Two Pink Lines

I’ve thought a lot about how to start this post and I can’t come up with anything better or more clear than this:

Friends, I am pregnant. 

I’m not exaggerating when I tell you that you could have knocked me over with a feather as I stared at those two pink lines in absolute breath-stealing, body-shaking shock. 

Our short experience with the fertility clinic was at turns emotionally and physically painful, and can be described with no other word than negative. It ended when I was told the chances of me getting pregnant without “intervention” were basically slim to none, and after talking it through, Jonathan and I decided our family was whole as it was. We firmly support the right to IVF, but we knew it wasn’t the path forward for us. And so, after a bit of grappling and then finally release and acceptance, I wrote a post about what it’s like to live with infertility.

So color me surprised that the universe decided that actually, no, our family does have enough room for another little one.

I took my stolen breath and shaking body to the Walgreens down the road, where I bought three more packs of tests. The cashier can’t know how much she helped what I now recognize was panic by simply talking about how eager she was to get off work and get some fast food. If she noticed my trembling hands she didn’t comment, just laughed to me about how she knows the food is bad for her, but it’s just what she likes to eat. 

At least, I think that’s what she said … between my chaotic mind and her thick Appalachian accent, I can’t be sure I picked up what she was putting down. But regardless, there is a halo surrounding her in my memory, because it was her absolute pragmatism that cut through my shuddering shock.

I had always assumed that when I saw those two pink lines I would be filled with nothing but joy and excitement. I am not too proud to admit that when it actually happened, I felt more disbelief and fear than delight, and the thought that filled my mind wasn’t anything along the lines of “It’s happening!” but rather, “Oh my god. What if I can’t do this?”

You see, it was a particularly hard day when I found out. I have grappled with myself about whether to write about what made the day so hard, but I don’t think it belongs here. Suffice it to say, it included what I thought were menstrual cramps and a phone call from the kid’s school. 

Have I mentioned that I found out I was pregnant the day after Mother’s Day? If you’ve read anything I’ve written this year, I think you can see how the day after Mother’s Day could be a griefy time for our family. 

Thank goodness Jonathan was instantly ecstatic. When I showed him the five tests I had taken throughout the afternoon, it was like the sun shone out of his eyes. Here, at last, was the joy, and it burned off my self-doubt and worry. I wasn’t putting our family in a hard position; we were shifting to make space for the newest member of our family, who was always meant to be here. This was no longer a worry of inconvenience, but now a journey of excitement. 

Don’t get me wrong: I have moments of fear. I feel like I have tricked the universe. I was told “No” to this particular dream, and without expectation it was dropped into my lap. I have an increased risk of ectopic pregnancy - a terrifying diagnosis in any state, but especially so in the Bible Belt - and somehow this little guy made it to the uterus instead of stopping in a fallopian tube. Some of the fear is hormones (helpful), but more of it is just the reality of pregnancy after loss. I have seen those two pink lines twice before and they did not stick around - one left quietly and the other painfully. I worry that this time, this beloved little one who already has a name and people who love him, will also leave us. I have put off writing this post because what if putting it out there is somehow the catalyst for him leaving? (Of course I know that’s not how it works, but logic can’t rule all the time, and I am desperate to do anything to keep our littlest love with us.) The first eight weeks meant double digit testing for me, until I felt anxiety tip toward obsession and realized what had once been an affirming action was becoming unhealthy. And, of course, I had an ultrasound and could finally see him. 

Yes, there are still moments of fear and self doubt, but the truth is that as of now, both baby and I are healthy. In fact, he is so healthy that he is currently measuring in the 98th percentile. 

*Cue me feeling faint at the though of giving birth to a literal giant.* 

But big babies are hearty, and my doctor is happy that he is a healthy giant. I am not always comfortable, but I can stay active. Even more, I am surrounded by people who love both me and my littlest guy. His big brothers speak to him and hug him, and his dad says goodnight and whispers love to him every night. I think even the dogs are preparing for his entrance into the world, as they flip between being hyper protective of me and incredibly curious about my belly. 

His heart is beating well and he is growing (goodness, is he growing!), and I am over halfway there. Thank you, folks, for the support you’ve given me in our rainy season. Thank you to those who held out hope for our rainbow, for our two pink lines. I am just so grateful.

Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.

This Is A Post About Infertility

There is a small grief I keep in my pocket. 

It was a short, pink line - faint, but there. A week later it was gone, replaced by a period that started heavy and black, and excruciating pain that made my husband wonder when a trip to the ER might be warranted. I hear this is called a “chemical pregnancy,” and is really nothing more than a period that comes a few days late. 

Sometimes in quiet moments, I let myself take that small grief out the pocket I shoved it in. I unwrap it and listen to the If Onlys … If Only that period had not been late, had not come at all. If Only we were a family of five now. If Only the past year of quietly taking tests and undergoing procedures had not happened, had not been necessary. 

I don’t usually have long before it’s time to fold the grief back into itself and put my focus to something more immediate.

There is a fitting parallelism here, between my grief for this and my boys’ grief for their mom. I am the mother of all grief. I am in a storm of my nine-year-old’s pain, trying to keep upright as his anger whips around, knocking him to pieces. I am in the fun house of my twelve-year-old’s mind, trying to keep balance as he turns grief into hysterical silliness before he calms and settles back into himself. And I step into the river of my own sorrow, aching for this loss that never really was.

Infertility is a wild thing. I am desperate for information. I want to see everything going on inside me. I am tempted by internet charlatans offering six week programs to balance hormones. I want to find the right thing to eat or do or think or feel or say. I would howl at the moon, wear my clothing inside out, or drink water upside down if it meant I had that control. If only infertility was as easy to overcome as hiccups. 

And yet - sometimes I wonder if it is better to not know. If I don’t know that the way my fallopian tubes are shaped gives me an increased risk of ectopic pregnancy, then I don’t have to face the fact that I live in the Bible Belt, where somehow it is holy to let me die. A place I fear might put me in jail because of a period that came a few days late.

Let me be very clear here: my life is beautiful. It is full of light and laughter and deep, deep joy. Love overflows. I have an incredible family that I wouldn’t trade for anything. 

I am lucky and I know it. 

I wish I had some sort of neat bow to tie all this up inside. I don’t, and I am sorry for that. All I know is that I give thanks every day for the life I live, and sometimes I take the grief out of my pocket, unwrap it, and wish for what might have been.