I sat down to paint with a fresh pitcher of water, clean, crisp paper awaiting me, and a vase of brushes that probably should be replaced but I’m too cheap to think about. I grabbed a smaller brush, soaked it in the water, dipped it in black paint, and dragged the bristles across the page. The result was awful. Sketch after sketch produced recognizable images, but nothing seemed right. My mind was racing, filled with thoughts and emotions.
Paint was not the proper medium. Words. I needed words.
So here I am. Typing away amid my art supplies that cannot seem to harness all that I am feeling.
I have been receiving inquiries about our fertility journey. Loving, sweet inquiries by people who want to know if we have made any progress.
We haven’t. At least, not in a way that seems tangible in the slightest.
We are both working with doctors and figuring out medical needs, all of which seems to personal too share, though none of it really is. There just isn’t much to say about it. But we do know a little more.
The progress has come more in attitude. This year has been filled with medical journeys and vast preparations for business school. The latter has commandeered most of our time, energy, and resources. I have been fighting this. I have been jealous of my husband having this opportunity to pursue his dream. It’s taken me the better part of the year to realize that jealousy is because I’m not sure what my dream is.
I am quickly approaching my 30th birthday. It is staring me down like a target that I have to hit dead center or all will be lost. The age doesn’t worry me as much as goals and aspirations that I feel I should have accomplished by now.
At the top of this list is children.
And yet, even with our endless visits to doctors and the persistence to conceive, neither of us feel like the time is right. What does feel right is waiting. Does that mean giving up? No. Stopping medications and doctor visits? Absolutely not. It means, waiting. Putting more trust in the Almighty and His plan. Eliminating an area of anxiety over something that should be joyous, not stress filled. It means finding joy, new dreams. It means going to business school hand in hand and gleeful with my husband, rather than jealous and downtrodden. Something keeps saying that this time is precious and not to be wasted.
I don’t check the comments on this blog very often, mainly because there aren’t that many and when there are, they are typically spam. I received notice of a new comment and ignored it until moments before writing this piece. The comment was from an anonymous sender on my letter to my fifteen year-old self. This is what it said,
Dear "Me", You can't begin to imagine all the beautiful adventures that await both of you in the intervening years on the way to becoming the "45 Year-old Us". Hang in there, sit back, and enjoy the journey.
While I am positive this message was not from a time travelling future version of myself, this comment brought me to tears. Fat, necessary, grateful tears. The words resonated with my feeling to wait right now. To be happy. And if it is from Future Me, all the better!
Dear 45 Year-old Us, Okay. I will learn to embrace the journey, to savor the moments and stop worrying. Someday we might live somewhere longer than a few years, we might have more than 500 square feet to house us. Someday might bring an MBA, a garden, art classes, financial security, and even children. More than likely it will bring even more moves, rentals, rental trucks, friends gained and lost, family events, quick holidays, and probably a few rainy days. But today is happening today, and I’ll worry about tomorrow when it comes.