Yesterday marked one year since Ivy and her tiny sibling-blasocyst were transferred from their deep-freeze tank, their home for the preceding five years, into my uterus. We said goodbye to two others that afternoon, who didn't survive the thaw. Five years earlier we'd said goodbye to four of them, and all our hopes were riding on these last two tiny possibilities.
I don't have tons of time to reminisce these days, but the weather reminds me. Dark and chilly in the mornings, like the mornings we got up at 4 to drive up to Portland for blood tests. Sunny and warm-but-not-hot, like the days I spent looking for signs from the universe or pregnancy symptoms on Google, like the lunchtimes we spent in the car at the park so we didn't have to see anyone while we waited for phone calls. Trees starting to turn color, like the ones outside the window of our tiny prep-and-recovery room, that I watched as I walked back and forth, waiting for my bladder to fill.
Those days and weeks feel like yesterday and also like ancient history. Sometimes my body suddenly relives the intense nervousness of waiting all day for The Call, the surge of adrenaline of being wheeled into the transfer room. I would have given anything to know, a year ago yesterday, where I'd end up in a year. Now that I do... it still catches me off guard, how incredible it feels.