It’s passed midnight, and I have obligations.
Some beautiful obligations.
Some insignificant obligations.
I remember one year ago today, I waited for his phone call. He always called before noon with news of my cellular babies’ statuses. But he didn’t rush to call me that morning.
“I know you’re busy. I know you have other patients. But, I just … I just …
I’m calling to ask about my embryos.”
The sweet relief I felt when things were different this time. Among four, there was a 12-cell and a perfect – let me repeat, perfect – 8-cell.
“That 8-cell will definitely be one we transfer.” Was she Rowan? Was she Emmanuelle?
I live a secret life. A life in the late hours when I just need time. I just need space to myself. I need to be imperfect for myself.
What the hell did I do during those three months when she wasn’t home with me? I guess I stewed in fear.
But now – when everyone sleeps – I just. need. space.
Good heavens, it takes a village to care for this child.
I work Monday through Friday amongst an environment that … is lifeless. It’s a job. My joy is arriving at the last metro stop on the Silver Line after a 45-minute nap. My joy is preparing breast milk-filled bottles for her. My joy is reclaiming my status as her caretaker as her grandmothers forfeit it … everyday. Monday through Friday.
Tomorrow, there is my boss. There are customers. There are deliverables.
Tomorrow is her six-month appointment with the pediatrician.
I’m supposed to exercise in the morning. Somehow.
Somehow, I’m supposed to burn some calories; take time for myself; take care of myself. But time may not permit.
… because it’s passed midnight, and I should be resting.
But instead I stir.
This season of spring brings back memories. I remember their presence at first. I remember the refreshingly chilly mornings when I walked with my babies – my four-week old embryos – in my womb.
One of my babies is gone.
One of my babies finally rests in my husband’s arms as I take time.
It’s an adventure. Is it not?
The gratitude I have for the existence of her is overwhelming.
But – sometimes – I just need time to be imperfect.
Not the perfect wife. Not the perfect worker.
Damn, I don’t care if I fail at times in those areas; it’s all about perspective.
I am learning to give myself a break. But she deserves more. She will always deserve more.
I find myself reaching into my bucket in the early hours of the morning … being selfish.
I won’t ever “get over it”. I will let time do its thing, though.
And I will ride the waves of this grief. I don’t know how else to do it. Forgive me.
Please. Forgive me.