to rebel against my parents, or, maybe because I was 14 and wanted to fit in with my peers, or maybe because I was 14 and in love for the first time with an LDS boy -- but I found myself very drawn to the LDS community. I took it upon myself to read the bible from cover to cover (a feat I have accomplished several times since), and to read the Book of Mormon as well. My friends seemed to have reasonable answers to my not-very-deep questions, and I was never allowed to visit their churches and discuss the religion with adults. My mother never told me why she was so against it, she just was. I became convinced that, once I turned 18, I would convert and marry my LDS boyfriend and have a passel of children.

Instead, when I was just shy of 16, we moved to Podunk. Where, instead of being surrounded by the LDS and their very strong sense of community, I was an oddball. We didn't attend any of the mega-churches, and I wasn't a part of their youth groups. I clung to my version of Mormonism (which was by no stretch of imagination a very accurate version) for a while, but eventually teenage normalcy begged and I identified only as "Christian." I still read the bible, and I missed the community I had found in SLC. I searched for that for many years. When I was 18, I joined a local Methodist church. It was familiar, and it embraced all people. Even then, in my conservatism, I had doubts that any one religion was spot-on. I did believe some were more accurate than others, but had a very difficult time embracing the idea that people who hadn't heard about Jesus, or who were born and raised in a different culture, were going to hell simply because of an accident of birth.

I joined several small groups at that church, and continued to attend throughout my two years of college there. (I go back and re-read some of my college papers from back then, littered with conservative ideologies, and can't help but laugh. How self-righteous I sounded, and how much my liberal-arts professors must have hated me! :-) )

When I was almost 20, I moved Down South (even further south than Podunk). I finished college, met Mo. Got married and started teaching. We didn't attend church, though both of us wanted to raise our children in church. I was of the mindset that church attendance wasn't necessary for a relationship with God. After several years, and lots of struggles personally, Mo broke down one afternoon and said he wanted to call his childhood preacher. We did, and the next Sunday went to his small church. He had left the Assembly of God church that Mo had been baptized in several years earlier and started his own, non-denominational church that preached prosperity -- you know, God wants you to be rich, etc. They embraced us immediately, and I felt a sense of belonging that had been missing since we left SLC. We did things with their family every weekend, attended church together every Sunday. When Mo's dad died, Mo disappeared (metaphorically, at least). I won't rehash that time period, but it was the most difficult we have ever endured. I begged them for help, but they didn't know what to do. They tried, they prayed. It did no good. I stopped attending. I miscarried. They were nowhere to be found.

When we moved back to Podunk, my faith was shattered. I had prayed for years for a different outcome, to no avail. I had prayed, not for myself, but for another, and it did no good. I knew that God wasn't listening, if he was even there at all.

It took several more years, and an atheist friend, to help me become aware of my actual beliefs. To separate what I had been taught from my actual experience. To look for evidence, and find it lacking.

There will be some readers who want to blame my atheism on my bad experiences, to say that I am angry with God. I am not, because I do not believe that any gods exist. I am angry with the situation I am in, yes. That is real. For me, god is about as real as Santa Claus, and I feel just about as much anger toward him as I do that jolly elf.

What I hope that readers get from this over-simplified explanation of my religious background is this: I have spent quite a lot of time thinking about god. I have prayed daily for years. I have read the bible, in depth, multiple times. I have examined other spiritual texts. I do not take atheism lightly -- it is not a default position, nor one based on rebellion or anger. It is the logical conclusion that I have come to after examining closely my own life experiences, those of the family and friends that surround me, and even those in far-away continents that I will never meet.

For me, religion (specifically Christianity) was the default position, an accident of birth, if you will. It is cultural and geographical and, for the majority of participants, as easy as breathing.

It is only when it became impossible to breathe that I had to examine it closer.

What I found shattered my illusions, but has ultimately brought me peace.

I Am Angry

That may not come as a shocker to most of you, but it about sums things up pretty well right now.

I am angry at much of the world -- everyone who has ever had babies, easily or otherwise, or who will in the future have babies, with or without huge costs to their marriage, their sanity, and their self-esteem.

I am angry at infertility -- that faceless entity that has stolen so much from me.

I am angry at my husband, and his inability to accept the reality of our situation. (He actually wanted to talk tonight about using his sperm and a known donor egg if this next IVF doesn't work -- because, even though that's way more expensive than d-iui, and there are no known egg quality issues, this can't be " all his fault." *)

I am angry at the System, and the bureaucracy, and all the red tape. I am angry that adoption has become a for-profit business that is trumpeted as the answer to all of our problems by people who will never have to consider all of the sacrifices we will be making if we ever do choose to walk down that road.

I am angry that, at 31 years old, I have spent a decade chasing the unattainable. I am angry that I may have "wasted" my most fertile years waiting for an opportunity that has already slipped out of my fingers.

I am angry that I have spent so very much of my soul on this process -- and still have nothing but emotional scars and a broken heart to show for it.

I am angry because I am grieving. I get that.

I am grieving the loss of the life I planned, and will never have. I am grieving the loss of the babies I created and carried and will never hold. I am grieving for my marriage, which has been battered and broken and patched up again too many times to count.

I am grieving for the person that I was, and will never be again.

No matter how this ends, the girl I was is gone. There is no way to escape that fact. I am forever, irreversibly, damaged. There has been too much pain, too much sorrow, too much bitterness and regret.

Sometimes it feels overwhelming, impossible to bear. And yet, somehow, I bear it. I wish I could say I bear it gracefully, but I do not. I bear it, but with a deep and unforgiving anger that bubbles just beneath the surface. I do not hide it well.

Some people are beautiful on the outside. Others are beautiful on the inside.

I am neither. **

Beneath my very average face, and all my extra-padding, is a heart that is twisted -- black and gnarly and wholly repulsive.

So, yeah.

I am angry.

Angry.

And broken.

And sad.





* I have never, ever, said that any of this is his fault, just for the record. Our diagnosis is male-factor infertility and recurrent miscarriage. There are many things at play here, some of which we understand and others we don't. I absolutely do not blame Mo -- but, if we are looking for solutions, we need to look at the things that we DO know are contributing to our inability to get/stay pregnant, don't you think?

** Yes, yes, I know. Learning to love myself, accept my flaws, blah, blah, blah. Some days I can manage that. Today? Utter failure.

I Would Be Good At That

I had the chance to babysit my nieces this weekend. Baby A. has grown up so much, it just boggles the mind. She will be four soon -- FOUR!!!! How is that even possible?!?

Baby C. is a chubby, sweet, gurgling bundle of joy who already, at 9 weeks old, looks so much bigger than she did just two months ago.

(Side note -- I also have a nephew, Baby B., which gives me this perverse desire to name my child, should they ever arrive, something beginning with a D. Weird, no?)

Mo and I tag-teamed this time, since Baby C. is still in that "please don't ever put me down" phase. We traded off holding the infant with playing with her big sister. We fed them both. He showed A. how to peel a crawfish, and sang C. to sleep.

And at the end of the night, as I rocked Baby C. in the darkened nursery and listened to Mo and A. giggle in the living room, I thought, We would be so good at this.

Because, you know, I wonder sometimes.

Even though my rational brain knows otherwise, I find myself doubting that on occasion. You know, those times when I forget to feed the dogs until late afternoon, or when I come home tired and grumpy and incredibly happy that I don't have to tend to anyone's needs but my own.

It's then that I think, Maybe I would be a terrible mother. And maybe, somehow, the universe knows this. And maybe that's why I can't have babies.

I begin the litany of list-making, my brain rattling off the myriad mistakes I have made in the past. I was rotten to my little sister when we were children (I even locked her outside once. In January. In the snow). I have snapped at kids at school, on numerous occasions over the years. I have said mean things to my spouse, things I didn't mean and things I did, and things I can never, ever take back. I am stubborn. I am impatient. I am grouchy when I am tired, and Lord help you if my blood sugar drops too low.

Sometimes, when I let my emotions get the better of me, I think that these things are the root cause of my infertility.

But, I know better. My feelings are real, but they don't reflect reality.

In reality, I would be an excellent mother.

In reality, I would make mistakes, we all do. But I would love my children with a fiery passion. I would put them first, every single day. Tired or not, we would read books every evening. I would cook them their favorite foods. I would say "no" when I had to, but I would try as often as I could to say "yes." I would ask questions, and really listen to their responses. We would explore. I would smother them with hugs and kisses and never let them doubt for a single second how very, very much they were wanted.

I have to remind myself of these facts every so often.

I am NOT being punished for some childhood transgression or some imaginary sin.

I am NOT being tested, and found lacking, by some omniscient being whose standards of conduct are impossible to achieve.

I married a man who produces wonky sperm.

That's it.

And I am incredibly grateful for the scientific advances that give us lots of options for how we deal with that.

Because, in the end, I would be a wonderful mother. I only hope that, someday, I get the chance to prove that, if only to myself.