From Depths We Rise Read online

  His love for his son was beyond compare. Our son was a miracle we had prayed for—for five years. Sometimes we would be in the living room watching Milo toddle around, and I would look over at Joel and he would have tears of joy rolling down his face. He would always tell me, “I just love that little guy so, so much.” Our promise to you, Joel, is that your son will know every single day how much his daddy loved him. He will know who you were and will be raised to be every bit of the man that his father was.

  When Joel was in the hospital, he told me he felt like God would one day put him on a stage so that he could tell everyone about how good God was and how if He had healed Joel He could heal them, too. He said, “If they see me hopefully I could just give them hope.” Sweet Joel, God did put you on a stage for the world to see you fight, and fight you did. And we know that your desire for others to see Christ’s hope in your life will not ever go unfulfilled.

  Many people have felt for me as a wife [for] having to go through such a difficult three-year health battle with my husband, but I want to say it was truly the greatest honor of my life. Through our suffering we got to know God in ways that many people never get to experience. We got to see with our own eyes the way He would provide for us and move in miraculous ways. We got to experience three years of a deeply intense bond with God and with each other because there was no one else who could understand more intimately what we were walking through. Life was sweet and each day appreciated so fully because we were never under any assumptions of how long our time together would be. When we said “in sickness and in health,” neither of us could have imagined what that would entail, but I would walk this road a thousand times over again with Joel and with the Lord leading us. My greatest sadness will only be that we didn’t have more time together. No amount of time with the love of my life would have ever been enough.

  I want Joel’s life to not be in vain. I want his story to touch millions and for nations to be changed by the story of this man. Through every trial he never complained. He always told me it would be okay and God would take care of him, and He did. We grieve because we will miss him every day until we see him again, but it is hard to be sad for Joel when we know that he is with the Lord in the most amazing place and with our child that we lost. I know half of our family is there waiting for us and will rejoice with us again one day. That hope carries us. Until then, precious Joel, Milo and I will carry you so deeply in our hearts and honor you with our lives. We will continue to proclaim your story until all will see and truly know “how great is our God.”

  We love you.

  To end the service, our pastor had us all stand and cheer for Joel as loud as we could in order to tell him, “Job well done.” As I heard the cheers echoing, I placed my hand to my heart and whispered to him softly, “This is all for you, JoJo. It’s all for you.”

  After the service we gathered thirty-six balloons in honor of his thirty-sixth birthday, which was three weeks away. Friends and family congregated outside as we stood in a circle to bow our heads in remembrance of the life of the most amazing man.

  All of the nine birthdays we spent together rushed through my head—from the very first one in the awkward beginning stages of dating, to the very last one we celebrated with our newborn baby boy. Life had been so good to bring us together and so cruel to take him away. I shut my eyes and told him I loved him. He would never be forgotten. I knew where he was now—celebrating the best birthday he had ever had. Then I looked up and released the balloon into the Oklahoma sky. I watched as the wind carried all thirty-six of them away.

  Later on that evening I sat around the dinner table with my husband’s four best friends. We had made it through the highly difficult memorial service and were now having a memorial service of our own. This one involved food, stories of my husband, and much-needed laughter. Looking around the table was bittersweet. How wonderful it was to have those who knew my husband the best with me in that moment. How horrible it was to not have him there with us. His absence was heavy.

  I knew this would be my only chance to have them all in one space to ask them the question that had been burning in my heart since the very moment my husband passed away. For even the day he took his last breath on this earth a piece of him was still here, albeit in a not-so-conventional form. Two tiny little embryos left over from our first IVF cycle were in storage mere miles from my home—a piece of my husband and a piece of me. After losing Joel, it was all I could think about. What was I going to do with those embryos? The thought that it was even possible to have another pregnancy after his death was both terrifying and exhilarating. I knew what my heart was telling me, but I needed confirmation. I needed to hear from those who knew him best. I needed to see the looks on their faces as I shared the possibilities. I needed to know where they stood. As difficult a day as it was, I knew it had to happen now. There would be no other opportunity to do it in person.

  The last few years of our marriage had been filled with a battle, a battle for my husband’s life. Now that the fighting was over, I felt like a weary warrior who had fought with all I had, only to lose the war. Yet, beyond the pain of loss there was something on the horizon. Hope from the depths. Hope that though my husband was no longer here, a piece of him had yet to grace this world with its presence, bringing life and joy to what was so cruelly stolen. Hope that the sun would feel as if it were breaking through the clouds again. Hope that what we fought for would never be in vain. Hope that out of the ashes a beauty was rising again. Hope that from the deepest depths was coming a melody, a new song from our lips, a song of triumph.

  “Guys, I have a question I need to ask you.”

  I looked down at the table and fidgeted. Suddenly, I was at a loss for words and unsure how to begin. I stared at my fingernails, then the table, and then the wall. Hesitant.

  The guys were getting impatient with my hesitancy. One of them finally broke the silence and spoke up.

  “Sarah, whatever you have to say, spit it out. Just go ahead and say it.”

  There was no more time to wait. The script I had rehearsed previously in my head had now gone out the window. I had nothing eloquent, just my heart to share.

  I took a deep breath and let it out.

  “Okay,” I started in slowly. “So I have these embryos….” My voice trailed off. They looked at me blankly, clearly not sure what I was getting at.

  “Do you remember how Joel and I got pregnant with Milo using IVF?” I asked.

  “Of course we do,” one of the guys responded.

  “Well, we have two embryos left over. An embryo is the start of a baby, and it is what they would put inside my body for me to possibly get pregnant.”

  I looked around the table at each of them as the realization of what I was telling them started to take root. Confused faces immediately turned to grins.

  One of them spoke up first. “Sarah, you know you have to have this baby, right?”

  Instant relief. No judgment from them whatsoever.

  “Oh my gosh,” spoke up another, slowly shaking his head. “That is incredible. Incredible.”

  “So what are you asking us?” a third asked me.

  “Well, you know, it’s just kind of odd. Joel is gone, yet I still have the ability to have his baby. It’s weird and awesome all at the same time. I don’t know what people will think of me. I didn’t know what you guys would think of me.”

  “Who cares what anyone thinks! You know this is exactly what Joel would want you to do, right?” one of them asked.

  “Of course I do. We talked about it. But talking about it and going through with it are two completely different things,” I answered.

  “Well, don’t worry about us. You have our support one hundred percent. It’s what he would want, it’s what we want for you, and we just pray it works,” he answered.

  I slowly looked around the table at the excited and supportive smiles of the men who knew my husband best. Their support meant the world to me. I didn’t have to decide then, b
ut I would soon. Knowing how they felt made the decision much easier to make. I could arrive at my conclusion later. For now I wanted to relish the moment with these men, laughing until we cried and missing the fifth New Yorker who should’ve been at that very table with us.

  As the weeks passed, the tight circle of support surrounding me started to loosen as people understandably returned to life as normal. The problem was there was no life as normal for me anymore. My entire life as I knew it died when my husband did. I spent a considerable amount of time in a fog and a state of shock and disbelief at what had occurred. My day vacillated between precious moments with Milo that brought a smile to my face to fits of crying and despair. It hurt so badly, and as the days wore on, it got worse, the emptiness leaving me feeling even emptier. In my extreme state of stress and grief, I started to develop hives all over my body and would spend many hours curled up in a ball on the floor trying to keep myself from scratching them, only to break out worse when I did. I looked it up on the Internet to see what on earth was happening.

  Your body has no more tears to cry, it stated, so the hives are another way to release the pain. Not having tears to cry wasn’t a problem for me. They flowed from me in endless streams. The pain, it seemed, would never end.

  One week later it was my birthday. I told my friends and family I didn’t want to celebrate that day, wanting it to be as any other. It was unfathomable to even think about celebrating a year of my life without Joel there.

  Later on that afternoon, I received a phone call from the funeral home telling me my husband’s ashes were ready to be picked up. Of all days, the call came on my birthday. It made an already miserable day even worse.

  I made it through by pretending it was just another day—until that evening. I was putting a document in a seldom-used drawer beside my bed when I saw a stack of old cards and letters Joel gave me I had thankfully saved. I pulled out the stack and grabbed every single birthday card I had from him. I decided this was how I would celebrate my birthday—with my husband. I spread out the cards on my bed and read them one by one. I cried as I saw Joel’s familiar scroll, allowing myself to remember the memories attached to each birthday in particular. I let myself stay in that place long enough until I felt myself teetering too close to the edge where I knew a sobbing fit was imminent. I started to gather each card together and put them back in a pile.

  Before I slipped them into my bedside table, I took one last peek at the last birthday card Joel ever gave me.

  “Love you so much. Can’t wait to spend the next thirty years together. Hope you had a great day; you deserve it. Love you, my best friend.”

  I could barely contain myself at the thought I would never again receive another birthday card from him. I would give everything I possessed for just one more anything from my very best friend.

  Two weeks later was another difficult day, Joel’s birthday. We tried mightily to make the day special, celebrate the day of the one we loved, without him there beside us.

  My idea for his birthday this year involved the outdoors. I headed to the backyard with my son, kneeling in the grass with Milo to keep him from taking off. We were about to head into the house, eat our cupcake, and sing “Happy Birthday” to my husband. Before we did, there was one last thing we had to do. Though I chose for my birthday not to be celebrated that year, Joel’s would be every year. We would honor him every day in our home and in our hearts, but August 14 would always be a day of cake and celebratory stories of the life of a man who left us far sooner than he ever should have. Just like on the day of his funeral, I purchased a small batch of birthday balloons in bright colors and different shapes. I tried to wrap my hand tightly around the balloons while keeping the other arm around my son.

  “Now, Milo, these birthday balloons are for Daddy in heaven. We are going to send them up to him now to tell him happy birthday and that we love him.”

  My son looked at me and smiled, replying back in pure baby gibberish. How thankful I was for this baby boy, the most glorious piece of my husband I still had left on this earth. In that moment, I wasn’t completely healed from my grief—not even close. I still didn’t know what was in store for my son and me. All I knew was that somehow, some way we would move forward and would always tell the story of a man whose legacy was one of love, wholehearted faith, and extreme perseverance. We may have had to say good-bye prematurely, but we knew we would see him again. He would never be forgotten, always loved deeply by those of us who knew his heart and his beautiful soul.

  I looked toward the sky and ever so softly said the words, “It’s all for you, JoJo. All for you. Oh, how I love you.”

  With that I held my son close to my side as we released our birthday balloons into a gorgeous, vast, bright blue Oklahoma sky.

  Summer faded into fall and fall into winter. Months had passed with one of the most important decisions I’d ever have to make hanging over my head. I’d weighed the pros and the cons. I had thought it all through until I was sick of thinking it over anymore; there was no turning back, my decision was made.

  My hand shook as I picked up the phone and dialed the familiar number. A receptionist answered the phone.

  “Hello, fertility clinic,” she said.

  “Yes, this is Sarah Rodriguez. I would like to set up an appointment to do a round of IVF, please.”

  PART II

  THE RISE

  CHAPTER 6

  A Love Story Continues

  I tapped my finger on the steering wheel, waiting impatiently for the light to turn green. I was cutting it close in making it on time to my appointment. This wasn’t just any appointment; this was the appointment.

  Red turned to green not a moment too soon. Two quick right turns and I was now in the all-too-familiar hospital parking garage. My mind started to fill with memories from the last time I was there. It was my six-week checkup after my son was born, my husband still alive. We were reeling from a cancer reoccurrence while also basking in the glow of a brand-new baby boy. It was a trying time but one I would give anything to go back to.

  I put my gear in PARK and hopped out of the car, walking briskly through the double doors. As I walked, my mind was in overdrive. Many months were spent in preparation for this moment. Would I be able to walk this journey alone? Would it work? What if it didn’t work? What if it did?

  With my hand trembling and stomach churning, I scribbled my name on the sign-in sheet. In my mind I was already rehearsing what I was going to tell the doctor. No matter how many times I had gone over my prepared statements, I was wracked with nerves. Besides my friends and family, this was the first person outside of my cocoon to know my plans. I had a small circle of my nearest and dearest who loved me who knew of my decision and supported it fully. I had no idea how anyone else would respond. I felt as if I was letting others into a deeply vulnerable space. The feeling was scary and uncomfortable.

  I looked around the waiting room at all the couples, walking their pregnancy journey together. It felt unreal to be starting this journey alone. Looking at the door to the office, it still was as if Joel could walk right through, his presence instantly calming my fears. It wasn’t to be. This time there would be no partner to walk alongside me. As much as I had prepared myself for the notion, the full weight of it was hitting me hard. I bit my lip and struggled to hold back the tears. Was I insane for what I was about to do? I momentarily considered walking out the door and changing my mind. Before I could make a run for it, the door flew open.

  “Rodriguez, Sarah,” the nurse called out loudly.

  Her familiar voice snapped me out of my thoughts. There was no more time to debate, no more time to rehearse—the time was now.

  They took me back, weighed me, and took my blood pressure. Once they were done, I was led to an exam room, asked a few more questions, and told the doctor would be in soon. I sat on the examination table, waiting in silence. I looked around the room as again, the memories of my last pregnancy with Joel nearly brought the tears to th
e surface. Not one to show every emotion, I hadn’t prepared myself for just how difficult this all would be. Deep breaths in, deep breaths out.

  Finally, there was a brisk knock at the door, and the doctor entered, followed by a nurse. He was wearing a smile, totally unaware of the bomb I was about to drop on him.

  “How have you been?” he asked.

  I paced myself, not wanting to spill my guts within the first ten seconds.

  “I have been well,” I replied.

  “You ready to go for this again?” he asked.

  “As ready as I’ll ever be,” I answered.

  I lay down on the table while he did a physical examination of me, charting and measuring everything he needed for the IVF procedure. Once he was done, he grabbed my hand and helped me to my upright position. The time had come to share my heart.

  “Doctor, I have some news to tell you.” I hesitated then went in with full force. “Not long after my son was born, we received the news my husband’s cancer had returned. He fought it for a full year before he passed away this last summer. I will be going through this IVF process without him.”

  As I spoke, the tears I had been trying so hard to hold back began to run down my face. The look on both their faces was total shock as the nurse silently grabbed tissues and placed them in my hands.

  No one said a word.

  He finally broke the silence. “So you have two embryos left. We are putting them both in, and you are wanting them to work?”

  “Yes,” I responded. “I have thought long and hard about this. I have prayed about it, and I feel like we should put them in and the rest will be in God’s hands.”

  As I spoke, the tears continued to flow. I tried in vain to make them stop. They wouldn’t. The last thing I wanted was for my doctor to think I was an emotional basket case. Truly, I wasn’t. There had been so many emotions leading to this decision. The fact that I was saying my truth out loud had brought a tidal wave of feelings to the surface. Yes, many of them were sad, but the majority of them were excited anticipation for what was to come. Stepping off the ledge was the hardest part, and step off I did.