The Problem with Plans
Yesterday, Chris and I had our first true beach day. We left the dogs at home, packed up our cooler, towels, sunscreen, sun shade and beach chairs, and headed to Ewa Beach Park, also known as Pu’uloa Beach Park (and no, I don’t know how to pronounce it). We set up our beach shade and chairs, poured water into our Yetis (the beer came later), sat down, put our feet in the sand, and stared. It wasn’t very crowded, there was a lovely breeze keeping us cool, and the water looked spectacular. A bunch of kids set up a ladder in the surf right in front of us and climbed to the top and then would jump into a wave as it rolled by. It was a picture perfect day.
We have spent our time since getting out of quarantine hurriedly exploring the island. I start to get nervous that I’m not taking enough pictures or we’re missing something, and Chris has to remind me that we live here now so there’s no hurry. We’re not trying to see everything all at once because we can come back. As much as we want.
In the days before we left California, I started to feel pressure and nerves about our move. In all that we had been through, this was the first time I got nervous. I started to have thoughts like, what if we’ve done all this and gone through all this and we get there and we’re still not happy? This is our plan B. What if this isn’t right either?
But as we sat there on the beach, staring out at a view so beautiful and perfect it didn’t seem like it could be real, I knew that everything we went through was worth it. At times it felt like we had to fight so hard to get here that I wondered how anything could ever make it worth all of that.
Because the journey to get here was not just getting the house fixed up and sold. Going through infertility and then choosing not to keep pursuing fertility treatments, giving up the dream of having children, realizing that there is life even without having children; all of that made getting the house ready and sold seem easy.
We’ve walked around here the past 10 days with big goofy grins on our faces. We say, “Holy shit, we actually live here!” at least once a day. We stop each other to marvel at the views that we see as we’re just walking the dogs, or going on a drive. We’ve talked about how we want to make sure that we never take any of this for granted or forget how amazing this place is.
I follow numerous accounts of Instagram of people and couples who are now moving on after infertility and it’s common in those circles to post a picture of your spouse and say something like “if I had to do it all over again, I’d still choose you.” And I really hate those posts. I get the sentiment and I understand what they’re trying to say. But we DON’T get to choose. If everyone had to go through what we did to try to have a child, there would be a lot fewer children in the world. Because some couples would, and do, whatever is necessary to be a parent. And others, like us, would walk away well before all their options are gone.
Nothing about my life has prepared me for where I am now. In Durham, we were living the life I basically expected, only without children. Now? I’m 38 years old, unemployed and no idea what I want to do next, no home, and live in Hawaii in a 400 square foot studio with my husband and 2 (big) dogs. Yeah, I definitely didn’t plan this.
And if you asked me, right now, to go back in time and choose whether to (easily) have children and have the big house and the yard and the job, or to be where I am right now, I don’t know what I would choose. Because having kids was the plan for so long and was such a huge part of my life. It seemed - and still seems - safe. Expected. Selling everything and moving to Hawaii isn’t safe or expected. In many ways, I feel like we’re just winging it. We don’t know how long we’ll be here or where we’ll go next. All we know is that we’re here as long as we’re happy. If that stops, we’ll try to figure out what comes next.
If you’ve stuck with me through this rambling post, here’s my point: as I sat on that beach yesterday, all I could feel was incredibly grateful for where I am. It doesn’t matter whether I would choose this life or not - this is the life I’ve got. We’re making the most out of the hand we were dealt, and right now? Well right now it’s freaking amazing. And that’s all that matters.