Dear Baby,
My mind is reeling. If it weren’t for me being so busy at work right now, I’m sure I’d be sitting behind closed doors again, weeping in solitude.
But I’m not. I had a bad few hours this morning, but I got through it as best I could. I’m glad that I can talk to you like this; it helps a bit when I start spiraling.
A lot of things have happened in the last few days that are starting to bubble over inside of me. I don’t know where to begin.
Let me start with Sunday. Back at the beginning.
Every other Sunday I see someone and we talk about you. She’s the one who convinced me to start writing these letters, and she’s one of two people that I know who has found her baby through a donor egg. She’s more than just a therapist; the fact that she’s been exactly where I am means that she has invaluable insight and advice that ordinary people just can’t offer. I don’t have to explain to her what I’m feeling or what’s racing through my head and heart, which is great, because most of what I think and feel is impossible to put into words.
But she already knows. She’s able to help me not because it’s her profession, but because she’s lived it. She’s been through this hell and made it out the other side.
I honestly don’t know if we’re going to find you with a donor egg, but she’s helped me realize that in order to move on, it’s something we have to try. It’s a step that I must take before we look elsewhere for you. I can’t spend the rest of my life wondering if I could have carried you inside of me. Because I want to, desperately.
So, Sunday. We hadn’t met since before the holidays, so I had to relive Christmas morning all over again telling her about it. Then we discussed my dream. The dream where I was at the hair salon, five months pregnant with you, but so sure you’d never come home. Where I was so adamant that no matter how close you were, you’d be forever lost to me.
She said both of these events stemmed from fear, and she’s right. I’m terrified we’ll never find you. I’m terrified that we’ll never have a Christmas morning together or write letters to Santa. And I’m terrified that I’m denying your dad a chance to be a father, and that’s killing me.
But it’s more than that. I’m terrified that even if we do find a donor, I won’t be able to carry you. My body has failed me so many times over, I’m terrified she’ll fail me again. Because nothing is guaranteed, baby. Nothing is guaranteed until you are swaddled in a blanket and wrapped in my arms.
That was Sunday. On Tuesday, I got an email from a friend. Your dad and I are involved in a group called BabyQuest; it’s a nonprofit that helps people like your dad and me find their babies, and it’s connected us with couples all over the nation who are also still searching for their child. Through BabyQuest, we applied for and received a grant back in June, which helped us afford our second IVF.
There was another woman who also got a grant in June, and I really connected with her. She had initially been diagnosed with “unexplained infertility,” the same as me. That just means the doctors have no idea why we couldn’t conceive.
She also had an appendectomy, which they discovered was partially responsible for her trouble. This gave me hope that maybe one day, we’d also find an answer as to why I can’t get pregnant.
She went through her IVF at exactly the same time I did. We had our retrieval within days of each other.
I watched this mirror of me have a successful retrieval when mine had failed, and transfer a viable embryo when all of mine arrested. She got her happy ending while I had to give up hope.
But I told you nothing is guaranteed. She found out over Christmas she was having a little boy, and over the weekend, at five and a half months along…she lost him. And I found out in an email on Tuesday night.
I feel like a piece of me has been ripped out. There isn’t enough hyberbole in the world to describe the anguish I feel for her and her husband. I wish I could say I can’t imagine how she feels, but I can. I’ve been there, time and time again. I know the pain. The guilt. Worthlessness. Shame.
She’d felt him move and heard his heart beat. She’d known him for nearly half a year, and loved him all of her life. And then she had to deliver him, knowing she had to tell him goodbye before she could say hello. That was particularly cruel.
This was supposed to be her happy ending, damn it. This was the rainbow at the end of her storm. This was her baby. Her miracle.
And this was hope for all of us out there praying for our miracle, proof that dreams do come true, and babies eventually find their way home.
But he’s gone now, and though she’s halfway across the country, I’m hurting right there with her. Losing him at five months and so closely on the heels of my hair salon nightmare only compounds my fear that you – my happy ending, my rainbow, my miracle – you are forever beyond my reach.
I believe in God. But sometimes, I really struggle to find the purpose in His plan.
Mom
My Stork Got Lost 