I find myself as grateful as ever today.
I mean, truly, there was no way to know that I’d reached the end.
That it was finally over. The question I’d been asking God for years: “When will this be over?”
He gave me an answer, and that answer was, “Right now.”
I don’t think He answered this question on April 22 or even May 1. I don’t think he answered it on May 9 or 16. But somewhere in between … somewhere along the line of zero and 14.5 weeks pregnant, He answered me.
And I am grateful for that.
How normal—yet surreal—it is for me to answer standard questions about my pregnancy asked by OBs and high risk doctors and ultrasound techs, nurses—the whole crew. How normal it is for me to sit in a waiting room with my bump anxious to see my darling miracles and their growth.
How normal it is for me. Last night I envisioned the waiting room at Shady Grove. Those women with empty uteruses and holes in their hearts.
I hate it. The universe is not okay as long as that waiting room exists.
I don’t understand how normal can be so hopeless. Normal can be so routine—SO FUCKING NORMAL—but yet there are questions and fears and numbers and blood and pure hell.
How is it so easy for women with bumps to sit in a waiting room carrying what is theirs—what won’t be taken from them—as if it’s completely normal and just happens every day?
I was one of them yesterday.
Why can’t my friends become and remain pregnant after having their embryos placed in their uteruses—for goodness sake?
If this is so normal, just everyday life, then why?
It. is. enough. to. drive. a. girl. mad.
It either needs to be normal, or we need to declare conception an absolute miracle. Not a miracle of biology—a blessed Virgin Mary, straight-up miracle.
Because I’m tired of all this B.S. I’m so over the fact that one in eight of us are completely fucked, just gripping the steering wheel of hope and faith and trust and science with white knuckles and aching hearts that pour and pour and pour sorrow and poison.
And yet, my sisters still fight. Good for you—you’re a warrior.
I will cry with you—fat tears streaming down my chubby, acne-filled cheeks and PUPPP-filled neck.
And I will rejoice with you—jumping up and down as my boobs twice their normal size preparing for my babies’ milk bounce up and down uncontrollably.
I will be one hot, maternal mess for you because this isn’t over, and now I’m pissed.