From Depths We Rise Page 2

  Um…huh?

  I was confused. I stood there for a moment formulating my response when he smiled at me—that cute, crooked, like-he-was-up-to-no-good smile. In that moment I knew I was about to dive headfirst into a relationship that would forever change my life.

  I said yes to the movie night and yes to spending many more days getting to know him. Before I knew it, I had fallen in love.

  On October 16, 2004, seven months after our first meeting, Joel proposed and I accepted. We were married in Oklahoma on July 2, 2005, in front of a group of friends and family. The location was a beautiful chapel in the woods, with soaring ceilings and glass windows everywhere.

  Our wedding day was magical in every way possible. I remember the poignant moments of pledging our love forever, our first kiss as man and wife where he cupped my face gently in his hands, and the joy written on both of our faces. I also remember the lighthearted moment, during our first dance, when Joel told me he was so nervous he had been downing Tums all morning long.

  After our wedding we headed back to New York and to our tiny little apartment in the Bronx. Less than a year into our marriage, we were longing for a change, and more space. New York City is an incredible city to live in but an extremely hard one at that the same time. Everything was terribly expensive. Starting a family was on our mind, and we knew if we stayed we would be raising our children in a tiny apartment, lugging strollers up and down subway steps. We wanted more for ourselves than that. A move south would make it possible. Though Oklahoma certainly lacked the excitement and entertainment New York did, it gave us what we wanted in return: great jobs, a brand-new house, and stability.

  We settled in easily and thrived in making our house a home. Decorating and Pier One runs became our favorite activity. We quickly made new friends and loved having them over, while our very own pampered chef, Joel, cooked us fabulous meals. Hanging out in coffee shops was a favorite pastime, especially ones that also served cupcakes. Many a Friday evening was spent cheering on Oklahoma’s newly acquired NBA team and walking around downtown. Oklahoma certainly greeted us with open arms. Life couldn’t get much more perfect than it already was.

  “So, what do you think about going ahead and trying to get pregnant?” I said to my husband in the car while driving home from a quick grocery run.

  Admittedly, it was an odd time to broach such a subject, but it wasn’t completely random. A journey to the back of the store to pick up an item had taken us right by the baby section. That meant we had to stroll by the land of all things teeny tiny and adorable. It wasn’t as if babies weren’t on our radar. It was the very reason we had moved to Oklahoma. What was holding us back was the timing.

  Despite all their attempts to prevent a pregnancy, my parents had gotten pregnant with me their first month of marriage. Joel and I had a pregnancy “scare” the first month of our marriage as well. I remember the relief I felt at the negative sign on the pregnancy test. The thought of being pregnant at that time was terrifying for me. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to be a mom. I wanted it more than anything. It was just about finding the right moment. And at that point I didn’t feel ready. I assumed getting pregnant would come easily for me. It had for my mom; why would I be any different?

  That incident was a year prior. Now I was feeling more than ready. We had gotten through the adjustment first year of marriage, had relocated to a new state, and had a brand-new home and stable jobs and income. I felt there was no better time than now.

  “Are you sure, babe?” my husband asked. “I mean, do you feel ready for all that comes along with a baby? Especially no sleep. I know how you like your sleep.” He laughed.

  “I feel ready,” I said in return. “There’s no better time than now. I know we’ve always imagined it would happen quickly, but what if it doesn’t? I’m almost twenty-five, you’re almost twenty-nine—at a certain point the clock starts to tick,” I stated, tapping my wristwatch for dramatic effect.

  “You know I’ve been ready for a while. If you are ready, I say we go for it. But trust me, I think it will happen quickly.”

  Boy, how I wish he had been right.

  At the very beginning, it’s not that you are trying to get pregnant; you are just not preventing. This is the fun part. Your life is ripe with the possibility of what’s to come. Each month could be a life-changing one, and you wait in eager anticipation for when that moment will come.

  The beginning was exciting. We just knew we would be pregnant within the first few months. After six months, and many failed pregnancy tests, I began to wonder: Why is this taking so long? After nine months, an even heavier thought: What if something is wrong with me?

  A visit to my OB showed I had a condition called polycystic ovary syndrome. While it’s not anything that will prevent you from getting pregnant, it can complicate things. For me it meant an erratic monthly cycle that was hard to predict. Her recommendation was a round of fertility drugs she was fairly certain would do the trick.

  One month on the drugs: nothing.

  Two months on the drugs: nothing.

  These drugs tend to lose their most potent effectiveness after three months. We were about to hit that mark and were perplexed at the lack of results. When my doctor recommended a surgery to go in and manually cut off the cysts from my ovaries, we jumped at the thought. The surgery would be followed by one last month of fertility drugs. Surely this was the answer, and we would finally get pregnant.

  The surgery was much more invasive than I thought and required a three-day hospital stay. Joel was there with me every step of the way, sleeping on the hospital couch and helping me out of bed. It was painful, but I didn’t mind taking one for the team. Joel had been tested, and nothing was wrong with his ability to produce a baby. Really, nothing was badly wrong with me. There was nothing they could see that would totally prevent us from having a child, so I believed we would have one. After the surgery I was more hopeful than ever.

  Three months on the drugs, and after the surgery: nothing.

  Our OB said there was no more she could do on her end and at that point recommended a fertility specialist. I wanted answers. I didn’t understand why, if there were no major issues, a pregnancy wasn’t happening for us. Our diagnosis of “unexplained infertility” didn’t sound like a diagnosis at all. It sounded like a mockery. It was a diagnosis that said something must be happening, but we don’t know exactly what.

  We knew a visit to a fertility specialist would mean much more invasive measures. We were already tired physically and worn out emotionally from the last year and a half of trying. The decision was made to take a breather, some time off.

  Even though we were not, at that point, using any medical measures to try to move things along, it was heartbreaking each month when we still weren’t pregnant. I had a large stash of pregnancy tests I kept under the counter. At the slightest hint of a pregnancy symptom, I would run into the bathroom and take a test. Negative, negative, negative, every time. With each negative test, my heart started to lose hope it would ever happen for us.

  Then there was a glimmer of hope. We were three long years into the process when I started to develop some very strong symptoms indicating I might be pregnant. Not only that, my cycle was two weeks late. I had held off on taking a pregnancy test because I was scared—scared of another negative result and the rejection that came along with it. Finally, fifteen days after my cycle should have begun, I couldn’t wait any longer. Without any fanfare, I made my way to the bathroom and pulled out another trusty pregnancy test. I took a deep breath and said a prayer.

  “Please, God, let me be pregnant. I don’t even care as much for myself anymore, but I want this so badly for Joel. He will make the best daddy. He wants it so badly. We have waited long enough. Please let today be the day,” I whispered.

  With that I took a deep breath and did the test. I put it on the counter away from my line of sight, sat on the floor, and waited the required three minutes.

  When the moment fi
nally arrived, I stood up slowly and walked over to the test.

  Negative.

  I had seen many negative pregnancy tests in my day, so this one shouldn’t have come as a shock. But there was something about this month; it had felt like it was finally our time. It was not to be. I was so frustrated. I didn’t understand why this wasn’t happening for us. Sixteen-year-old girls were accidentally getting pregnant and having babies all the time. My friends were getting pregnant without even trying. People were always asking us the question “When are you two going to have a baby?” If only they knew the years and years we had been trying to no avail. It was all too much. In that moment I sank to the ground, curled into a little ball, and started to sob.

  My husband ran into the bathroom to see what was wrong. He glanced at me on the ground and saw the pregnancy test on the counter, quickly putting two and two together. I was sobbing uncontrollably. He knelt down on the floor and wrapped his arms around me.

  “Baby, it’s okay. Don’t cry.”

  “I can’t take it anymore. I just want to have a baby. Is that too much to ask? It happens for people all the time, but not me. It’s all my fault. We’re not pregnant because of my stupid body not working. I just want you to be a dad. I’m so sorry you’re not a dad! It’s all because of me.”

  He looked at me in shock for the thoughts I was thinking and the desperation I was feeling. They were words I had never voiced but that weighed heavily on my mind.

  “It is not your fault at all. How can you say that?” he said.

  “Because it is! If my body would just work right!” I yelled.

  “None of this is your fault. I know you want this more than anything. I want this more than anything. Trust me, it will happen.”

  “How can you be so sure?” I replied.

  “I’ve just always believed it will happen for us, babe. I don’t know how, and I don’t know when; I just know it will happen.”

  I wished I shared his optimism. The truth was, with each passing month I became less and less convinced. I also felt more and more like a failure. I was a woman; this was what my body was created to do, and I was failing at it miserably. I had had surgeries, taken drugs, been poked and prodded to no end, and was still no further along than I had been. I wanted to give my husband a child, make my parents grandparents. Everyone had been so hopeful and excited. It felt like I was responsible for continually dashing everyone’s hopes and dreams. The amount of guilt I was feeling for it all was nearly crushing me.

  I lay on that bathroom floor for quite a while. The sobs eventually stopped and turned into silent, warm tears dripping down my cheeks. My husband stayed by my side the entire time, handing me tissues and wiping the tears from my face. As I finished, he slowly pulled me to my feet and enveloped me in a huge hug. As I pulled away, he cupped my face in his hands.

  “One day, you are going to be the best mom there ever was.”

  An entire year had passed since that moment. I was now about to turn twenty-nine years old, my husband, thirty-three. We were a long time removed from that grocery store run conversation, nearly four years prior. We had never stopped trying to conceive but were still coming up empty-handed. The months once filled with anticipation for what could be were now filled with predictable dread for what I knew was to come—another month of no results. I was to the point where I was numb. I never expected it, so I didn’t cry about it. The basket under my sink, once overflowing with pregnancy tests, now held a single expired test that hadn’t been used in nearly a year. My heart feared I would never be able to have a child.

  Since we were now many years in, with no results, we decided the time was quickly arriving that we were willing to undergo more invasive measures to get pregnant, namely, in vitro fertilization. I had done lots of studying on this procedure and knew it would be no walk in the park. Strong drugs and painful shots would be a part of my life for weeks on end. We both knew we were ready to handle it mentally but decided there were a few things we wanted to do first.

  Our five-year anniversary was fast approaching, and we were dying to take a trip together. Joel, being Puerto Rican, had spent many summers there visiting family and exploring the island. He had always wanted to take me there in person, and I was game to go. We decided our fifth anniversary would be the perfect time. There was one other thing we wanted to do as well. Somehow we both got a wild hair and decided this would be a good time to try to run a half marathon. Were we runners? No. Did I enjoy running? Not in the least. A half marathon seemed like nothing that would ever be on my radar. Thirteen-point-one miles? I was currently running zero miles. Still, Joel was willing to try, and it seemed like a fun way to spend time together and also get in maximum shape before I was set to start IVF.

  Our training for the half marathon was no easy feat. It required a strong time commitment and an even stronger energy commitment. We trained for four months straight, nearly every day. A few weeks before the race, I developed a hairline fracture in my hip that should’ve kept me from running at all. Me, being the stubborn gal I am, would not let that deter me. I had trained for this race for four long months, and darn it, I would complete it, bum hip and all.

  Complete it I did. It wasn’t pretty, and it wasn’t terribly fast, but I conquered the race. Joel did as well, finishing about fifteen minutes ahead of me. There was incredible satisfaction in crossing the finish line. The half marathon had been a welcome distraction from all things baby. Now the race was over, and it was time to relax.

  We were set to leave for Puerto Rico in six weeks; upon our return we would begin the IVF process. We were in the best shape of our lives physically and in an excellent spot emotionally, feeling refreshed, vibrant, and ready to dive back in to fertility treatments. Life was hopeful, even joyous again at what was to come. Then, in an instant, it all came crashing down.

  “Babe, something weird just happened,” Joel said to me as he walked into our bedroom.

  I was lying in bed watching TV. Exhausted from a full day of work, this was one of my few moments to unwind before I went to bed.

  “What?” I asked, barely turning my attention away from the television show I was watching.

  “I just went to the bathroom, and there was blood in my urine,” he said.

  I looked away from the TV. Seeing the anxiety in his face, I immediately went into downplay mode.

  “Don’t worry about it, honey. It’s probably just a bladder infection or something.”

  “Yeah, you’re probably right,” he conceded.

  My husband is more of a “go to a doctor and get a prescription” kind of person. I am more of a “take extra vitamin C and a nap and feel better in the morning” type of person. Our first response was just to wait it out and see if it got any better. It didn’t. In fact, a few days later the blood returned, only now there was so much of it. It turned the entire toilet bowl a bright shade of red. We both decided it was time to get this checked out with our family doctor.

  Joel went to his appointment, calling me as soon as he got out. He said they had mentioned getting a CT scan but changed their mind to just a round of antibiotics. They assumed it was either a bladder infection or kidney stones. If it was a bladder infection, it would clear up with the antibiotics. If not, then Joel would have to undergo a CT scan, which would more than likely reveal the presence of kidney stones. I was immediately relieved. A bladder infection was no big deal. I had dealt with kidney stones before myself, and while extremely painful, they were something that we could deal with.

  My relief was short lived.

  “Something’s wrong.” Joel came into the living room and said a week later.

  This time I looked at his face—sheer panic. He was almost on the verge of tears.

  After he had taken the antibiotics for an entire week, the blood had seemed to go away. We thought everything was fine.

  “What’s going on?” I asked him.

  “I just peed, and a blood clot came out.”

  “What?” This i
s strange, I thought. “Can you show me?”

  He walked me over to our bathroom and pointed. There, sitting in the toilet, about the size of a large dried plum, was a blood clot. The entire toilet was stained bright red.

  I looked at his face. The fear was evident. Now I needed to talk him down, tell him everything was going to be okay. Only I wasn’t so sure it was. I was scared myself.

  “Call the doctor first thing Monday morning. I am sure it’s just kidney stones. It is going to be okay.”

  “All right,” was his quiet reply.

  That night I did something I shouldn’t have. I went online and typed in “blood in urine.” It gave a huge number of responses to what it could be, from the small to the large. It mentioned kidney stones, but to my horror, it mentioned another possibility. Cancer. I briskly shut down my computer, brushing away the thought. I am sure everything is fine, I kept telling myself. Everything had to be fine. The truth was, I wasn’t so sure.

  Joel went back to the doctor, who immediately ordered a CT scan for the next day. I went with him. As soon as he was finished, a nurse came out and told him they wanted him to do another scan, this time with contrast. I thought it was a little odd but didn’t dwell on it. Truth is, we were more concerned about our car possibly being pummeled by a rapidly approaching hailstorm. They quickly finished up the additional scan and gave us an appointment time to meet with our doctor the next morning for results. Finally finished, we ran to our car and raced home, just beating the large storm. We were in the thick of tornado season, and tornadoes were nothing out of the ordinary for our state. The weather that evening turned chaotic, and we spent much of that evening in our closet, with tornadoes roaring by only a few miles up the road.

  That next morning we left work early to visit with the urologist for the results of the scan. On the thirty-minute drive to the doctor’s office, we were both abnormally quiet, lost in thought. I remember looking up at the bright blue sky and thinking how beautiful the weather was that day. How crazy it was that one night you could be taking cover from a tornado and the next morning admiring creation in the form of a gorgeous blue sky. Life can drastically change from one moment to the next. If there was anything I knew from the previous battles I had faced, it was the ups and downs that life contains. Disappointments had taught me that joy could be interrupted by sorrow, yet sorrow can be snuffed out by joy.