I went off of birth control in September of 2008. I was blissfully married to my soul mate, we had walls of diplomas, a budgeted bank account - we'd wholeheartedly embraced the very essence of responsible adulthood. In the socially acceptable continuum of life, we were ready to be parents.
Ready. Set. No.
Years of dutifully suppressing your own fecundity are driven by the notion that on any given whim, there is a possibility. And when that possibility becomes not only planned, but desired - it's absence each month is felt with crushing disappointment. I think in the beginning Jeremy and I both thought it would just happen - like two clumsy teenagers drunk on overactive libido and peach flavored Schnapps. We'd done everything right, we'd planned our life down to my morning temperatures and we were healthy, happy and worthy. But as our grocery bill each month was padded with EPT tests and fertility predictors we began to subtly question, why. At work I interviewed a 21 year-old basket case who admitted to random promiscuity and mainlining methamphetamine for much of her pregnancy before delivering her fatherless baby girl in prison. I left not analyzing the trajectory of her illicit behavior, but thinking about how I had avoided even the smell of caffeine for the greater part of a year with nothing to show for it. Why was she worthy?
One Sunday afternoon in early June, Jeremy and I were on our way to Walmart for our weekly grocery date. When I should have been brainstorming dinners or making a pact not to grab a bag of mini donut holes to munch on while we shopped - I was silent. My thoughts were consumed by yet another disappointing cycle. Jeremy was worried and pulled the car over in the empty parking lot of a tractor supply company. It was there that I wept. Fretting about our timeline, with only one cycle left until he would be rotating away for over two months. We would stop trying until we were settled into residency, that was always the plan. The plan. I sobbed uncontrollably and wondered out loud why I couldn't have what my heart desired. Jeremy handed me a tissue, his eyes were helpless as medical scenarios undoubtedly rattled around in his mind. Is it her? Is it me? We just sat there in that parking lot and let me cry it out. Because we had already done everything else we could think of.
Last week, after six weeks of bed rest, I was (shamefully) feeling sorry for myself. I vented about how isolated I felt and how badly I wanted to contribute to our household. I was jealous of other third trimester mommies bopping around, running errands, walking, nesting. I felt like I had cautiously, but healthily navigated almost two trimesters alone - only to find that once Jeremy was home and ready to experience this pregnancy and enjoy our last three months of being newlyweds together - all I had to give was messy couch hair and seemingly nagging requests for ice water and nail clippers.
And he looked at me and said,
My husband was right. I would lay flat on my back for eternity to have my son here safely. And I know any hopeful soul who has ever sobbed for a chance to experience this amazing miracle would to.
Ready. Set. No.
Years of dutifully suppressing your own fecundity are driven by the notion that on any given whim, there is a possibility. And when that possibility becomes not only planned, but desired - it's absence each month is felt with crushing disappointment. I think in the beginning Jeremy and I both thought it would just happen - like two clumsy teenagers drunk on overactive libido and peach flavored Schnapps. We'd done everything right, we'd planned our life down to my morning temperatures and we were healthy, happy and worthy. But as our grocery bill each month was padded with EPT tests and fertility predictors we began to subtly question, why. At work I interviewed a 21 year-old basket case who admitted to random promiscuity and mainlining methamphetamine for much of her pregnancy before delivering her fatherless baby girl in prison. I left not analyzing the trajectory of her illicit behavior, but thinking about how I had avoided even the smell of caffeine for the greater part of a year with nothing to show for it. Why was she worthy?
One Sunday afternoon in early June, Jeremy and I were on our way to Walmart for our weekly grocery date. When I should have been brainstorming dinners or making a pact not to grab a bag of mini donut holes to munch on while we shopped - I was silent. My thoughts were consumed by yet another disappointing cycle. Jeremy was worried and pulled the car over in the empty parking lot of a tractor supply company. It was there that I wept. Fretting about our timeline, with only one cycle left until he would be rotating away for over two months. We would stop trying until we were settled into residency, that was always the plan. The plan. I sobbed uncontrollably and wondered out loud why I couldn't have what my heart desired. Jeremy handed me a tissue, his eyes were helpless as medical scenarios undoubtedly rattled around in his mind. Is it her? Is it me? We just sat there in that parking lot and let me cry it out. Because we had already done everything else we could think of.
Last week, after six weeks of bed rest, I was (shamefully) feeling sorry for myself. I vented about how isolated I felt and how badly I wanted to contribute to our household. I was jealous of other third trimester mommies bopping around, running errands, walking, nesting. I felt like I had cautiously, but healthily navigated almost two trimesters alone - only to find that once Jeremy was home and ready to experience this pregnancy and enjoy our last three months of being newlyweds together - all I had to give was messy couch hair and seemingly nagging requests for ice water and nail clippers.
And he looked at me and said,
Remember that girl who cried in the parking lot of a tractor supply store? Because I do. That girl wanted a baby more than anything in this entire world. And on that day, if someone would have told you that you could have a son, but you had to lay flat on your back for nine whole month in order to do so ... you would have jumped at the chance. And by laying here, you ARE contributing. I know it's not the way you envisioned the end of this pregnancy to be, but you're taking care of the most important thing we've ever done together.I know there are people who try unsuccessfully, not for months, but years for a baby. My heart aches for women who will not know this feeling. My dear friends who struggle, my mother who struggled. My own blip of disappointment doesn't hold a candle to their loss. I can't explain the blurred line between "God's will" and messy planning or even try to hypothesize who is worthy of a bearing a new life and who isn't. But what I do know, is that the second that little plus sign appeared - all of our hopes, and tears and plans were wrapped up in this one little possibility.
My husband was right. I would lay flat on my back for eternity to have my son here safely. And I know any hopeful soul who has ever sobbed for a chance to experience this amazing miracle would to.
