To have and to hold

I was a mother once. Briefly. Or, at least I carried life within my womb.

And I lost our first baby, so we tried again. And I lost that one, too.

This year brought with it the unsurprising circumstance of my genetic disorder - a rearrangement of cells and chromosomes that disallow the ease of starting a family. Or, at least the odds are less favorable. I prayed for good news when they drew blood for testing back in February, but it is as though I have expected this news my entire life. My heart did not even drop when the counselor told me I was a carrier.

But even so, in December I forged ahead and convinced Matthew that announcing the news to our families before 13 weeks was okay. And when the miscarriage happened, he convinced me to let him tell family and friends. By then I was complacent anyway. We hardly told anyone the second time around.

I have cried both aloud and silently as I try to ride the waves of nausea and guilt. I have hugged my body and heaved, either standing or maybe sitting in the shower with the hope the water could clear away this new reality of knowing more miscarriages are likely to come. How long do you wait to celebrate life while anticipating death?

I've stood at the grave of my hopes.

And I have also emerged from under the clouds. We have tried again. And then again, with no luck. I've spoken the words aloud to friends and heard the story from my own mouth. I have filled my arms at night with our dog. And then the second one we adopted in early Summer. And our beautiful nephew who came in May. And next, another child who I will love dearly. Life moves forward.

By now I have come to expect that life will give us these turns that force an adaptation of our expectations. I suppose I must remember we all experience these things and my hurt is not so unique. This is perhaps the definition of strength; to love the potential fruit of something so much that you look its hinderance in the eye and demand yourself to try, try again.