Sisters

My sister Caroline called from work on Thursday, in tears. She was having a hard day. Who hasn't? But hers was especially well-deserved. Let me tell you a little about her.

Caroline and I are three-and-a-half years apart. She is the older sister. We have no other siblings. She is as crazy about the Angels as I am about the Yanks, which makes us mortal enemies only three or four times a year and, occasionally, during the playoffs. See if we're still speaking after the Angels visit Yankee Stadium for a four-game set this weekend! We are as close as we have ever been, a miracle considering we foiled each other at every turn as teenagers, and she has shared all of my life's most important moments with me.

Caroline goes to church with a couple who, after many different kinds of tries, have been unable to conceive a child. I don't know what this is like; I can only guess it is a devastating kind of loss. Caroline feels this way too. As a labor and delivery nurse, she sees babies born to all kinds of parents. She felt sure this couple would make the very best kind of parents, and so she decided to do something about it.

After much prayer and counsel with her family, she offered to be a surrogate mom for these deserving people, willing to carry a fertilized embryo of their own making. (I personally believe this makes her some sort of angel, on the fast track to glory--what an amazing gift to give!) With grateful hearts, they accepted. For months, Caroline underwent inspections by doctors and injections of all sorts of drugs to prepare for the implantation, which took place about three weeks ago. At that time, two embryos looked quite viable, and it seemed as if the chances were good that there would be a successful pregnancy.

Caroline was on strict bed rest for five days, and a week after that, she saw the doctor for a pregnancy test. We all held our breaths during this week. She had some strange cravings. She felt a little crampy. I was sure her breasts were bigger. We prayed like mad that this couple would be blessed with a baby.

But they were not. Those tiny little embryos didn't make it, didn't find a home, and all suffered terrible defeat. The expense involved in this trial, plus the costs of their many other attempts, makes it unlikely that this couple will be able to try again, at least through "brave new world" techniques such as this one. What a terrible loss.

And so, a week and a half later, Caroline called me in tears. No wonder. I let her talk for a long time, not so much because I'm a great listener but mostly because I kept thinking, "I don't know what to say. God, please give me words to say." She said she didn't know why she still felt so sad. She couldn't understand the terrible injustice of such a lovely couple not being able to become parents. She was mad at God--how could he set them all up for such failure? She felt like she had failed--that somehow this was her fault. And mostly she was confused. How can this be God's plan? What's next?

Ahh--this I get. Being in this place myself right now, I understand. I have to be honest with you here. I don't like it when people say, "this is all in God's plan." This is not especially comforting to me, and I don't say it to others. How do other people know God's plan for me when I have no freaking clue? It just can't be.

And so instead of offering false comfort because I didn't know what else to say, I said, "this sucks." (Steve taught me this honest response to bad news--I like it.) And it does suck, or stink, since my mom reads my blog and doesn't like the word "sucks." How can God leave such nice people childless? What can he possibly be thinking?

I told Caroline that her sadness was justified, that it might last a long time and that it was certainly okay if she felt rotten. I told her this absolutely was not her fault. It isn't anybody's fault--there's no blame to go around. Being a clinician, she is a bit of a science junkie. But science doesn't always work. Even science is not exact. Sometimes life doesn't go the way science says it should.

And her anger at God? Well, that's a good response. Makes more sense than being angry at a doctor, or angry at herself. So what to do when you're angry at God? I pray like a crazy woman. In my silent prayer, I yell. I swear a blue streak. I cry out over my anguish. I say the "f" word. Multiple times. I think he can handle it. I personally think he appreciates my honesty. Because, truth be told, almost all the time I'm thinking, what is the freaking plan? Tell me the plan! I need to understand the plan!

God does have a plan, and our personal failures are a part of it. He will work out all the circumstances of our lives for good. Unfortunately, in the midst of our trials, this is completely impossible to see. This is the faith part. But it's not easy. So mostly what I did on the phone with Caroline was wallow. Heck, I don't know my own plan--I certainly don't know hers. But I do know what it feels like to be sad. To be afraid. To feel isolated by my circumstances. To be alone.

Steve and I are currently caught up in this new show on ABC Family called Kyle XY. I really can't recommend it--the writing is sort of ridiculous and most of what the characters do and say makes me need to make fun of them. But I will share one redeeming scene. The main character, Kyle, who remembers nothing of his past but has super-genius abilities, is feeling sorry for himself, and he is sitting in his stand-alone bathtub, which serves as his bed and place of comfort and safety. He is questioning himself: "Why don't I have a family? Or a birthday? Why can't I remember?" when he is visited by his love interest who declares, "Kyle, you're wallowing!" But she doesn't scold him. She doesn't tell him to cheer up, or get over it, or distract himself by doing something else. She climbs into the bathtub with him. She becomes fellow wallower. And it helps.

Maybe this is one of our roles in life. To say to another, "I can see you're feeling terrible. Let me feel terrible with you." Not to fix, or to smooth over, or to distract, but to share. Maybe rotten-ness gets thinned out, becomes less potent if others take some of it on themselves. It's frightening not to be able to see the plan, but maybe a little less scary if we can find a place of comfort and safety in which to allow ourselves our crummy feelings, whether they be sadness, anger, hurt, fear, or humiliation, and if we can find a fellow wallower to share our toughest times with. I practically never know what to say to people in need, but I do know how to feel sad. We all do. This makes each of us highly skilled in meeting the needs of those around us. It's our job. Even when it only requires us to feel sad, too.

To Caroline, my beautiful sister: I'm sorry. This sucks. And I feel really sad.