The Good Fight

Crunch, crunch, crunch, crunch.

The sound of our sneakers hitting the gravel was only slightly louder than our panting and wheezing. We slowed to a stop and let the cool morning air fill our lungs. Our burning calves screamed out for a break, but the thrill of conquering such a steep incline left us feeling triumphant. We picked up our pace knowing that the worst of our hike was over.

I glanced behind me, taking inventory of the grueling path that had lead us to this point, high on a mountain top. We smiled and pumped our fists, humming the Rocky anthem as we rounded a blind corner.

It was all downhill from here.

As the trail leveled out, we relaxed into an easy pace. Our concentrated "huffing and puffing" was replaced with silly chatter. Laughter bounced off of the hundreds of large rocks jetting out from the ground and echoed through the canyon. It seemed the audience of stone was entertained by our early morning antics.

Quite suddenly, a hiss rose up from the ground, confusing our ears and halting our hike. I froze, frightened by the unfamiliar sound.

My heart quickened as the hiss rolled into a terrifying rattle.

"Snake!!" 

My sweet friend protectively reached for my arm, warning me not to move. But it was too late.

I leaped into the air, dust flying behind me. My body seemed to flip the auto-pilot switch and carry me, full speed ahead, to the other side of the mountain. Blood rushed to my head, the thump-thump of my heart blocking out the screams of my friend.

"Stop, Christy!"

I did eventually stop, but only after I had managed to put a good 50 some odd feet between me and what I now recognized to be a giant rattlesnake.

"Oh my gosh! That snake was this close to biting you!"  My friend held up her shaky thumb and index finger with a mere inch in between. "Why did you run, silly girl? Don't you know you're supposed to freeze when you hear a rattler?"

At that moment I didn't know much of anything. My face flushed with a mix of embarrassment and overexertion.

"Well, I guess we can say I fall into the 'flight' category, eh?" I yelled back with a self conscience laugh, unwilling to leave the comfort of the snake-free ridge I was now perched on .

She giggled and a few minutes later (after our slimy friend had slithered a few yards down the mountain) she managed to muster up enough courage to cross to the other side of the trail where I waited, terrified.

The rest of our hike was riddled with spontaneous shudders and fits of laughter at the mere mention of  the "s" word. And of course, at least a hundred dramatic retellings of our brush with death to any passerby that would listen, each one ending with the humorous reenactment of me fleeing the scene.

Because I was "Flight."

And as I compared our entertaining story to the actions of my everyday life, that made sense to me. Try though I did, I'd never been known to have much "Fight" in me. More often than not, my tendency was to recoil and run the other way at the mere sight of opposition.

Especially if I didn't see it coming....

When we walked out of the adoption agency my head was spinning. I'd never felt such conflicting emotions: joy and terror, hope and overwhelming anxiety. I held tightly to the overstuffed folder with the smiling baby on the cover that they had handed us before we left. I squinted, trying to recall the exact purpose of every form peeking out from the navy blue binder.  I had glanced at the contents for a moment, but the papers began to blur together thanks to a fresh stream of  nervous tears.

I couldn't focus.

I couldn't breathe.

I was drowning in information.

My husband reached for my trembling hands and gave me a kiss on the forehead.

"We can do this. We'll just take it one step at a time."

It was so simple. So logical. I knew he was right. More than that, I knew that despite being in the throws of an anxiety attack, we could never deny the overwhelming feeling of purpose we experienced when walking through the agency doors. This was exactly where we were supposed to be. This was where we would find our baby. This was how we would complete our family. 

I took a deep breath, ever grateful for my level headed partner and returned to the blue folder. We were counseled to tackle the most difficult tasks first: fingerprinting, letters of recommendation, medical exams, etc. There were dozens of steps, each one time consuming and extremely important to the process. My fingers slid across each application and questionnaire, pausing only to skim the headings, until one in particular stopped me short.

"Documentation of Infertility"

The cold, black script showed no signs of sympathy.

They had explained the new policy to us. This particular adoption program was for those who struggled to have successful pregnancies. I knew this form would need to be filled out by our doctor, I just didn't expect it to hurt so much when I held it in my hands.

I moved the paper to the front of the folder and let my head rest against the cool glass of the passenger side window. I squeezed my eyes shut and tried to prepare myself for the phone call I was about to make.   Before we could fully engage in our new journey, I had to say goodbye to the dreams of the past.

But I am Flight.

And the flight in me didn't want to revisit those tall glass doors that housed hundreds of women with knowing smiles and large swollen bellies.

For weeks now I had relished in the joy of our decision to adopt. Worry and pain had been replaced with excitement and gratitude, "have-nots" replaced with "get-tos."  Everything was possible again. And I feared that walking out of the office where I had struggled and cried and fought for our family for so long, with that paper, would be a declaration of defeat....

....and it would break me.

I managed to get through the 2 hour wait in the lobby with very little emotion. My eyes stayed glued to the flat screen TV in the corner and the monotone of the midday news carried me to some far off place. It  took the booming voice of a nice lady in scrubs to shake me from my numbed state.

"Christy High-nik-ler?" (Uh.....okay. Close enough.)

An army of butterflies immediately seized my stomach.

The dreaded form was my only anchor to reality as I followed the army green scrubs back to an empty exam room. 

"Just hand him the paper, he'll sign it and we can move forward," I chanted.

My left leg shook uncontrollably as I waited for my bearded, shaggy haired doctor.

Three light taps on the door announced his arrival. He bounded in and greeted me with a warm "hello." His fast paced chatter slowed for a minute as he acknowledge my latest loss.

"I'm so sorry about that.....but we'll keep trying, right?"

I winced.

Normally, his optimistic attitude was comforting. It's what pushed me forward and brought us our two little miracles. I'm not sure if it was my heightened state of sensitivity due to the document in my hands or the fact that I was so desperately seeking closure, but his response had me panicked.

His eyes rested on the paper I was now nervously twisting in my hands. This was my opening. I willed myself not to cry.

"I-I don't think I can do this anymore." I stammered, with way less conviction than I had hoped for. I stood up and handed him the form. 

"My husband and I have spent these last couple months weighing our options, discussing the toll these 9 plus years have had on us- on me- and we feel very strongly that our new path should be adoption."

I was gathering steam. Saying those words aloud had renewed my sense of purpose. Dr.F glanced at the form and immediately handed it back to me.

"No. This isn't what you want!"

I was right back on that mountain. His words cut through me like the hiss of a hidden predator.

"Two successful pregnancies out of twelve is not hopeless! We should keep trying. Eventually, something may work again!"

I could barely hear him over the frenzied pounding of my heart. The rattle of his response had me yearning to bolt.

"B-But, my body has grown resistant to the medication. It hasn't worked the last two times. What else can you do for me?"

He reached up and smoothed out a stray whisker.

"Well...there isn't much by way of  testing or fertility drugs. That's not an option for you. We could try, but I doubt we'll have success that way. For you, it's about beating the odds and hanging in there. It could take another 5-10 losses before one sticks again."

The thought of ten more years of pain, depression and heartache pierced my heart and burned like venom. But more than that, his ease in using the word "we" confused me.

Because what it came down to was

My will.

My strength.

My loss.

I sat there, my resolve threatening to crumble under the veiled accusations of a man I had grown to respect. My worst fear had come true. I was thought weak, and uncapable. A stronger woman would be able to move forward, giving of herself until there was nothing left. That's what it would take to do it his way.

I am Flight.

But that day, in one of the many rooms I have hoped and cried and gradually excepted the fate of loss after loss, I heard a baby cry.

I'm sure it was the cry of a freshly delivered newborn accompanying her mother's post partum check-up, but right then, it's soft sobbs wafting through the walls carried with them a message that I had almost forgotten.

I'm here!  I'm waiting.

The sweet cries lit me up inside and spoke a reassurance to my soul.

Our baby was out there.

And she needed me to fight.

I waited for a break in Dr.F's soliloquy.

"I know how badly you want this for us. I do. The good news is that we will have a baby. And we're going to adopt her. I'm so grateful for everything you've done for us. You've helped us build our family. But we have to do what we feel is right. This is what's right for our family." I said, handing him the paper. 

He stared at me for a moment. He looked defeated.

"I'll have Angie fill it out."

And he did.

I drove all the way home with that big, bold type staring back at me.

"Suffers from Secondary Infertility."

"Fifteen percent chance of a successful pregnancy."

And I cried.

But the hurt from the diagnosis was nothing compared to the unbelievable feeling of fighting for our family...for our baby.

Everything is possible again.

I am Fight.