By the time this post is published, most of it will be over and done. I’m not so comfortable with sharing things as they are happening. But I needed to get the feelings out.
I’m flying to another state. For fertility work. I drive 5 hours to the airport tonight (I told you I lived in the middle of nowhere), get on a plane tomorrow morning, fly to a different state, and then take a bus to my appointment. It’s only an ultrasound, but the entire rest of my plans depend (depends?) on that appointment. If I have good follicles that measure within an appropriate range, and if there are no more than 2, I will inject myself with a shot (correction: I ain’t touchin’ it! I’m gonna make the nurse or Ranger do it) and then in 12 hours, Ranger and I will head back to the doctor and see what happens from there. If I have too many follicles, they’ll call it off (I think that’s my biggest dread). If I don’t have any that measure the right size, we’ll schedule another ultrasound. If there just aren’t any at all then I’m back to square one. I’m sure hoping. And praying. I’m getting excited. And that makes me nervous. Getting my hopes up at all makes me nervous. We’ve been getting our hopes up for years! more than 3 years. And I kind of feel like this is it. Normally, I will realize about halfway through each cycle that there was something I cold have done better. And I’m sure that I’ll find something before this cycle’s over. But for now, I’ve gone all in and I’m praying for a good hand.
Our family doesn’t really know that much. And neither do most of our friends, though we’ve told a couple. It’s just so … opiniony. Everyone has something to say about it. Some of them mean well and I move on with my day. Others are purposefully hurtful. It’s harder to move on from those comments. The moral of the story is that if what I have to say is not safe with them, then they don’t hear what I have to say. Or how I feel. Or what I do with my day. Which is why most people don’t know. Plus, the conversation gets old after you’ve had it repeatedly for 3 years. And all I really want to hear is “we’ll pray for you.” Because I know that it’s God’s timing. And I’ve done everything I know how to do and the rest is His.
Two years ago, today, I was waiting outside a door for my sister to give birth to her stillborn daughter. Her angel daughter. She had found out just a few days before that her baby wouldn’t be growing older in this life. She had graduated to the Celestial Kingdom. It’s funny how much and how little can change in 2 years. Adella now has a sister who is growing leaps and bounds and screams and giggles and scowls. But not much else has changed.
I just wanted to share one memory, since I didn’t blog anything while all of this was happening. It’s reserved for my journal.
My siblings and I stepped into the hall for what we thought was a routine check to monitor progress. We weren’t planning on staying for the hard part, since that’s something we figured she’d want to do without a whole gaggle of people. But the routine check dragged on. At one point, the nurse came out and looked so sad and angry and urgent. All of her emotions must have been clashing inside of her. I don’t expect nurses have to deal much with the sad side of delivery, and I think it hit that nurse. Plus, things had escalated a little too quickly, and I don’t think the nurse had time to prepare. Since we had no idea what was happening, we waited in the hall. After a while, we were pretty sure that this was the part we weren’t planning on being here for, but it didn’t seem right to leave, so we just kept waiting. I am grateful for my perspective from the floor in the hall. I got to see the nurses. The hospital has this signal where they tape a picture of a flower to the door to notify the nurses of the situation without drawing attention to the mother and her pain. I will never forget the face of one nurse, as she left the supply closet and saw the door. You could see how much she ached for my sister, even though she didn’t know who she was. I’m glad the hospital had such a signal in place. And I’m glad that instead of having to deliver a still baby in the labor and delivery, they have these sad deliveries in the recovery section. It’s quiet there. No celebrations for all the mothers who get to take their baby home.
I’ll also remember a head full of blonde hair and paper-thin skin. She was real. She had a body. And now she is waiting in heaven.
Happy 2nd birthday, Adella. Do a couple of twirls for me.
Love, Aunt Keira