December 13
It’s the morning of our first embryo transfer, the day we’ve been counting down since the moment we received our schedule. The date that’s been circled on the calendar, etched into our minds as the date that everything could change.
We lie in bed and think about the last few weeks leading up to this moment. We’ve shifted our conversations around having a baby girl, into not just one – but three beautiful boys. Scott recalls joking with his mother who has three boys, and I think of Coralee who also had three boys. I recall my summer college job where I was the nanny to a family of three boys – maybe the signs have been here all along, I said.
My mind snowballs into the emotional memories of the last two years. From the memory of the text I received from my mom after a negative pregnancy test – to the memory of panic as we await the call in our camper from the genetic counselor – to the memory of sending an email in the middle of the night to an author disclosing my gratitude for her lessons in healing. This could be the last morning of our lives as we know it, I say as I turn to Scott.
It’s a surreal feeling, actually.
In the past, there has been a consistent thought that would graze across my mind a few days before my period. I could be pregnant right now, and nobody in the world, not even my awareness, knows other than my body. The possibility of being pregnant felt like a powerful secret that I envied my body for keeping.
Today, though, is different. I hold the secret. Little does my body know that in just a few hours, we will be pregnant.
I get out of bed and tell Scott that I am going to walk to our local park, and when he asks if I’d like company, I insist I go alone. I change out of my pajamas, grab my earbuds, and start the playlist I curated just a few weeks prior as I head out the door.
The temperature feels unseasonably warm as the sun glistens on the trees at the entrance of the park. Meet Me in the City by The Black Keys plays as I approach a bench that sits at the entrance of a fishing pier that overlooks the Chesapeake Bay. I take a seat, close my eyes, and slow my breath. I inhale deeply, hold my breath for four seconds, then exhale for five – just as I am reminded to do each acupuncture session. I open my eyes and look down at the affirmations I slipped into my pocket just before I left the house. I brush my thumb across the five-by-seven paper as I read aloud the affirmation-
My mind is ready
My womb is ready
Our home is ready
We are ready
The song slowly transitions into Linger by Cranberries and as the instrumentals play in the introduction, they transcend my imagination to a scene that I’ve dreamed of for years – motherhood. I wipe a tear from my cheek, fold the paper and tuck the affirmations into my pocket. This is the perfect start to a perfect day, I think, as Dolores O’Riordan sings about a first kiss – lyrics that, to me, echo something far more intimate: our baby.
We made two stops on the way to the procedure as we had time to kill. I walk into the post office to pick up stamps, and the friendly cashier asked if I was ready for the holiday season. Ready than ever, I replied, to which she asked if I had children. Believe it or not, I’m on my way to get pregnant I say, and her face lights up as she hands me over the only stamps they had. I hope you don’t mind these, she says, as I look down at the sleeve of Arnold Palmer swinging his club on each stamp. I slide into the passenger seat and show Scott the stamps, maybe it’s a sign our son is going to make it to the PGA, though Scott took it as a sign that he should have squeezed in a round on this abnormally warm December morning.
Let’s check out that big liquor store across from the doctor’s office, I say. We had been on the hunt for a bottle of Eagle Rare for a Christmas gift and had no luck at our local stores. We make our next stop at the liquor store, and while we had no success, I stopped Scott in the middle of the store. Listen to the song playing. Do you know what this is about? He shakes his head with a smirk on his face, and we walk out the door finishing the lyrics to the country song Watching You, a cheesy, but cute, song about a boy wanting to be like his dad. Great, I laugh, he wants to be just like you AND he’s a golfer, looks like I lost both my boys to the course, I say as we get back into the car.
We pull up to the doctor’s office not knowing what to expect, but we know for certain our excitement is radiating. Our names are called and we wait our turn in the waiting center where we were instructed to cover our shoes with medical slippers. I had a special moment in the park this morning, I tell Scott. And then the cashier asks if we have kids, then the stamps, and the song. I have nothing but good feelings about this. He grabs a hold of my hand as the nurse brings us back into the room. She gives us a quick recap of what is about to happen and leaves the room with instructions for me to undress from the waist down.
The doctor enters the room with the nurse, they dim the lights, and instruct me to lie back. She spreads ultrasound gel on my lower abdomen, then uses the wand to display the image of my uterus on the television screen. As the doctor is at the base of me, he enters the catheter and I squeeze Scott’s hand and hold my breath – trying to keep my legs still. Just as the nurse explained minutes earlier, this is not painful, but certainly not comfortable. She points to the tip of the catheter displayed on the black-and-white screen, then points to where we should lock our eyes. Within seconds, there was an orb of light where the embryo was released. All clear, she says to the doctor.
Fabulous! the doctor says then follows, the transfer went great. Your uterus looks great. I’ll keep my fingers crossed for some good news in ten days.
We make our way to the car, still just as giddy, and head to McDonald’s for salty french fries, an IVF superstition the internet swears by.
–
Like every year, the week before Christmas was a whirlwind. We close the Cafe between the holidays and are busy with catering every day until then. I decided on the day of transfer that I did not want to take a pregnancy test before our blood test. Regardless of my decision, the chaos of the holiday season was a perfect distraction.
The only symptom I was experiencing was cramping. If I had not known any better, I would have assumed my period was starting. There is no way these are menstrual cramps, I told Scott. I am knee deep in progesterone shots, I can’t get my period until I stop these. I had a strong feeling I was pregnant, and at this point, we only had to wait the following day to find out.
December 23
Are you ready? Scott asks as he stands at the entrance of our bedroom, dressed in his uniform with his keys and lunch in hand. It’s the morning of my blood test, the final day marked on our treatment calendar, the date that everything will change. I know that I am pregnant. We paid the extra money to ensure these embryos would work, and going into this our first time, we expect nothing less.
I am so, so ready, I respond.
It also happens to be the final day of work before holiday break, an overlap of two anticipated moments. I share with him my plan for the day. I am going to leave my phone in the car at work and I won’t listen to any voicemails or read any emails until I am home, I tell him. This worked in our favor last time while I waited to hear about our embryos, and the superstition in me believes it will again.
The blood test was a breeze and work was nothing short of holiday magic. Good luck, J says with the biggest smile on her face, and confirm the good news with me once you are home! She gives me such confidence, as I walk out the door and pick up the pace the closer I get to my car. I open my trunk, where I hid my phone, and see an email, missed call, and voice message from the clinic. I throw my phone back into the trunk, start my car, and head home for an easy commute that feels like forever.
Scott’s car is in the driveway. He never beats me home, I think to myself. I start shaking, knowing that in the next two minutes we are going to find out whether or not I am pregnant. I feel nauseous. My inner dialogue debates if it’s from pregnancy or nerves, while I know it’s the latter. I grab the phone out of the back of my car, and decide at that moment I cannot handle hearing the voice message. Read the results of the blood test, I hear my subconscious say. I know from months of scrolling through IVF threads that my HCG level should be anything over 100mIU/mL.
I throw the door open and see Scott waiting in the bedroom. As I rush over to him, I log into the patient portal. Within seconds, as if I have muscle memory with loading the result page from our previous rounds of treatment, the page loads. Oh my God this is it. I take a deep breath as I crumble into his chest, looking down at the phone in my hand, knowing that I am a slight scroll away from revealing the number. I inhale sharply, holding my breath in my chest as I scroll down the screen. My eyes land on the number – and before I remember to exhale – I scream.
I’ve been waiting years to feel this moment, to yell these exact words:
I am pregnant!
Scott, I am really really pregnant. Look at this! He looks down at my phone and sees the number that nearly stole my breath: 570. His arms wrap around me in perfect synchrony with mine.
I listen to the voice message, with the nurse confirming what I wanted to hear over, and over again. Great news Lindsay! You are definitely pregnant! We will see you in four days, after the holiday, for your next blood draw. I ran to the bathroom and took a pregnancy test, astonished at the two pink lines that immediately appeared. Get in the car, I say, we have to go tell our parents.
That evening, and the following days to come, we soaked into the bliss of the early days of pregnancy. We surprised our siblings with the news on Christmas Eve, and the rest of the family during the holiday festivities. Our celebrations continued a few days later, when the next blood test came back exceeding the doctor’s expectations. Other than continuing progesterone injections, our next step was to sit back and wait for the six-week ultrasound. Thankfully, reopening the cafe and heading back to work was the perfect distraction.
January 7, 2022
I had Déjà vu as I started getting ready while Scott was preparing to leave for work. How are you feeling? He asks, in a tone that reflects his disappointment. Just a few days earlier, the clinic sent an update that due to an uptick of COVID-19 cases, appointments are limited to only one person.
I can wait in the car for you, he says. No, no, it’s okay. Everything is going to be ok! I’d rather you come to the graduation appointment in two weeks, and by then maybe the guidelines will change, I say.
I promised I would record the appointment and call him directly after. We both leave, anxious for the update I’d give in a few hours.
I patiently wait for my name to be called in the waiting room. As the patients in front of me get called into their assigned rooms, my legs shake in nervousness. For the last two years all I have thought about was getting pregnant. The appointments to follow once I am pregnant never crossed my mind. Oh this is actually happening, I think to myself as reality sets in. My nerves build as the nurse calls me into the room and instructs me to undress from the waist down.
I sit back on the table with the paper cloth covering my lower half, I look around the room and begin to feel nauseous. Minutes pass as I hear commotion outside the door, all while my room remains idle.
This is not the moment to panic, I thought to myself. What happened to those months of peaceful meditation? My mind races as I think of all the things that bring me comfort – my angel, my meditations, then suddenly I think of the morning of our transfer and my moment at the park. Linger. Without hesitation, I wrap my hands under my belly and begin to sing under my mask –
but I’m in so deep,
you know i’m such a fool for you
you got me wrapped around your finger
do you have to let it linger?
I repeat the lyrics again as warmth rushes through my body as if a ray of sunshine appeared – and suddenly there’s a knock on the door. My doctor enters the room with a nurse, who after their greeting, acknowledges how nervous I must be. The doctor, on the other hand, was eager to jump in and see this baby – as he said.
I lie back and stare at the screen as the probe enters my body. Within seconds, I see the outline of my gestational sac and my smile nearly knocks down my mask. The background noise swallows into silence as I cannot process anything other than what I see on the screen. Inside the sac there was our teeny-tiny jelly-bean shaped baby with a flicker so noticeable. And there’s your baby, the doctor says, and I let out a squeal of excitement and relief.
I am hardly out the clinc’s door before I have Scott on the other line. That was amazing! I say, and go over every detail of what just transpired. I can’t wait for you to experience this next time, I say.
I am the happiest girl in the world on my drive to work. At every red light I hold the ultrasound across my steering wheel in pure disbelief. This is my body. We did it. I want to roll down the window and scream to the world because I am overwhelmed by joy and pride. I am capable. I am worthy. Finally.
I rush up the stairs to the cafe, located on the second floor, swing open the office door and see J on the computer placing orders. Do you want to see something cool? I say as I unfold the two images on the ultrasound, her eyes start to swell. Hours later – it’s my eyes that water as I watch Scott hold up the ultrasound. He stares in his own disbelief that this is real life. Turn it around, let me get a picture of you holding our baby.
I change all of my apps to the pregnancy mode and check multiple times a day on the updates of our baby, and although a few days make the slightest difference, this feels like we are living a dream come true. I show Scott pictures of the nursery I envisioned, and together we choose a name – and suddenly the picture we’ve painted for the last two years finally feels complete and framed.
It’s the weekend before our graduation appointment, and we are pulling up to a lake house in Deep Creek Lake for a friend’s birthday weekend. There are rumors about an upcoming snow storm, but we don’t let it worry us as we unpack our bags and catch onto the excitement of the weekend ahead. The first night is game night and as more friends start to arrive and jump into the games, the music gets louder, the margarita pitcher gets replenished, and I sit back and soak it all in. I can’t wait to see how this will look next year, I think to myself.
The next morning everyone recaps on last night’s fun as we eat breakfast, drink coffee, and enjoy the scenic view of the frozen lake surrounded by western Maryland’s Appalachian mountains. The girls decide to walk down to the lake, while the guys start the bonfire. Conversation flows, as it always does, as our shoes crunch on the lake’s leftover snow. We approach the pebbles that border the lake, and admire the stillness of what looks like a frozen sheet of glass, reflecting winter’s bare trees and the paleness of the sky.
As we walk back to meet the guys around the bonfire, the music plays in the background, the fire cracks into the crisp, cold air, all while a blanket of grey clouds hover lower by the minute – hinting the storm is not too far off.
I start chatting to a friend whose world tour with the Cirque du Soleil came to a halt because of Covid, and as we talk about the uncertainty of life that alters our plans, an uncanny chill rushes down my spine.
Perhaps it’s the breeze of cold mountain air that I am not used to. This doesn’t feel like it came from the weather, though. Perhaps my pregnancy symptoms are starting, giving me a new sensation that brings a sense of anxiety. No, this doesn’t feel like a pregnancy symptom – I think to myself. I excuse myself from the conversation, as I realize my mind is drifting far off. I approach Scott, and tell him that I am going to lie down for a while. Are you feeling okay? He asks with a look of concern. Yes, I respond in denial, just tell everyone I am going to nap and I’m feeling nauseous.
As I enter the house and walk up the stairs, my vision starts to tunnel. An awful thought grazed my mind outside, but instead of dismissing it, I let it take over.
I close the bedroom door and rush to the bathroom. I hate that my mind has gone here, but it’s too late. I recall what the doctor said at our last appointment, some spotting is expected with IVF pregnancies, but if it increases or if there’s bright blood, give us a call. I wipe and check the toilet paper and release a deep sigh.There is no blood on the piece of toilet paper that time, or the several more times that I would check in the next hour. Each and every visit to the bathroom, I’d curl back under the blankets in bed and continue scrolling through pregnancy threads. I find a website for a miscarriage calculator and enter my information. I can’t believe I am doing this. I am comforted by the results: you have less than a 5% chance of a miscarriage. The results are validating. The door creaks open and Scott enters. He kneels down on the bed and brushes his hand across my back. How are you feeling? He asks, so loving yet naive to my truth. I could tell him everything and he would know exactly what to say, perhaps help me get out of the this hole I’ve buried myself in, but look at him. He has not stopped smiling for two weeks. I can’t allow his mind to enter mine, after all, one of us has to be strong.
I think to a memory in our early days of trying to get pregnant. It was the cycle after coming home from a trip to Nashville. We were convinced and full of hope that I was pregnant, so when my period came – I cracked. I was crying in the bedroom, overwhelmed by sadness and anger, and feeling pressure from a situation at work. Scott enters the room, and I lash out to leave me alone. With such gentle kindness and honesty he makes a comment that at the time, I couldn’t see the truth – Lindsay, your body is the temple – the home to our baby – you have to ask yourself, would you want to be inside of it right now?
I look up at him as he sits on the bed with his hand on my back, thinking of the comment years earlier. He is right, my body is the temple, and right now the walls are starting to crack, but the only person who can make me feel better – is the person I need to protect. I’m okay, just tired.. I’ll be down soon.
How can I feel this way after months of preaching peace and calm? Where did this come from? One moment I am outside, enjoying conversations with friends, and the next I am crippled in fear over the thought of a miscarriage. The woman who was cradling her belly, whispering affirmations and song lyrics feels distant.
I can’t be in this bedroom any longer. I throw my phone on the bed and go downstairs. Drinks are still flowing, the playlist changed to party throwbacks, and a few friends are prepping for the evening’s taco dinner. It’s hard to not have a good time with our crew, but by the time bedtime came, I was relieved the day was over.
The next morning the threat of the winter storm was real and a few friends decided to head home a day early. After yesterday’s episode, I was feeling desperate for home. I offered to drive, as Scott was still recovering from his late night, and he agreed as he was also uneasy about the snow.
We give our hugs goodbye and start the three hour road trip home. While I focus on the drive, I can’t help but notice the gray clouds turning white – where the calm before a snow storm becomes visible. I think back to my storm I felt the previous night, and can’t shake the thought of running to the bathroom or looking at the miscarriage calculator.
The next few days pass and while I felt better, the underlying fear persisted.
I am on the register at work and J is at the other end of the cafe wrapping cookies. We have a moment where we are clear of customers, so I approach J and say, I suddenly had this intrusive thought in Deep Creek that swallowed me whole and consumed me. She perks her head up as I caught her attention, I have this continuous fear of having a miscarriage.
She nearly screams – WHAT! Stop! That word never once crossed my mind and it shouldn’t be in yours – stop that!
She was right, it was the last thing that should be on my mind. In fact, we are hosting two friends over for dinner the next night and hosting is one of my favorite things to do.
–
There’s a knock on our door and it’s our two close friends coming in for our dinner party. Oh my God look at your belly! I say to K, giving her a big hug, as they are getting ready to have their first baby. She hugs me back and hands us a box wrapped with beautiful ivory ribbon – a celebratory gift. The music is playing softly in the background, our table is set for four, the overhead lights are dimmed enough to compliment the flicker of the lit candle sticks. We dive right into dinner and enjoy each other’s company over delicious food and conversation, and the boys – as they often do – get lost in a chat of their own. I lean over and quietly confess to K the thoughts that I’ve been having for the last week. I look across the table and see Scott is still deep in conversation with R, her husband. I hold my hand up to K and begin to count on each finger the reasons why I will not have a miscarriage.
One, we have a tested embryo. Two, we saw a heartbeat. Three, the statistics are so low – I notice the boys have stopped talking and are paying attention. I quickly changed the subject, realizing I was spiraling.
After dinner wrapped up, we moved over to the living room and we each melted into the sofa as our bodies could not handle another bite of food. K and I sit next to each other on the couch, with just enough distance for our dog, Barley, to curl between us. As we continue our conversations, Barley rests her head across K’s belly. Barley! I say as I go and gently move her head, but Barley’s head goes back – as if nothing is stopping her from this now perfect pillow. It’s ok! Our pup does this all the time! K insists.
As we sit back and chat, another intrusive thought invades my mind. Barley knows, I think to myself, that she will not experience that with me.
The dinner party ends and we both finish cleaning the kitchen. It’s a work night after all, and we are exhausted. We nearly throw ourselves into bed and lie back, buried under our winter blankets and recap on the lovely evening. I wonder if Scott is going to mention what he overheard at the dinner table, and just as I think he’s about to say something, he whispers goodnight love, tomorrow is the big day.
Tomorrow.
The day we will be finished with the fertility clinic. The day that will wipe away the fears of the last week. I place my hands over my belly, close my eyes and inhale a deep breath. When I exhale, I quietly beg and plead,
Coralee. God. Whoever wants to listen – just, please.
