48 Hours

For 48 hours, I was living a miracle. I couldn't wipe the smile off my face. All my previous struggles somehow seemed insignificant. My mantra became, "It was worth the wait." And it was. It really was. For 48 hours, I was living the happy ending I had envisioned so many times. All those times I had tried to make it happen through sheer will. Closing my eyes tight and thinking that if I visualized myself holding a baby, it would soon become a reality. But my miracle was short-lived. With one phone call, it morphed into a nightmare.

Miracles had happened to me before. About 9 years ago, I suffered a stroke and went on to recover pretty much 100%. The miracle wasn't necessarily in the recovery itself, but rather in the details of what was going on at the time of the stroke: I was in a big city (Las Vegas) with top-rate hospitals, I was with friends who had the foresight to call 911, I accepted treatment with IV meds that had a 10% chance of killing me but ended up saving me, and the clot was situated in the right side of my brain (leaving my right-dominant hand unaffected, my speech intact, and my cognition as flawless as ever). Six weeks later, I was back at work as a third-grade teacher. Nine years later, you would never know I was a stroke survivor unless you saw me do side plank pose in yoga. Trust me. It really isn't pretty.

What I'm trying to say is that I've experienced the glory of success before. Unfortunately, when you're going through a tough time in your life, it's easy to forget the miracles that have long passed. Or even the miracle that is staring you right in the face. After 2 years of failed IVF attempts and lost pregnancies, I'm just beginning to realize how profoundly miraculous my child is. Daniel is happy, healthy, smart, and beautiful. When you've lived through tragedies as I have these past 2 years, you don't take those things for granted. But I'd be lying if I said that my miraculous child makes this current tragedy any less painful. Loss is loss.

Don't feel sorry for me; feel empathy for what I'm going through. Reach out and tell me you care. There's nothing you could possibly say that would upset or offend me. Saying something stupid is better than saying nothing at all. Let's acknowledge together that this really sucks for me. There's nothing else you need to say. Just tell me that you understand what it must feel like to be in my shoes. To live a 48-hour miracle and have it all snatched away in a moment. To mourn the loss of a pregnancy while you're still mourning the loss of the previous two. If this weren't my life, I wouldn't believe it was real. But I'm still here. And today I laughed. So I know that I'm going to be okay.

An Open Letter to my Higher Power

Tomorrow is a big day for me and my family. It marks the culmination of a journey that started almost 2 years ago. Two lost pregnancies and one failed IVF cycle later, and this is it. What's at stake is whether or not I'll ever give Daniel a biological sibling. I'm ready to move on with my life. Living in this state of suspended reality has taken its toll on my emotional and physical health, as well as the overall well-being of my family. I am not unaware of what these test results mean to them. They have suffered with me for 2 years, feeling my pain and heartache. My amazing son, Daniel, has seen his Mommy in various stages of grief far too many times. I've been the bearer of bad news FAR too many times. I want SO BADLY to have good news to share with my Mom and Dad, who have repeatedly rushed to my side in times of great sadness. They deserve good news. My husband deserves good news, for enduring this painful journey with me. So whether or not I deserve it, I'm praying tonight that tomorrow brings good news FOR THEM. That we can gather as a family to celebrate, rather than to hold one another up.

That being said, whatever happens I know that I will stay strong for my son, my husband, and my family. I will move on and figure things out one day at a time. I know how lucky I am to have my health, a beautiful child, a lovely home, an amazing support system. I will never take any of that for granted. I accept tomorrow's outcome, whatever it may be. I am or I'm not. Either way, the world will keep spinning. Everyone's lives will continue. There will be more good times and more bad.

Right now, I sit here and feel a sense of calmness wash over me. Peace, love, light, and gratitude. I'm going to be okay.

Hostess with the Mostest

So, I'm laying in the procedure room today, looking up at the ceiling, clutching two photographs to my chest. One picture is Daniel, smiling like the miraculous angel that he is, while the other picture represents my hope for the future. Two embryos, thawed earlier this morning, ready for implantation. In the photo, they are two grayish-brown blobs that look exactly like what you would see in a biology textbook. The embryologist tells me they are high-quality blastocysts, numbers 5 and 6, and that one has already started to hatch. It is 2:15 in the afternoon, Dr. Sobel (or "George Clooney look-alike" as I like to call him) is inserting a catheter into my unmentionable parts, my bladder is filled to the brim, harp music is being piped in through the sound system, and all I can think of is, "Haven't I been here before?"

We did this same IVF tango last October, with no success. So I vowed to do everything differently this time: Starting with announcing to the world that I was going through IVF. I've done 5 months of acupuncture, eaten my fruits and veggies, cut out all alcohol and caffeine, and spent the week leading up to the transfer trying to reduce stress to a minimum. Will it work? Who knows. I still have about a 50-50 shot at becoming pregnant. But whatever happens, at least I'll know that I did everything in my power to achieve a positive outcome. And now, it's in God's hands.

So, what now? I'm playing human incubator to two potential human beings. They have to decide if my womb is an hospitable enough environment. Whether or not they want to stick around. I won't know their final decision for 2 weeks. Until then, I wait. I rest and relax, catch up on my reading, watch some movies On Demand, and pray. For a positive phone call on December 15th. For the strength to move on with my life if that phone call is negative. For the ability to appreciate my blessings no matter what the outcome. It has been a long, difficult journey. I can see the light at the end of the tunnel.