Dear baby,
I wish all this waiting was over. I wish these last several years hadn’t been so hard on your dad and me. I wish you were here.
I’m having a very hard time staying positive about all of this waiting. So many things have happened since I last wrote to you, and to be honest, I’m feeling pretty defeated at the moment. I haven’t written to you in over a month, but not because you haven’t been on my mind. Actually, it’s exactly the opposite. You’ve been on my mind so much that sitting down and putting the proverbial pen to paper has been too daunting a task, and I can’t focus enough to make any kind of sense.
The last time I wrote you, we had just found your genetic mom. Those words seem so strange to me, but I don’t really know what other way to refer to the woman who gave a piece of herself to our family. But I’m your mom. I’m already your mom. I need you to understand that, baby. You won’t understand the science behind everything until you’re older, but from right now, through the day you’re born and until the very last beat of your heart, I need to you know that I’m your mom, and I love you so, so much. I’ll always be your mom, and I will always love you. Genetics don’t matter.
I’ve fallen madly in love with you, baby. And it’s different than before. You are so very real to me now, not just an idea in my head. A very real, corporeal part of you is right now sitting in a lab just a few miles from here. And I love that piece of you the same as if I were already pregnant with you. The same as if you were already alive and in my arms. And this terrifies me, kiddo. Because I love you so much already, but we still have a long, long way to go, and there are no guarantees we’ll ever find you.
It’s not guaranteed that any of the little ova sitting in cryogenic storage will survive their thaw. It’s not guaranteed that any of those who do will fertilize and hatch and become embryos. And it’s not guaranteed that any of those will transfer well, or implant, or grow into a baby. I know this. But that doesn’t stop me from loving them just the same.
I’m terrified that I’ll lose you again. Right now, I can’t see past losing you, and it’s killing me. Nothing about this process has gone according to plan. Nothing has been easy. Time and time and time again we’ve been close, and we’ve had you pulled away from us. I can’t count the number of chemical pregnancies I’ve had. We retrieved a total of 29 eggs through 2 IVFs with 11 fertilized embryos and we lost them all. I’ve lost you over and over and over again and I can’t handle it anymore. I absolutely cannot lose you again.
I’ve been having dreams. Horrible dreams. The closer we get to a possible transfer the worse the dreams become. I’ve dreamed I’ve miscarried you. I’ve dreamed I was in labor with you, and having contractions and watching your heart beat on the monitor, only to have the contractions stop and the monitor flatline. And just last night I dreamed I was giving you your first bath and you died in my arms.
When will I stop being so scared? When will this end? I am trying so hard to be strong, and to hang on to hope, to have faith, to be patient – all the little well meaning but entirely overused platitudes I’ve been told for over a decade now – I’ve tried it all. I’m tired. I’m living in fear, and it’s exhausting. I’m so scared I’ll never get to see you, or hold you. I’m terrified I’ll lose you again, and it will break me. We’ve never been this close before, and the stakes are so much higher now.
I love you so much, baby. But I’m so scared you’ll never get to feel my love, and that will destroy me.
Love,
a very heartbroken Mom
My Stork Got Lost 