LJ Idol Survivor: Challenge 4: A Bridge You Must Cross

[flipflop_diva]

I don’t know his name. I have no idea what he looks like. I’m not sure how smart he is or how funny or even if he likes to give hugs and hold my hand. All I know is I have been waiting for him for almost three years now, and there is still such a long way to go.

He became a part of my life on a Monday in the middle of February back in 2018. The phone rang, and for once, the voice on the other end had good news.

“We got two good embryos,” the lab tech on the phone told me.

One male, one female, she said when I asked.

Nine months after that call, our little girl, our IVF baby, our rainbow baby — a baby born after a loss and in our case after a miscarriage and a chemical pregnancy and a failed IVF cycle and a lot of tears and heartbreak — was born. And she is perfect. And everything I could have asked for. And all the things I didn’t even know I wanted.

But even then, there has always been another. A cluster of cells so small no human eye could make them out, safe in a deep freeze somewhere in the recesses of a lab.

My husband didn’t want another. That was the first bridge we had to cross.

“Are you going to have more kids?” people would ask.

“No. We’re happy with just one!” my husband would always state firmly, every single time.

But yet, every year, we paid the money to keep our little embryo safe and frozen. And every year I couldn’t picture a future where we didn’t at least try. Maybe it would work, maybe it wouldn’t. But I always knew I needed to know.

Four months ago, something changed. I’m still not sure what or why, but I don’t need to know.

“What would it mean,” my husband said out of nowhere, “if we did try to have a second one?”

And so it began. Doctor appointments. Blood tests. Pills three times a day. Shots every other day.

On Nov. 2, we arrived at the outpatient clinic at one thirty in the afternoon. The embryologist gave us a photo of our embryo. I compared it to my daughter’s, still on my phone, and panicked because he wasn’t as far along in the hatching process as she had been on the day of her transfer. But, I reminded myself, he had been frozen for a lot longer than she had.

An hour later, we were back in the car and heading home, a tiny embryo deep inside me and instructions to rest and keep taking all my meds clutched in my hand.

Our blood test would be in nine days. Nine days of waiting to see if he had implanted, to see if he was growing, to see if we were maybe going to have a second child.

I couldn’t wait that long. I hadn’t with my daughter either. With her, I gave in on day six and took a test and saw those beautiful double lines that told me she was on her way.

This time, I made it to day five. Then I snuck into the bathroom, pulled out one of the three tests my husband had bought at the store the other day, and took the first one, so confident and so sure of what I was going to see.

Negative.

My heart sank. Tears sprang to my eyes. I walked out of the bathroom to tell my husband.

“It’s still really early,” I said. “It’s even earlier than the one I took with Ellie. It might just be too soon.”

I called my parents, told them the same thing, tried to convince myself that this was true.

Two days later, I tried again. The pregnancy test said taken on this day, there was a ninety-nine percent chance of accuracy.

I set the test on the counter while it did its thing. I sat on the bed, my heart thudding in my chest. My palms were clammy. I thought I might actually throw up.

Finally, I stood up, walked into the bathroom, picked up the test.

No.

This one used words, and the words it used were bold, glaring, obvious. They seemed to burn into my chest. Tears came again. Fantasies of texting family and friends a photo of a positive test with the words “We’re having a baby!” disappeared like a puff of smoke.

I walked into my husband’s office, found him at his desk.

“No,” I said.

“It’s okay,” he said. “We’ll be okay.”

We would be, I knew that. We had said it before we started — not having a second one would just mean nothing changed. We still would have our daughter, and she is still a miracle in herself.

I walked back into the bathroom and threw the test away and reminded myself that we always knew there was a chance it wouldn’t work. Just because I had been so sure didn’t mean anything.

I cried that night, lying in bed while my husband and daughter slept. Cried for the baby I always thought I would meet. Cried for the brother my daughter would never have. Cried for what could have been.

In the morning, I felt better. I kept taking all my meds and I didn’t eat anything I wasn’t supposed to, but I suggested we go get coffees at Starbucks on Wednesday afternoon once the official call came in. I thought about the wine I could drink for the holidays. I reminded myself it was okay.

The next morning — Wednesday, nine days after the transfer — I woke up before the sun, dressed quickly and drove twenty minutes to get to the blood lab. I checked in and waited for them to call my name. I smiled and chatted while they took my blood, and then I went home, knowing in a few hours it would all be over.

Around noon, my phone rang and the familiar number flashed on the screen. It was Sarah, one of the nurses for my doctor.

I waited for the words I knew were coming. “I’m sorry, but it’s negative.”

“So it’s positive,” she said instead. “But a low positive.”

My heart skipped a beat. My stomach flipped over. I sat there, the phone in my hand, mouth open.

What? How?

“I took a test,” I said. “I thought it was negative!”

She went on to tell me that normally they like the pregnancy hormone (HcG) to measure about 50 to 65. Mine was 25. I needed to get another blood test in two days to see if it doubled or more. They wanted to see it around 75 ideally.

I thanked her, still disbelieving, and went to tell my husband.

“We’re pregnant,” I told him. “But it’s low.”

“What does the mean?” he asked.

“It means it can go either way.”

The next two days took forever. I talked to the embryo inside me, asked him to grow, to do his thing.

Friday morning I headed out to the lab again, checked in again, let them take blood from my arm again.

The call came around one.

“53,” Sarah the nurse said. “It doubled but it’s not where we would like.”

You should be “cautiously optimistic”, she said, and told me to go again Tuesday.

I hung up with her and googled low hcg numbers, trying to see if this baby had a chance. I googled other things too — etopic preganancies and blighted ovums and early miscarriages — and everything made me worry. Should I be having more symptoms? Are the symptoms I think I’m having actually symptoms?

I made it to Tuesday, repeated the process. This time the call didn’t come until almost eight o’clock at night.

“258,” said the night nurse, and I almost cried. It had quadrupled, just like it should have.

Go back in a week, the nurse said, and once again, I was left alone with google and worry and fear, but also hope. Reminding myself every day that he was genetically tested, and he is perfect, just like his sister. Reminding myself that even babies with low hcg can go on to be born healthy and full-term. Reminding myself that there is no reason this shouldn’t work.

My last test was Tuesday. Baby boy is still hanging in there. 1,970. This time, the nurse who called used the words, “Your numbers look good.”

I go again on Tuesday for another test. His numbers need to be somewhere around 7,000, with 5,000 being the absolute minimum. On Wednesday, we have our ultrasound. I will be seven weeks along.

I want them to find a little beating heart. I’m terrified they won’t. I keep reminding myself that he’s doing what he should be doing, and there’s no real reason to think it won’t be okay.

I’m still terrified.

This feels like the longest bridge we’ve had to navigate yet, and this one is made of fraying rope and rocking violently in the wind. But if we get to the other side, things will be easier. There will still be many bridges to cross before he is born, but those seem sturdier, shorter.

I hope we get to cross them. I hope my daughter gets a brother. I hope we get a son.

Only time will tell, but that time will be here before we know it.





Non-fiction.

I debated writing about this, because it's so early and so personal and in our offline life, very few people know, but it fit the topic so well and I feel like it needed to be said. He deserves to have his story told, no matter how it ends up. I just hope someday I can give him a happy ending to this part and a happy beginning to the next.




Thank you for reading! This was written for a new adventure in the therealljidol world — Survivor Idol! You can see all the entries here. Voting should be up on Saturday night!

I'm on the LaMina tribe, so I would super appreciate if you could vote for me and my teammates:
eeyore_grrl
flipflop_diva
gunwithoutmusic
impoetry
minikin25

Comments

[bsgsix]

Oh, love. I cried. Just - I absolutely cried. First of all, congratulations, because what a major thing, and what an absolute trial to go through. It's always worth it, but I'm sure you are feeling every emotion known to humankind.

I'm glad you did share this. It's scary and raw, but I FELT that fear and raw emotion. It also reminded me of the hell it took to have my one living child - my son, who is now 9. So many losses, so many rounds of treatments, so many tens of thousands of dollars, so many pregnancy tests tossed into the trash can, and then, so many rounds of labs and fetal monitoring and months of bed rest - for this one, perfect living boy, whom I wouldn't trade for the world. Your son will be the same. No matter what, it will have all been worth it, and I ONLY have hope for you. Your numbers really are going up, and that's wonderful!

This is a very raw, real entry. Thank you for sharing it, and please - at any time, feel free to DM me to chat. I'm here to listen and to offer you support. <3

[adoptedwriter]

Oh my!!!🙏🙏🙏🙏🙏to you all!!!! I’ve been through one pregnancy loss and it was devastating. I get it. Best to you!!!

[murielle]

You and your little guy and your family are in my prayers. I am Hoping for you!

*hugs*

[alycewilson]

Oh, that is wonderful news, and I am cautiously optimistic with you. The writing here is superb, both the storytelling and the use of details. Nicely done!

[wolfden]

Wishing you all the best.

Teddy is from a donated/adopted embryo. The process is so amazing and so nerve wracking all at the same time. It is cool to have the picture of him from transfer day. He was frozen for 3 years.

I hope it all goes well. Sending so many good thoughts.

[gunwithoutmusic]

Good luck with your little one going forward - my sister had a hell of a time conceiving so my niece is her little miracle; she wants to try again but doesn't want to deal with all of the heartbreak that could entail again. This was very well-written and a wonderful story to tell; thank you so much for sharing this with us. :)

[sigrundora]

Crossing everything for you, fingers, toes, arms, legs and all hairs

[bleodswean]

HUGE HUGE HUGS.

I'm keeping all of you in my thoughts.

[megatronix]

I hope it all goes really spectacularly well!!! Congratulations!! And hugs! I will be hoping the best for you all!

[halfshellvenus]

This just had me on edge, all the way. I was so happy your husband finally wanted a second child too, and then so worried when you weren't getting a positive result. And still worried by the low numbers, and hoping this would all turn out well.

It's such a heart-wrenching thing to go through, and I'm thinking good thoughts for you and your family and hoping this little guy keeps pulling through! <3