"You are strong, you are supported, you are loved." You whisper the words in your car where no one can hear you. Your hand resting on your abdomen is the physical sign the words aren't meant for yourself, but for the new soul growing inside you.
The first time you see those double lines your mind goes blank with shock. You custom order a cake and use references from your husband's favorite show to make the picture perfect surprise announcement. You giggle and exclaim and plan to keep it a secret until you know everything is fine, only to tell half your friends the very next day. You're hesitant, you know things can go wrong and try but fail not to fall head over heels in excitement for what is to come. You're nauseous, and exhausted, and sore, and hungry every second despite not wanting to eat anything. But you relish it because every ping of nausea reminds you of how much you love what is growing, of how lucky you feel that there are no signs of anything wrong. And then two months of dreaming in you get to the appointment, disappointed that thanks to the pandemic your husband can't be there to see your child's image for the first time, or hear the heartbeat; but so ready to finally get that confirmation everything is fine.
And then there's silence. You sit alone in the hallway waiting for the doctor to confirm what you already know. You try to hold it together long enough to listen to your options, to decide if you want the physical pain of medicine, the emotional pain of waiting, or the financial pain of surgery; you know some women end up with all three. You have to wait a week, to confirm, even though there is no doubt. And in that week you go back to work, and your body hasn't realized. And now the pings of nausea that come make you want to scream, or cry, or hit something. Because how is it fair to still be so pregnant knowing there is no baby coming?
The second time you see the pink lines there is hope, there is joy, but they are overshadowed by fear. You wake your husband and briefly tell him the news before giving him a kiss goodbye as you leave for the workday. This time you tell fewer people. When things go wrong it's less shocking, less painful, and yet more destructive. The doctor and the old sayings both tell you that if you get pregnant right after a miscarriage it's more likely to be successful. Everyone says once you have one it's statistically unlikely to have another. So you had hope. But when that hope is proven wrong what do you have left?
The third time you see the lines you consider just leaving the test in the bathroom for your husband to come across. It no longer means anything except anxiety. You don't start wondering what the gender will be, instead you ask yourself "I wonder how long this one will last." You don't tell a soul. When it ends it feels like a cut on numb skin. Something you know should hurt but you can't bring yourself to feel. Why is everything so much harder than it needs to be? For the first time you start to question whether this will ever happen for you.
The first time you're angry. You lose it over small things. You about get yourself in hot water going off at work about everything and everyone.
The second time you're desperate. You use your lunch hours to break down in the car. You come this close to quitting your job. Because surely there has to be something you can change to make things work out differently. Surely it can't actually be this out of your control.
The third time you're withdrawn. Things that used to feel important no longer feel worth your energy.
But you learn things too.
The first time you learn your coworkers have your back. They'll listen to you rant because they know you need to be angry about something easier to face, so they'll let you without taking it in. You learn it's okay to have boundaries, to unfollow social media accounts of people expecting and going through the newborn years. You learn to take time doing the things that calm you.
The second time you learn to find a therapist. You learn not to put your attendance record at a job that doesn't care for you over your own wellbeing. You learn to accept the love of friends bringing/sending you care packages to keep you stocked with sweets and chocolates at all times. You learn you are surrounded by honestly wonderful people that care about you more than your anxiety let you realize.
The third time you learn that sometimes you have to let go of always planning for the future and live for now. That it's okay to spend some money when you have it on things you want, instead of always worrying about things you may need. You learn to focus on the love that fills your life now.
The past year has been a difficult one. And yet I still feel blessed. I feel blessed to be surrounded by the people that I am. I feel blessed to have jobs through uncertainty. I feel blessed that one way or another I know I will see my husband be the amazing father I know he will be, and that we will have a family of our own. I'm grateful to the people who have and continue to love us and care for us. And I'm hopeful about what the future will bring.
