A year ago, yesterday, I laid in bed quietly crying into BJ's shoulder awaiting "the call". The same
one I get every single time. The one every infertility patient dreads because you just know. You know 'it's not meant to be', 'it just isn't your time', 'maybe you should look at other options.' You sit there and let all the comments and "helpful advice" run through your head and you wait. You wait painfully, tearfully, all the while simultaneously begging for just a little bit more time being the most pregnant you've ever been.
You've changed your diet, your lifestyle, given up your savings account, stabbed yourself with gargantuan needles and bargained with God to just help you get through the cycle no matter the outcome because you've convinced yourself you've given up on your miracle. You tell your partner you just aren't ready to hear the bad news. You wonder how many people the phlebotomist told about the crazy girl that sobbed through her venipuncture because you were "not ready to hear bad news".
All this emotional, medicinal, financial and spiritual investment is pent up in this one phone call. As you bury your face into your partner's shoulder your phone begins to go off. You contemplate not answering it, because if you don't know just yet, you get a little more time with that precious embryo or two. Just a few minutes more loving that should be baby you've poured your soul into. Just a few minutes more pretending your miracle has come, and that you don't have to hurt like this anymore.
But you know. Deep down, you know, so you answer that phone call. "I'm so sorry, Mary Katherine..." That's what you always hear....I can't tell you how the rest of those phone calls go because all the air is sucked out of your lungs, and you don't know how your shattered heart continues to beat. You look at your partner, your face scrunches in pain, the air is stolen from your lungs, yet you muster a "thank you" to whoever has the burden of telling you what you already knew. Telling you your greatest fear has come to fruition. You feel the searing pain of your heart breaking. It feels like the air you manage to suck in is 1,000 degrees Celsius. You hang up and you don't know whether to scream, curse God, or just let yourself waste away since it feels like all the important parts of you died with that embryo. And that embryo was everything...
You know all of this pain is waiting for you as soon as you hit that green button on your phone. But you do it. You do it because you are brave. You do it because you have to start the healing process. And you do it because despite knowing the answer, there is a tiny, tiny voice in the back of your head that thinks 'just maybe'. The one little part of your spirit that evades the protective wall you've convinced yourself you've built. The thing we call hope...
That wonderful part of your spirit that just can't be broken no matter the beatings it takes. The hope that gives you the strength to endure another month of heartbreak. Another month of telling all the people who knew what you were going through that it did not work. Another month of convincing yourself it was worth it. Such a tiny, tiny voice, yet the one that gives you the drive to put yourself right back in the same position, waiting for the same phone call all over again.
Because sometimes...miracles happen.
"Mary Katherine, have you gotten your lab results?"
"Well, you're pregnant."
"No I'm not."
"Yes, you are pregnant..."
And your entire world changes with just 3 words...
James Matthew Roberts, thank you for being my miracle. Thank you for being my little embryo that could.
Peace, Love, and Miracles,
Mary Katherine & Matt