Climbing Up the Hill

Does time heal all wounds?

Almost one week after the most devastating news I’ve ever received, I feel a little better. Actually, much better compared to the pit of hopeless despair I was mired in just a few short days ago.

The outpouring of love and support we have been swathed in has helped. Never before have I truly been able to feel the prayers being lifted up on our behalf. Now I can. I feel the warm, comforting effect of every prayer that has been said over me in the past week. I feel less alone, less anguished.

Perhaps this is what it means to have joy even when you're not happy.

Saturday I had coffee with Charity. It was therapeutic. We talked and cried and hugged each other over blueberry muffins and her unbelievably delicious French press coffee. I am so thankful for dear friends, now more than ever.

Cody’s sister called and we spoke for a long time. She unknowingly offered me some of the most comforting words. Her roommate had a baby earlier this year, and her uterus is heart-shaped just like mine. It is possible, I thought to myself. Maybe I can have a baby after all!

The cramps have been horrific, like a wood chipper is grinding my insides to pieces. And the blood - oh, my gosh there’s been so much blood. But as the days pass, the more eager I am to try again.

Part of me is terrified. Am I ready to be hurt again? What if I miscarry a second time? What if something else goes wrong? Can I go through this again? Can I survive it?

But I long for that euphoria once more - there was nothing like the feverish, trembling anticipation as I held that first test. The anxious nights lying in bed, Cody’s hand on my belly, overanalyzing every twinge and pinch and pull. The sweet mornings of calm, poring over my pregnancy books, eager to learn all there was to know about baby. The workouts, tweaked for my changing body. The overwhelming planning - baby registries, shopping wish lists, reading stroller reviews to decide on the very best one!

Baby Hull was going to be a June baby; it couldn’t have been more perfect. Cody would have been fresh out of school, all of his summer break ahead of him, ready for dad duty. I would have spent lazy afternoons out by the pool, holding baby, soaking up the sun as my postpartum body healed. I could have taken long walks with baby in the perfect stroller I’d selected - walks to boost my spirits and get my body moving even when I couldn’t work out. I’d have spent my next birthday with my snuggly little bean, a mother at last. And by Christmastime next year, we’d have a 6-month old, perhaps just starting to crawl.

But now that’s gone. Maybe we can try again soon. Perhaps we’ll have an October baby, or a November or December baby if all goes well. Maybe we’ll still have a baby by next Christmas. I wish, but I don’t dare to dream. The faintest glimmer of hope swells within me, but like a deflated balloon I quickly squash it. I don’t want to be disappointed.

Perhaps I’ll have a little birthday twin. How sweet that would be, to have a daughter on my birthday. But I’m scared to even think about it.

Round two, I certainly won’t be sharing the news with anyone right away. I’ll tell my husband, my three closest friends; and maybe my mom. I probably won’t even tell them until week 8 or 9. Nobody else will know until after the first ultrasound. I won’t be joining any expecting mothers’ groups on Facebook. I’ll download the pregnancy tracker apps, and monitor silently. I’ll take the bump pictures (maybe), saved in a private folder on my phone.

I do feel as though I’m climbing up that hill. Slowly, stumbling, but on the upward swing. I am cautiously hopeful, apprehensive but no longer despondent.

I know there will be moments I slip and fall down again. Yesterday I was fine until I scrolled through Instagram and saw a dear friend announce her pregnancy with baby number two. Her ultrasound date was two days before mine. She walked out of that office full of joy, pictures of her baby in hand; I walked out with a prescription and unfathomable sorrow. I cried when I saw that post.

But those moments are becoming less frequent. I haven't cried (yet) today.

My ultrasound this afternoon will bring some sort of absolution, perhaps; or at least answers to some of my questions. I am scared, but not devoid of all optimism. I am climbing, slowly but surely.