Last September, we moved into our new home. I had plans for this home, the first house--not apartment--my husband and I would live in. I was going to refinish some hand-me-down furniture we have, and I was going to plant a wonderful garden, starting with bulbs that would bloom in the spring. Crocuses, hyacinths, tulips--all of my favorites. And I would know, all winter long, that they were sleeping in the dark, cold soil, waiting to awake with the first light and warmth of spring.
I also had dreams for this home--dreams that included the empty set of adjoining rooms that I quietly, privately, and only in my heart called "the day nursery" and "the night nursery."
Then came October, and slowly and surely, the downward spiral started. A sense of looming dread; a feeling of doom; a deep and terrifying panic that literally took my breath away. There wasn't really a good reason, at the time, for the panic. But it seeped into my whole self, body and soul, paralyzing me and tainting everything around me.
I sanded the furniture, but never painted or stained it. I didn't plant a single bulb. And the day nursery and night nursery became "the empty rooms," the door tightly closed so I wouldn't have to see their gaping emptiness.
In a matter of weeks, we found out the devastating news about my genetic mutation. Our dreams of parenthood seemed to slip farther away. And shortly after that, I marked the one-year anniversary of my 12-week miscarriage with my sixth miscarriage--the blood of which began our first foray into fertility treatments.
Did I know, in October, when the dread crept into my heart, what was coming? Not really; not officially. But I had already mused in my writings about the possibility of a genetic translocation; though I outwardly proclaimed that I didn't think that was our problem, the whispers were all around me. The innermost parts of me, I think, heard them. And through the short days, the thin winter light, the falling leaves, I felt guilty that I hadn't found the strength or the energy to plant those damn bulbs. Soon the ground was frozen. The opportunity was gone. I had missed the chance to bring a little beauty to the world--and to my life.
Then we got inexplicably lucky. The stars aligned for us to suddenly have IVF; my body performed beautifully; I got pregnant--really pregnant, not chemically pregnant--for the first time in 17 months. Despite the worry that the pregnancy was doomed and the tremendous physical strain the IVF, OHSS, and subsequent twin pregnancy put on my body, I was grateful every moment. The three weeks between losing one of the twins and getting the CVS results for the other were, quite possibly, the most agonizing of my life.
The stars that had somehow aligned for our IVF cycle worked their magic once again; we learned that I'm pregnant with our healthy, perfect daughter. Even writing that phrase brings tears to my eyes, and I've been rejoicing at this news for a month now.
And spring came, as spring always does. The knee-high drifts of snow melted; the grass grew again; the daylight lasted long into the evening; the breeze blew soft and warm. In other people's yards, bulbs bloomed with abandon. And in our yard, this happened:
We had crocuses, too, and daffodils, planted long before we moved in. All winter they slept, just under the surface; waiting to bloom. I thought I had lost my hope during those dark, painful days. But it, too, was sleeping, just under the surface, waiting to bloom when the time was right.
