It all started when we were sitting on the couch.
"A baby?" I said.
"Now?" he said.
"Soon" I said.
"Maybe" he said.
Or maybe we were lying in bed. Or talking on the phone. Truthfully, I don't really remember. All I know is that at some point we were trying.
And then a month went by. And another. And another.
And they slipped into a year.
And now here we are. And I avoid this blog, because I think the stories I have to tell are too sad. But I need to tell them. Sometimes I feel as though my head is spinning. Sometimes I feel as though if I keep recounting the facts they will change. Time will become slippery and fluid and we won't have been trying for one year and four months. We will have been trying for a moment. A day. We will be filled with hope.
And yet we need to be filled with hope now, if ever. Time presses on. Tests are scheduled. Plans are made. And when I look into the future I can see two different lives. In one version, we have a baby. I work from home and am delighted to be there to hold my baby in my arms, so often. In another, we stand up and walk away from this pain. We decided to live our lives without children, to find what meaning we will. I go back to school and become a social worker. I help people face medical facts - I am the one who walks beside them, steadies their gate, helps them go on.
Both lives have value. And I think it is important to see that having a child is not all there is. I do believe we will go on if it does not happen. I do believe we will be okay.
And part of me wants to do that now. Part of me is done with the pain and has learned enough hard lessons. But part of me wants to go on. To call. To schedule. To wait for test results. And to hope. And for today the part that wants to go on is stronger than the part that wants to stop. But I am aware that it could shift. And I both yearn for and fear that day.
