We all need hope but it still hurts

Tomorrow I’ll be getting what will hopefully be the last test in our infertility journey. It’s been over two years of trying, with a never ending stream of tests, some of them very invasive. This surgery will be the most invasive yet, but it is also one of the last things we can really do to understand what’s happening. I’m preparing for that with some trepidation and a touch of hope. I’m also facing my fear of uncertainty once again.

Vulnerability and uncertainty are scary things

I’m not actually worried about the surgical part of surgery. I’m pretty trusting that my doctors know what they’re doing. The thing that makes me nervous is how vulnerable you are. For starters, there are those awful hospital gowns with that terrible back design. I’ve been there before a few times and you just feel so exposed. This is followed by the fact that you have to lie there in just that gown and allow a total stranger to make you unconscious. How much more vulnerable can you get?

Then there’s uncertainty. It’s becoming a bit of theme in life, isn’t it? We all went through two years of it with covid. In reality there is always uncertainty, but in some seasons of life it looms large. I’ve written a lot about my discomfort with uncertainty. While I’m working on that, it’s going to be a long journey. This surgery comes with uncertainty. What will they find? Will we get an answer? What will that answer be?

When I wake up, I may get an answer to all three questions at once. Maybe I’ll have to wait for the post-op for some of them. But I already know that they won’t give me a black and white answer on the big question of children. It’s unlikely they’ll tell us it’s 100% never going to happen.

But isn’t it great that there’s always hope?

Yes, it is good. But do you know how much hope can hurt? Hope can sting like lemon in a paper cut. It hurts like one of those bruises that you can’t remember getting, but which takes forever to go. Hope is as painful as being winded when you fall. And you’re usually falling from the height that hope took you to in the first place.

But you have to live with it. Because if it doesn’t hurt anymore, you don’t really have any hope. You’ve accepted the outcome and you’re not expecting anything to change. I’m still working out how to hold hope, pain and peace all at once. I’m hoping surgery will help me to do that a little better, by providing some answers. In reality, I’m going to have to work through it, just like uncertainty.

And so we press on into the unknown

We all love a good adventure in print or on the screen. I’ve always found a certain little Hobbit rather relatable in his approach to adventures. You see, the thing about adventures is that they’re full of scary things and are almost always better in hindsight. But that doesn’t mean they aren’t good for us. This scary one is mine. And, despite how poorly prepared I am for it, I plan to carry on and see what treasures await. Or, at the very least, what war stories I can accumulate.

What’s your experience with hope and uncertainty? Let me know in the comments.