Friday, December 4, 2015

At Least for Now

Infertility sometimes feels (at its most basic and shallow, leaving out so much of the truth) like the longest line for the best ride. You stand in the scorching sun and the freezing rain, thinking you've come to the end but then there's a switchback, thinking the doorway you're passing through means the loading zone but surprise, there's awhile other section you couldn't see before; and now you can see the people on the ride going up the first big hill, and you can hear screams of delight from those further along, and you don't know if the sounds are just echoing off the walls or if you're really almost there.

And then, if you're lucky enough to make it to the end of the never-ending line, you are whisked off on the ride so fast that you start thinking wait, I wanted to enjoy the view from the top of the first hill; wait, couldn't that loop have been taller; wait, couldn't that tunnel have been longer. But you're at the mercy of Time, sitting in that little booth with all the buttons, and he's just a carny going through the motions, thinking about his next smoke break.

Last night I laid in bed while Ivy nursed to sleep and I stroked her head, feeling the same skin I felt as she was being born, though that night it was velvety and wet and I was blind with pain and not-having-met-her-yet and last night her hair was just a bit longer and her head felt so much bigger and I could see everything because of the Christmas lights in the window and because she is mine and we share the same soul, at least for now.

I spent last night a little teary, thinking about how fast we went from those long hours in the NICU and those long hours napping and nursing through maternity leave to almost CHRISTMAS. I remember looking up at the board that the neonatal nurses updated every day, looking at Ivy's updated age and weight, thinking "wow, she's a whole day old! Wow, she's a whole WEEK old!" and now here we are almost six months. It's going too fast, the days are slipping through my fingers. But I realized time can stand still in those dark nights when we lie in bed together, drowsy and getting heavy, no place to go, no deeds to do, no promises to keep. No screens, no clocks, no distractions, just the two of us, sharing the same soul, at least for now.


  1. This is such a raw and honest post. I must say that you are very strong.
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  2. It's amazing how fast they grow. I was looking back through pictures of the Beats as infants and marveling at how tiny they both were when they were first born. I struggle to imagine the feeding tubes in their noses now when I see them or imagine them being so fragile as I'm trying to get them not to wrestle too aggressively with each other or Grey (they tackled their father last night and I'm having to more regularly rescue him). In some ways, I wish we could hit a pause button and savor where we are, even now. Because it all seems to be going by so quickly.

  3. A really beautiful post, about pausing to take in the moments of joy. A worthy post of the year.