Just give it up to God, Heather. If you allow Him to take on this problem, He'll give you an answer. You just need to give it to Him.
I can't tell you how many times I heard that during my struggle with infertility and I can't even begin to tell you how many times I just wanted to strangle the person uttering those words.
How can someone like me "give it up to God" when someone like me believes that God doesn't give a shit in the first place? So, who'm I supposed to "give" it to? WHO?!?
I would rail and cuss and shout at the carpet, the furniture, the television, even the cat. Because I didn't (and still don't) believe in giving up my problems, my issues, to an omnipotent entity who, I believe, is more concerned with manipulating the black hole at the center of the Milky Way than with the state of my girly bits. Besides, if God is listening and paying attention to little ol' me, he'd get annoyed pretty quickly since I'm like a toddler when it comes to getting answers. Have you thought about it? Have you? Can I have a zygote? PLEASEPLEASEPLEASE? Just one tiny little puny fertilized egg? CANICANICANI?
My aunt-in-law, who also had fertility issues during her childbearing years, noted that when she and the uncle-in-law were having difficulty conceiving, they turned the planned nursery into an office. And WHAM! they found themselves pregnant shortly thereafter.
Hm, I thought, giving it up to the office. I could do that. Put my mind on something that is tangible, physical, to get my mind off my ovaries. I get this. I can do this.
It was then that I decided to give up my problems to the fish. After years of putting off volunteering at the Tennessee Aquarium, I signed my name on the dotted line. During the six months between my fourth failed insemination and the fifth try that resulted in Miss-Miss and Bubba, I scrubbed algae off fake rocks, fed bonnethead sharks, and was molested by sturgeon (don't ask). I didn't think about my ovaries the whole time, I just had fun. Hummed, even. I played rock-paper-scissors with kids on the other side of the tank and tried to convince them, using hand signals, that they could somersault better than I could scuba front-flip. It was the first time in years I wasn't bitter toward the parents standing before me with their sweet progeny.
That picture up there at the top of my post is of my windshield. Even though I gave up my aquarium post after the twins were born, I kept the parking sticker on my windshield because it reminds me that I do have the capacity to shut off my brain every now and then. Which is a blessing because there are times when my own inner chatter would drive a six-year-old crazy.
Are you there shark? It's me, Heather.