Trying to Feel Normal Again

Today, I heard a song by Ben Rector that, as songs tend to do from time to time, resonated with me as it spoke to some of the depression I have struggled with on a daily basis.  The song is called "When a Heart Breaks," and while it sounds like a it might be about a broken relationship and love, when I listened to the song carefully, it's about a little more than that. In fact, without speaking to the artist himself, I'm pretty sure the song is about the bigger struggles in life, the ones that are life changing and sudden.  The ones that make you trule re-evaluate life.

The start of the song is somewhat expected: he speaks of waking up and receiving heartbreaking news, but it's the second verse that struck a chord with me:

I heard the doctor
But what did he say
I knew I was fine about this time yesterday
I don't need answers
I just need some peace
I just need someone who could help me get some sleep
Who could help me get some sleep

The world definitely gets the volume turned down and all the little things that you were petty about leading up to a moment that changed your life, such as a life changing diagnosis from your doctor. That is something you can never be prepared for. And you wake up the next morning thinking, for a second, was it all a dream? But you know it wasn't. And all you want to do is sleep. Forever.

These days, my friends and family rarely see me, rarely call me, rarely contact me.  In fact, I can hardly remember that last time any of my "best" friends called me to shoot the shit or ask how I was doing. Nearly every time we have seen or spoken in the past few years has been initiated by me, and I have no problem with that.  But now that I'm in a bit of a depression, it would be nice to have them come around unexpectedly, or call to check up.  But they never do. And it does break my heart.

When we do talk, specifically about my azoospermic condition, most of the time, my friends and family are saying how bad they feel for me, how they wish they could do something. Sometimes, I wish I could respond "how come you guys all sound like a hallmark card for people in the hospital?" I know people are busy, but it would be nice to hear something from someone that, like Ben Rector said - would help me sleep a little better. I guess it'd just be nice to know that someone actually tried to put themselves in my shoes. Not just a fleeting thought, but a real try. But that's not even the best thing they could do.

I remember one time when I was getting punished by my father for something I did, my dog at the time (she was a german shepard-labrador mix) kept sitting next to me. I pushed her away, and then she came back. I yelled at her, moved away from her, and pushed her again and again.  But she was relentless and eventually I put my arm around her and I felt a lot better.  My friend C had similar perseverance when dealing with my depression and hibernating status.  I realize more and more how much my friend C (mentioned before in this blog) really came through for me. As much as I told him not to show up, and as much as I didn't want to go out and see him or anyone else, he'd swing by even if it was only to hang out in my living room. He didn't press any issues, he didn't ask me anything. He would disguise the encounter with saying "let's just get something to eat real quick." And when we did talk about some of the difficult things that I was going through, he just listened. I mean really listened, and responded with genuine responses, not just random statements of positivity or condolences. It was simple, but it made all the difference.

I guess I thought I could just crawl into a lonely hibernation and avoid contact. I was wrong. Depression, guilt, and overall confusion just kept getting worse.  But with the help of my wife and C, and a few other people - it was nice to see that the world was in fact still in tact. That I could still find my way back to being a bit more normal and possibly my old self again.  I have wonderful friends and family, and I know this post reads as if I am angry at them.  I just have always held my friends (especially) to a high standard. One that I thought I could always count on, one that I thought would show how good of friends and how strong a friendship I had with them.  One that I probably don't uphold myself, as much as I try to.  But that was just me being unrealistic. They are just people, good people - with busy lives and too many things to think about. And that's okay. I guess like a little kid, I was just very disappointed, and still am till this day.

The Ben Rector song finishes with this chorus:

This isn't easy
This isn't clear
And you don't need Jesus
Til you're here
Then confusion and the doubts you had
Up and walk away
They walk away
When a heart breaks

It never is easy, and certainly not clear. And while my heart is certainly broken for my wife, my self, the children we will never have, and for the grandkids and nephews we will never share with our family and friends - I think the confusion and doubts are starting to subside. And I'm happy for that.

Random Childhood Regression

When my brother and I were young, we used to have this thing where we would say "we can ask God about that when we go to heaven."  Sometimes it was about something that we couldn't understand, like why our cat got ran over on my 14th birthday. Other times, it would be about things we were curious about such as whether ghosts existed or if there were such things as UFO's. Then there were times when we would add to the list things that were a bit less light-hearted, questions about why certain things would happen, like why a relative died from brain cancer.

Not that I'm angry, in many ways I feel I've been given my diagnosis of azoospermia for past sins and actions. Sometimes I think, in some twisted way, maybe God is looking out for my wife and I by not allowing us to have children. After all, He is infinitely benevolent. But while I'm here on earth, I still feel the need to ask him, since I'm curious to know - I know he'll have the answer, one that I can never find myself, and perhaps one that I will no longer feel the need to find.

As my wife and I continue on our journey towards adoption, I find myself looking at pictures of our adopted son as I would pictures of a beautiful beach or a majestic cathedral: it's something I hope one day to see but until then, it feels more like a concept of mythical proportions than a reality.  From pictures of his birth, to videos of him playing with toys, to seeing pictures of his first birthday. My wife and I feel more like spectators on the outside looking in than prospective parents-to-be. And while we witness nearly every couple in our vicinity welcome their children into the world, my wife and I are left connecting with our adopted son thru 6 degrees of separation, where even sending a care package of toys and clothes are handed between no less than 3-4 people. Even for his first birthday, we could only imagine and guess what kind of toys and clothes he would need and like. It's kind of a sad reality to face, but in the end, it is our reality: the struggle of infertility that has lasted more than 16 months, and an adoption process that has lasted more than 13.

Today my wife turned to me, randomly with a melancholy tone "we're missing some of the best years of raising a child." I agree. When will we ever witness such blatant curiosity and innocence?  How many priceless moments have passed us by?  How many defining moments will I never know of?  I wish I could do something more, and so I try to think about how I can make it up to my wife. I guess I can only hope that the day our child arrives from Korea some of our depression, anxiety, and hopelessness can be replaced by some feelings of joy, purpose, and relief.  I can only hope that when we hear his voice, his laughter and hold him for the first time in our arms that all our waiting and hardship has been met by the certainty of our little miracle. Not the way we always imagined, but in that moment maybe......just maybe, we'll feel like the parents we so desire to be.