“I wanted you more than you will ever know. So I sent love to follow you wherever you go.”
We have a book in our library repertoire called Wherever You Are, My Love Will Find You by Nancy Tillman. Every time I read it to Olivia I burst into tears. So needless to say, I don’t read it too often.
EDIT: I apologize for the formatting in this post. Please see here. Carry on.
One year ago today. March 25th 2015. We transferred two beautiful embryos. We named them Seaweed and Kelp because we vacationed on the the Gulf in a Galveston beach house with my dearest friend and cheerleader, Celina.
I don’t even have pictures of that day in the clinic. All our other transfers we took pictures on the stretcher right before I had the procedure. I think we were just too terrified to jinx anything. I don’t even have pictures of me on bed rest.
I do remember crying in the holding area, in my hospital gown and surgical hat, when Dr. G. told us we had two beautiful embryos. I remember watching on the monitor the moment Olivia and her brother were placed into my body. I remember trying to remain cautiously optimistic that maybe this time, the last time, will be different. I remember trying to get the hang of the Lovenox shots and letting Chris give me my PIO shots in the beach house bathroom.
And now, she’s here. She’s 4 months and loves to holler and yell when I’m not entertaining her. No matter where I am in the room, she’s seeking me out so she can stare at me. (Or scream at me, depending on the day)
In 4 days, Olivia and I are heading back to Texas to stay with Celina. It all comes back full circle, doesn’t it?
In some ways, I’m shocked that transfer worked and I have her. In others, I feel nothing but relief. That I have her. Because my life wouldn’t have been ok if it failed. I don’t know where I would be now. They are thoughts I don’t like to think about.
I hold her a bit longer than I need to in the dead of night, burying my face into her neck and breathing her in. I feel her little body in my arms and run my chin along the top of her head, feeling the brush of her soft hair. Sometimes I just can’t believe she’s here. That all those years of tears and anger and diminishing hope brought me to her.
Had I done one thing differently, had we decided not to go to Texas, had we stopped treatments after the first failed donor cycle, had I not had a doctor who was willing to go the extra mile… I wouldn’t have her now. Maybe I would have ended up with a baby. But it wouldn’t have been her. It wouldn’t have been my Olivia.
This journey was exhausting. I pushed my body, my mind, my heart further than I thought I could endure. We have next to nothing in our savings. But now she’s here. I saw her as a microscopic embryo and she grew into a baby with long fingers, a button nose and a smile that stops my heart.
Olivia, what a ride this year has been. Happy Transferversary little girl.