We arrived at Dr. S's office 10 minutes before our appointment time and took our seats. . . the waiting room was crowded, so we sat in the exact same chairs as we had over three years ago on December 8, 2006. That was the horrible, awful day that we had found out we had lost our precious Gummy Bear, at 11 weeks, 2 days. It was just today that I realized that that it was the same appointment time, too.
We were led back to the exact same exam room (this is a large practice, so there are many rooms to choose from). It was my favorite nurse who roomed us, but she was also there that day, too.
Dr. S came in, jovial as usual. I could barely concentrate on the questions he asked. I had weighed in lost more weight, so he wanted to write me a new prescription for anti-nausea medication. We talked about other things, but I was only half listening, the rest of me caught in the past, to the almost exact same conversation we'd had about my nausea and what to take for it.
He suddenly stood up and said, "Well, we've put it off as long as I think we should. Let's get the u/s machine."
I lost it, then. I was crying by the time they rolled in the machine. K stood by my side, holding my hand, watching the screen with as much concern and interest as M and me.
"Are you seeing what I'm seeing?" Dr. S asked.
"I'm seeing a heartbeat," I said as the breath of air I'd been holding in whooshed out of me.
"Yes. And the baby is measuring. . . 10 weeks, 5 days." Which is only three days off my original dates and perfectly in line for a healthy pregnancy. As he put it, "Perfect."
That day, so long ago, I remember thinking of the way it should have been, the alternate universe where we left smiling and holding pictures of our baby. Today, I got to live that reality. I kept crying, but my tears were those of joy.
K patted my hand and said, "I am so happy for you guys."
Dr. S jiggled my tummy and our baby rolled over, waved his or her little arms, kicked, and swam. My tears made the image blurry, but I could still see it.
The rest of the appointment went as expected, and we left, clutching our pictures. I was still crying (what a goof!), but these tears, well. . .
There was a day, not so very long ago, that I feared I would never be a mother. Then, we were blessed with Will. And to be given this miracle again. . . I am humbled, I am in awe, I am not sure how I am worthy. I know so many are still waiting, I know that there is not a lot of fairness in this double blessing.
It's been almost three hours and I am still crying. I cried through our nice dinner out. I cried as we picked Will up from my girlfriend's, and I have been crying as I type this. These are tears of happiness, of relief, of gratitude, and of sadness for those that are still "left behind."
Today, I got to live the other side of infertility, the dream. I wish for each of you the very same blessing with all of my heart.