All Posts By

Amy Thorne

Infertility Marriage Miracle Max Parenthood

Infertility is more than the failure of the body

May 2, 2019

 

Last week was Infertility Awareness Week.  I wanted to write something, but the pain of infertility made me a bit too paralyzed to do it.  Sounds very strange, doesn’t it?

Back in October I had a miscarriage and what would have been my due date is approaching.  With every night that May 22nd gets closer, my throat closes up more with fear and pain.

People think they know what infertility is, but in all reality if you haven’t dealt with it then you don’t know what it is.  It is nighttime panic attacks and it is crying when you see someone giving birth to a child on tv.  Infertility is anger when having to buy another box of tampons.  If you have a child then people tell you that you should be grateful and we are, but that doesn’t make an infertile woman’s emotions any less real or raw.  Infertility is wanting to punch people when they say “just stop trying and it will happen”.

We have been trying to get pregnant for a year and every month has been heartbreaking.  We want a sibling for our son and it feels like it is getting further and further out of reach as we get older.  My husband often times is not awake when I lay awake at night and cry to God about the pain that is still in my heart.  In the Bible it says His Peace shall pass all understanding…I pray and wait for that peace.  I pray to be filled with something that replaces my pain with contentment with one child.

When the pain gets becomes too much, I give it to My Father in Heaven.  He is a Good, Good Father.

 

 

 

Marriage Miracle Max Parenthood

My Abba-He Rescues My Broken Heart.

October 4, 2018

Years ago, I used this platform to blog about my journey through infertility.  It was a very hard journey that was done alone outside of the help of a few friends.  Not long after that journey started, I met my now husband.  He was a bachelor sworn to never remarry and have kids.  I was the girl who said everything that could ever scare a guy like him off.  I wanted to get married and have kids….somehow.

To those of you who didn’t know me back then, when I was 36 I was told I had an undetectable egg count (AMH level).  Three different fertility specialist at the time told me it was a one in a million chance of ever getting pregnant, let alone carry to term.  My heart was broken as motherhood was in my DNA since my childhood.  What that time became was a special time of romance between God and myself.  I would often lay in bed late at night crying my heart out and He would show me verses and dreams that spoke to answering my desires.  One night I had a dream that I was in a room with dingy white walls and I felt vulnerable and heartbroken, I got up off the bed that I was laying on in my dream and walked into another room.  I found a baby book with pictures and the date 9/11 all over the book.  I didn’t know what this dream meant, but somehow I knew it was God talking to me.  That was 2011.

On September 8, 2016, I gave birth my our son.  He is so beautiful and conceived on the very first night my husband and I tried.  He was the promise given to me 5 years before in a dream.  He is so much more that my heart could ever desire.

Becoming parents changed both of us.  God brought out the best in each of us and continues to.  It doesn’t mean our desire to expand our family has stopped.

On October 3 of this year, I suffered a miscarriage at 5am.  We had been trying for 8 very long and very emotionally exhausting months.  As I write it has been less than 24 hours and my heart is broken and my body exhausted.  I don’t know what the future of growing our family looks like from here.  After my son, I know in my heart that God can do anything He wants to as He gave me a one in a million gift.  Knowing that gave us such hope and also created an anxiety as I have seen that He can make my body capable of childbearing.

When I was blogging years ago, I referred to God as My Abba.  Abba means Father.  He is still the Abba completely in love with me.  What has surprised me through this is that I feel so at peace while at the same time mourning the loss of our unborn child.  I don’t know if adoption, science assisted child birth, natural or staying where we are as a family is what is in our future.  I do know that right now our son is asleep in his room and that is so much more than we could ever imagine.  I have a husband who I have fallen deeper in love with spends every day searching for ways to teach and love our son.  The man who was sworn to not take on a family is so desperately in love with the two of us.  That is more than I dreamed of.  God gave us both a family.

Abba, I do not know what you have in store for us, but we trust you.  It doesn’t mean our hearts aren’t broken.

 

Strange Musings Uncategorized

Dr. Venus Flytrap knows what’s going on in my bedroom? I doubt it!

August 14, 2013

Adoption baby mommy stiletto blogger

As a person who works for herself, I get the joy of working from home. What does this mean? I sit on my happy butt on the sofa every morning without brushing my teeth or my hair, if I so choose, while I cry over my bank statement. In fact, many people who work for themselves, or own a small business will nod their heads in agreement with me. People decide to work for themselves and forgo a steady paycheck for a variety of reasons. Personally, I gave up the stability of that money in my bank account every two weeks for an easy commute. Read on and you can decide which choice gives a higher quality of life – as I have no idea.

Many days I tackle certain parts of my job, while the television drones on in the background to trick me into believing that I have an office full of minions doing my dirty work. This afternoon I turned on Rachel Ray (don’t ask me why, as I do not cook and I cannot stand her) while answering emails. Sherri Sheppard, the guest co-host, introduced the topic of sex advice and how to spice it up in the bedroom. Instantly, I perked up and had to listen. Why, do you ask? No, I don’t have a man in my life and, sadly, no sex either. More than that, I find these segments exceptionally entertaining for multiple reasons:

Continue Reading

Dating Jack Sparrow Uncategorized

The Night The Lights Went Out In Georgia

June 24, 2013
A vision of my personal life.

A vision of my personal life.

As I sit in the dark waiting out another infamous tornado weather night in Georgia, my mind drifts back to my own tornadic/traumatic events in my personal life.  Yes, we all endure bad boyfriends/girlfriends, unfaithful lovers and fantastic relationships.  Luckily, I had an incredible love in my life and kissed a few frogs along the way — even frogs can teach lessons.

Last year this time, I sat in my bathroom water closet, with a new friend from southern California, teaching him all of the safety measures in the case of a funnel cloud.  As I shared stories of Georgia’s own Dorothy experiences, my phone started ringing with warnings from friends and family to take cover.  One particular message popped up saying “While I do not like you as a person  – tornado headed your way” and my laughter howled through the night louder than the thunder.

Did I really think that he, who shall remain nameless, cared about my location in the storm path? NOPE.  I had not spoken with him in 3-4  years and the last time we had communicated I had turned him down on getting back together.  Why did I turn him down?  He lied. Lied about having a girlfriend at the time.  Lied about his interest in me.  Lied about everything.  If his interest ever rang true then he wouldn’t have insulted me with a backhanded statements.  My confusion still remains about what happened in our 3 month relationship over 5 years ago that left him bitter enough to take that opportunity to sling an insult me, but I digress….

As time in my life has passed I started to wonder if I were the one with the issue?  Am I so dumb when it comes to men that I buy into the lies for that New York minute?  Yeah, not possible because 20 years of dating has bestowed copious amounts of knowledge on me — which I am quick to share without my audience’s solicitation.

Take for an example the guy I dated last year:  Nice guy, financially stable, and beautiful home that I visiting multiple times in our relationship.  No sign of a mistress, wife or a closeted gay lover — or his sister for that matter.  Yep, this sucker told me his family tree ended at him  — no siblings.  Who am I to question an only child status?

Six months later, I cruised his facebook page (no judging —you have facebook stalked someone yourself ) and I find out his sibling status included a sister.  Who lies about a sister unless little Jenny turns a trick on the block?  Not the issue — this raven beauty’s jewelry showed no signs of suffering cash flow issue.  Maybe his sister was his lover instead of me? Who does that…who lies about their sister?

Weathering the storm of dating equates to weathering the storm of attending one of my family functions — exceptionally painful, un-enjoyable, but fruitful when it comes to acquiring knowledge.  Yes, we all might need a therapy to deal with both, but the money well spent in the end.  So grab your raft and get out there and date some crazies to find that perfect someone — and don’t forget your lifejacket!

 

Uncategorized

It’s Not Fashionable to Wear Shame

May 7, 2013

Recently, my friend, Kylee sent Baby Beloved her first gift basket.  The basket included a stuffed monkey, “Go The F**k To Sleep” book (I love laughing at the name of that book) and “20 Things Adoptive Kids Wish Their Adoptive Parents Knew”.  When I flipped through the book I noticed the topic of “shame” prevalence.  My heart broke feeling my child’s future shame knowing her birth parent’s decision to give her up for adoption.

Over the years, I clothed myself with shame many mornings before I leaving home.  I’m not ashamed of my scars, but ashamed about how my body failed me twenty years ago.  I’m ashamed of the long term impact my anti-rejection drugs have had on my joints and bones.  Every time I think a hospital visit lies in my near future, I cringe with humiliation knowing those expected to step up to plate to help me never will; instead, I am having to lean on others to pick their failures.

Clothed in Shame

When I suffered from appendicitis, I drove myself to the hospital to avoid having to humble myself to friends and ask for their help.  I walk in shame knowing that twenty years after my transplant, my body fails its basic purpose – to give life to a child.  I am ashamed of how I feel like I have little to offer a future husband (even knowing that I do have so many amazing intangible traits to offer): My body — beautiful in sight; fails me constantly in function.  I will fail to give my husband children.  I am ashamed that I do not have a family that gets together on holidays or calls to check in when someone in sick.  I clothe myself in shame.

As women, we often search our bodies for stretch marks and crow’s feet.  But the signs of aging never compare to the internal damage of our shame; as a society, we fail to acknowledge that many of us walk with shame — shame often birthed out of failures in marriage, child rearing, careers and relationships.

Whispers too Deep for Words

What would happen if every time we felt ashamed, we whispered a prayer of forgiveness to ourselves?  Giving our inner self permission to forgive all of our failures, preventable or not.  Love would happen.  Societies ability to self-love and love others would blossom.  The future of my child has already begun to change me. How?  I am learning how to accept the things I cannot change about my body, but taking pride in how strong it has been to bring me this far.  Every morning, I choose to NOT dress myself in shame.  I choose gratefulness for learning this lesson because one day…I can teach it to my daughter.  Hopefully, I can inspire some other women to teach it to themselves.

Uncategorized

The Case of the Morphine Loose Lips

August 14, 2012

It seems I’ve spent much of my life in emergency rooms and doctor’s offices having medical tests and procedures. My body sports over 15 doctor’s signatures on it in the form of scars. On average I have at least one doctor’s appointment a week. What am I trying to say here? I’m not immune to pain brought on by illness; nor, am I threatened by a guy in a white coat or his scalpel.  I do not have a passive tongue or wallflower attitude in dealing with my health issues. I tell you this in order to lay the ground work to share a little personal story with you.

Party in the Operating Room Like It’s 1999?

From what I remember, 1999 started off as a fairly healthy year for me. I had already received my liver transplant and had yet to develop osteopenia (a condition that has led to over 10 fractures in the past 4 years). Unbeknownst to my 23-year-old self, I had started to develop cysts on my ovaries (clearly, a foreshadowing of my future infertility).

If you’ve ever known a woman who has had a ruptured ovarian cyst, then she can attest to the incredibly painful nature of the experience. Imagine that someone reached inside of you from your back, grabbed your belly button and tried to pull your navel and guts out of your ass (yes that is the only appropriate word here).

My first experience with a ruptured cyst proved my most painful one to date. One morning, in the wee hours, I woke up feeling that something just wasn’t right in my stomach…almost like something inside me changed during the night.  I got up ready to greet the world with my lovely shining smile and glorious morning personality that people know me for (sarcasm, folks).  I started getting ready for work and decided that makeup, styling my hair and brushing my teeth did not fit into my chosen routine that morning.

Instead, I poured myself into a pair of jeans and headed to the hospital so my doctor could evaluate what felt like either a very bad case of gas, or the world’s worst case of spontaneous stomach cancer.  On the way I made the necessary calls to my doctor, mother, boss and jackass boyfriend to notifying them of my pending death.  While the phone call line up might not seem important now, remember this piece of information for later.

I showed up at the hospital where they whisked me back into the emergency room to have me model their version of backless lingerie. Due to my transplant status, I got to skip-jump to the front of the emergency room line — ahead of snot-nosed adults and old guys having chest pains. They put me into a room with only a curtain separating me from the 60-year-old guy on a heart monitor. Once again, note this piece of information for later. The god of all that is doctors, my transplant doctor, Dr. S (his name not given here for his protection) came in the room to speak with me about my symptoms, thump on my belly, and told me that he would send one of his fellows in to conduct a further examination.

Here’s where the story starts to get interesting.

You see, transplant surgeons understand that their patients usually have a high pain tolerance and I’m no different. So, if I say “I need pain relief drugs STAT”, I mean it and they listen. Then, within a matter of minutes, I will start to smile again due to the help of my friends, Morphine or Deluadid. On this particular day, the staff gave me two large hits of morphine within 20 minutes of each other to take the edge off of my pain.  My standard response to morphine involves an incredible desire to go to sleep as well as loss of control as to what comes out of my mouth.  A time or two, I might have said some inappropriate things while wearing my morphine lips.

Just Lay Back and Relax

My doctor thought that I might have appendicitis and, apparently, a simple, accurate way to diagnose this involves a pelvic exam. If you don’t know what a pelvic exam involves, then Google it…I’m not explaining it to you here. My doctor and I have an unspoken agreement that he will not personally perform any examinations involving my private parts. So, he sent in a Fellow to do his dirty work.  (Remember: mom, boyfriend, co-worker, and old guy next to me and two hits of morphine.)

So, Dr. McYoungfellow walks in and, of course, it’s the one time that I find a doctor really good looking – ok, honestly, he was hot. Damn hot!

I am pretty sure he felt the same about me because; all of the sudden, a little sexual tension seemed to settle in the room — or a lot of sexual tension and lot of smiles between us.  He proceeds by asking me some questions and then asks my entourage to leave the room (yep, mom, boyfriend and even my boss showed up at the hospital to watch the show).

Cute-doc-boy proceeds to pull out the portable stirrups and perform the pelvic exam.  Even though I’m high as a kite at this point, it doesn’t mean I’m immune to pain and that exam has the distinction of one of my most painful medical exams – ever.  There were tears, screams, yelling and swear words so loud that my entourage surely heard it in the waiting area and became aware of my little-known ability to use diverse, colorful language that rivals that of any sailor.

Though drugged, I heard the heart monitor on the old guy next door pick up in speed because he probably wondered if some type of ritual patient killing was taking place and if they were coming for him next.  Doctor McCutie told me about his findings, asked if I had any questions, and asked if he could do anything else for my pain.  I responded with, “Nope, and thanks for the best 5 minutes of my day”.  Yes, even during my hazy, pain-filled state, I tried to be funny and charming. Instead of returning my overtures in kind, Dr. Pretty Eyes was horrified, dropped his eyes and practically ran out of the room.

Seeking Doctor Sexy

My transplant doctor walked in a few minutes later shaking his head (which he seems to do very often with me) and asked me exactly what happened. “Yes,” I told him, “I want Dr. McSexy to hand over his digits.”  Thankfully, Dr. S has a fairly laidback personality and wasn’t nearly as horrified as his Dr. McYummy. He and his feisty wife both have a special place in my heart. In fact, I’m pretty sure he just considered it part of the initiation ritual involved in becoming a fully trained doctor. Now, do you have Dr. Sexy’s digits for me? Perhaps an email or social media handle?