The worn edges of the photograph held the memory of a wispy haired, blue eyed toddler. She stood barely three feet tall, skinny as a rail, but when you hear the tales of this mighty tot fearlessly defending her freshly built fairy houses from the likes of several rough and tumble boys, you'd think twice before passing judgment on her tiny frame.
Regardless of her camera shy ways, here she stood, in this photograph, next to her pixie of a daughter. Her loose blouse covering an uncharacteristically swollen belly- the universal sign of new life to come.
If anyone else had happened upon this photo, they would’ve seen just that- an adorable little girl and an expectant mother. Even if they had lingered for a moment to comment on the mischievous sparkle in the child’s eyes or to take in the unassuming beauty of the woman next to her, the contents of the photo wouldn’t have held much significance for the viewer.
Unless you were this particular viewer.
On this particular day.....
There was a reverence in the room as she sat sorting through her father's belongings. It's what you do when a loved one passes away, no matter how deep the pain or heart wrenching the act. But she was familiar with the task. It was only a year earlier that she had been in that very room packing up perfume bottles and worn down lipsticks with her father sitting silently at the kitchen table in the next room. And now, that image still fresh in her mind, she returned to the room, this final time, ceremoniously folding up worn plaid shirts and placing them in boxes.
Memories flickered in and out of her mind like an old movie strip as she opened drawers and cleaned out closets. She forged ahead, doing her best to focus on the work in front of her- anything to avoid the emptiness of the room, which, only days earlier, had housed the warmth and comfort of her father. It was only after she came across a tattered shoe box, high on the closet shelf, filled with old photographs, that she allowed herself to succumb to the wave of emotions swirling around her. Her tears blurred the faded faces that looked back at her. She poured over the photos, smiling to herself as she recalled the priceless moments each one captured.
At first glance she didn't notice anything unusual about the next picture. She probably marveled at her mother's beauty and admired her younger self's white-blond curls. Until she noticed her mother's flowing top was sheltering a round, protruding abdomen.
Her mother was pregnant.
This seemed impossible at first because, though there were three older siblings above her, there were none younger than her. She was the baby.
How could this be?
Her mind searched for answers but the confusion soon faded into sorrow as the situation became clear.
Her chest grew tight and she blinked back a fresh stream of tears as she slowly realized the weight of what she was ultimately witnessing;
Her mother had been pregnant....
until she wasn't.
She lost the baby.
Years after my grandparents had passed away- somewhere in the middle of our trials with pregnancy- my mother shared this heartbreaking discovery with me. She also shared the flood of images that suddenly made their way into her conscience memory in the weeks following the unearthing of that precious picture.
....my grandmother packing for the hospital.
....my mom going to stay at her "Auntie's" house for a length of time.
....watching as my grandmother laundered and hung a basket of maternity clothes on the line to dry, packed them up, and sent them to the local thrift store while stating cooly:
"I won't be needing these anymore."
After that, she never spoke of it again.
My heart dropped to my stomach as I pictured my Grandma calmly boxing up her emotions, just as she had her clothes, and storing them on some abandoned shelf, behind a door she vowed never to open again. I imagined there were days when an unexpected trigger led her right back to the dreaded door. When life sent her into a spiral of despair and those feelings she so carefully boxed up made an unwanted appearance, disrupting the numbed state that had become so comfortable to her, so necessary to continue.
And I wept for her.
Because this was not her only loss. In fact, no one knows the exact number of miscarriages she suffered. But what we do know, is that she struggled and she spent a great deal of her life trying to pick up the pieces of her broken and battered heart. Although she did her best never to speak the actual causes of her distress, they couldn't be contained. When she wasn't careful, it would seep slowly into her everyday, or sometimes, erupt-
with a BANG.
And I weep, because I know this all too well. Because I inherited this dangerous trait. Because, somewhere, down a dark hallway, stands a door to the closet where my most painful and uncomfortable memories sit. Each one delicately placed in it's own box, high on a shelf, meant for no one to see......and for me to forget.
But we never really forget.
I found myself exactly in this state of denial as I sat there, once again, fiddling with the crinkly paper liner of the exam table. Half listening to our OB explain the progesterone treatments and blood thinners that he was certain were going to "do the trick" this time.
It hurt to be back here.
I had become such a pro at nodding and smiling during these discussions with Dr. F. I had come to expect, well, failure for lack of a better word and today was no exception. Strangely, I had become comfortable with defeat. But suddenly, with his guarantees of "effectiveness" and stories of past successes, a new emotion was trying to break free from it's box high on a shelf:
hope.
And with that one word, all the other feelings that I had so "cleverly" abandoned came rushing back as if I was feeling them for the first time.
It was the most terrifying sensation.
On the drive home I found myself purposefully staring straight ahead. I did my best to avoid the crisp, white packages I'd received from the pharmacist that lay on the passengers seat next to me. They had already done enough damage to my facade. I felt my protective outer shell weaken as our doctors words echoed in my mind.
This could work.
Once again I felt the familiar sting of emotions I had long since banished from my heart. I wasn't sure I had the strength to go back there.
Because in truth, my body had already begun rejecting this 8th pregnancy and I couldn't imagine that packages as small and seemingly worthless as these could contain the miracle I had been praying for.
I sat in front of my husband, discouraged, as I recounted my thoughts about taking this "new road" to fertility.
It was pointless.
We'll only get our hearts broken.
My sweet husband looked straight at me and held tightly to my quivering hands.
"Let's take this one chance. Please."
That was all it took.
There in his eyes, I saw enough strength for the both of us. He was the reason I could continue on. Because no matter what lie ahead, I had married the most beautiful safety net.
With doubts still firmly planted in my mind, we held hands
and jumped.
I'm pretty sure neither one of us took a deep breath for nine months straight.
At first, the familiar symptoms of miscarriage continued. I had been bleeding for weeks and was positive no amount of "magic pills" could save this fledgling pregnancy. However, after several weeks of progesterone treatments, I began to notice a change.
The bleeding stopped.
The heartbeat continued.
......and I.felt.HORRIBLE.
You would think that last one would've sent me into a panic or at the very least, cause a few curse words to escape from under my breath, but no. I was elated!! I was never so happy to throw up in my trash can at work or bless the existence of a Big Gulp cup in my car during the commute home. Every time my body rejected last night's spaghetti or an early morning bowl of cereal, it gave me further hope that it wouldn't reject our baby. (I don't think I've ever written something so gross yet so sweet in all my life.)
HOPE.
There it was again.
Only this time I chose to ran towards that dark hallway,
throw open the closet door
and stand on the tips of my toes to reach the dusty box that Hope called home.
And I wept.
Because I had missed it so. Because I was empty without it. Because I was ashamed that it took me so long to get here.
It's not very brave, finding hope only after things start to go your way. I was disappointed in my lack of faith, at how broken I had become.
I said a prayer of gratitude for my husband- my marvelous lifetime supply of fortitude, all wrapped up in a handsome bow. His strength was the reason we were here. He chose to look for miracles. He was the reason I found hope.
It wasn't long after that we found ourselves driving down a familiar road to a familiar building. We had made it to the fourth month. I wouldn't have believed it if not for the soda crackers and apple juice I had stashed in my purse to stave off the nausea. We smiled nervously at each other as we made our way back to the ultra sound room.
As if the thrill of hearing that precious heartbeat wasn't enough, today we would find out the sex of our little miracle. Old habits seemed to die hard, as together we drew deep breaths and listened- hoping for the best, but secretly preparing for the opposite.
THUMP-THUMP-THUMP-THUMP-THUMP-THUMP-THUMP-THUMP
If a choir of angels had been in the room singing arias from heaven, I don't think they would've compared to the beauty of that sound.
We released what seemed like the longest breath in history and chose instead to cut off each other's circulation with a "hand hold" that rivaled the U.S. Arm Wrestling Championship while we turned our attention to the ultrasound monitor. This was it. We were about to give our baby a name.
"Alright, let's see...."
Dr.F quietly hummed to himself as he examined the images on the screen, and then-
"It looks to me like you're gonna have to get used to pink......'cuz it's a girl!"
A GIRL!
It's a wonder our poor, weary hearts didn't explode with excitement.
I looked over at my beaming husband and wiped a tear from his cheek, ignoring the downpour of tears gushing from my own eyes. We had cried in this very room so many times before, but never these tears.
Oh how we relished in these tears of happiness, of relief and gratitude. If we had thought about it at the time, I'm pretty sure we would have bottled them up and set them on a shelf where we could see them everyday.
After a slew of ecstatic phone calls to loved ones, and hours of playing "what will she look/act/think/talk/be like", the night turned quiet, making way for one last resolution.
"We've cried enough," Adam declared, more to himself than to me.
"I'm not going to cry again until our daughter is in my arms."
And he didn't.
Because thankfully, the next 5 months were filled with nothing but giddy anticipation and readying our home for the precious little rosebud. (Okay, there were quite a few dashes to the ladies room, restless nights, hormone induced freak outs and over flowing bladders as well- but they far out weighed the alternative.) The anxiety didn't leave us completely. There were quite a few days I stood waiting for the other shoe to drop. But for the most part, we had a calm assurance that everything really would be
just fine.
I was induced, so there wasn't any surprising "Oh my gosh! My water just broke in this taxi/grocery store/elevator!" moment, which I was slightly bummed about, seeing as how they always looked so exciting in the movies. No matter. We had plenty of excitement pulsing through our veins as we pushed through the intimidatingly large double doors leading to the maternity ward. At one point, I couldn't stop shaking, thanks to my nerves, causing a pretty funny "c-can't get my pants off to p-put my gown on" moment. (Not as funny as the movies, but I did what I could.)
My nerves calmed a bit and we seemed to settle into a rythym that included ice chips, old movies, and cat naps (most of which were interupted when some random person in scrubs came to check out "the business".) It seemed an eternity before I felt a strange sensation and suddenly broke into a cold sweat. I felt nauseous and irritated. I had heard about this feeling from other mothers.
"Transistion"
or in other words,
"The baby is COMING!"
I called for the nurses who immediately informed me that since this was my first baby, she was sure I still had a long way to go....
.....until she checked out "the business".
"Um, we're gonna need the doctor in here STAT!"
("STAT?" I guess I did get my movie moment.)
The rest of the experience seemed to be a whirlwind of laytex gloves and people yelling " 1-2-3-PUSH!" (Which I did because I'm very obedient.) It wasn't until I saw the doctor holding up a bright pink, squirming/screaming angel that the chaos faded away.
No, stopped.
I stared for a moment in disbelief. The doctor, seeing my state of shock, sweetly prompted me,
"Go ahead. Take your baby". (Which, again, I did because of the whole "obedient" thing.)
I was trembling.
So was she.
A big, beautifully delicious vault of "mother's instinct" seemed to open up right then as I instinctively held her close and soflty "shh-shh-shh" and "it's okay-ed" my new baby girl.
"We've been wondering when you would get here," I whispered into her tiny ear.
"Welcome home."
The feelings that rush over you when you hold your baby for the first time are so overwhelming, so divine. It's quite impossible to put them into words. Your heart expands and fills up with so much love, it's almost painful. You will never forget it, and yet, you can never quite reach that moment again. It's true description lies in a word that can never be defined.
While I sat, staring at our little rosebud- fresh from heaven, I heard the sound of stiffled sobs coming from the chair next to me.
He had kept his promise but now, the levy broke.
And he wept.
Because he didn't have to be strong anymore. Because the nurse called him "Daddy". Because he could hardly comprehend the love he had for our precious bunny. Because he was witnessing a miracle.
Our miracle.
It's hard to admit (mostly because that ending makes my heart do a happy dance) but our struggles did not end there. There was another loss after our sweet Ava and a very scary beginning to our second miracle, Miss Mia. But that's just it- we were given a second miracle! They aren't rationed out like mashed potatoes from the lunch lady. Miracles can come to us over and over again- in all forms. The time table can be confusing and down right painful, but they will come.
Even if you have to walk through fire to get to them.
We will always need the miracle of science and medicine to build our family. But, I know that I'm not alone in this struggle. I know and love many who have suffered similar losses, and many who have suffered losses I would never be strong enough to overcome. It's these unsung heros that give me strength, fill me up, and remind me of the gifts I've been given on the days when I almost forget.
Heros like my sweet Grandma.
I picture her now, gathering up the little angels that have yet to come, cradling those who came and went to quickly.
..and the tears fall once more.
The good kind.
Because I can see her, basking in the sunlight where there used to be darkness.
Because I can hear her, rocking my little ones-to-be and whispering, "Not just yet."
Because I can feel her....
....and that gives me hope.
