From Depths We Rise Page 9

  I could tell the doctor was feeling a little perplexed at the entire conversation, but he recovered well.

  “Okay. We will do our best,” he said.

  With that, he left the room. Only the nurse and I remained. She unexpectedly rushed over to give me a huge hug.

  “I am sorry for crying,” I told her. “I’m okay, really I am. I just had a bit of a moment, but I promise, I will be fine.”

  She nodded and gave me one more tissue before leaving the room.

  Alone, I breathed a sigh of relief. One of the hardest parts was over. I put on my clothes and exited the room, telling the nurses I would see them again soon. The next thirty days of the process would involve the doctor and the fertility clinic personnel. Only if I conceived would I return to the OB office.

  Next, I headed over to the second part of my appointment—this one at the fertility clinic itself. There I sat in another, smaller lobby, filled with more couples. I was the only person in the room alone. It is a sensitive place to be, each person knowing the reason why you are there. The discomfort in the room is evident, especially with the husbands.

  My name was called, and I headed back. They took my blood and additional information to begin. After that I was ushered to a small room to go over my medication for the following month. I looked at the printout schedule they gave me in order to keep the dizzying amount of medications straight. The nurse walked me through how to do the injections that would be a part of my life for the next month and additional three months, should I conceive. It wasn’t as scary as the first time we did IVF. I knew what I was in for. Still, the sheer amount of work and scheduling involved was a bit overwhelming.

  “Now that we’re done going over your schedule, do you have any additional questions?” the nurse asked.

  “No.” I shook my head. “I don’t think I do.”

  “Okay,” she said. “It looks like I have all of your paperwork completed. I just need you to take this last page home, get your husband’s signature, and return it to us.”

  I paused, not knowing quite what to say, and ended up blurting out the first thing that came to mind.

  “Actually, my husband is deceased. I will be doing this cycle alone.”

  “Um, okay,” she said, clearly startled. The room was deafeningly silent for a moment. “I am going to go check on something, and I will be right back.”

  She left swiftly, leaving me alone in the room, the awkwardness of the moment still lingering in the air.

  A few minutes later, she returned, only this time she was not alone. A veteran nurse I knew from our last go-around accompanied her.

  “Hi, Sarah,” she said tentatively. “How are you?”

  “Hello, good to see you,” was my reply.

  “So, the nurse told me about your husband. I am sorry to hear that,” she started in.

  “Thank you,” I said softly, not sure what other words to ever use when I was given condolences.

  “When you and your husband filled out your initial paperwork, do you know what box you happened to check on what would happen to the embryos if you were to divorce?”

  “No,” I answered, confused at the question.

  “Well, the thing is, we have never had a situation like this before,” she finished.

  “Okay…,” I responded, still unsure as to where she was headed.

  “We don’t have a box that states what exactly should be done in a situation like this. We want to make sure we are handling it the right way, but it’s a situation our lawyers may need to be involved in. The divorce box is as close as we can come to an answer as to your husband’s wishes for the embryos if he is not in the picture.”

  I was momentarily stunned and then quickly infuriated at the implication. I might have a battle on my hands over my own flesh and blood? I racked my brain, trying to remember the conversation Joel and I had about the potential embryos. I remembered telling him it would be silly if we divorced for him to have the embryos. It was not like he could use them himself, and it’s not as if a fictional wife number two would want to implant the ex-wife’s embryos in her body. While we both laughed at the imagined scenarios we were asked to comb through, it was important issues we were considering. Although I remembered the weightiness of it, I did not remember the conclusion we arrived at.

  “Well, I will tell you one thing,” I said in a calm voice that belied how I was feeling inside. “If you, or some lawyer tries to tell me what to do with my own biological embryo, you are going to have one heck of a battle on your hands.”

  Instantly, I think, she could tell how insulting her words had been. She immediately backtracked.

  “I’m not sure it will even come to that. If the doctor is fine with proceeding, and you checked the box saying the embryos would be yours, there shouldn’t be a problem.”

  She was trying to make it better, but she had shown her hand. They were hesitant in my proceeding with the process. It had taken all the strength I had within me to walk through those doors and confidently tell them of my decision. I knew in my heart what I felt like I was to do, and I would go through with it despite what others thought of me. Now, here I was, being told I might have to fight for the ability to go through with what I had fought to be brave enough to endure.

  There was nothing left to say. I was told they would have to pull our old records out of storage and I would receive a phone call in a few days.

  Forty-eight hours later, my phone rang with a call from the clinic nurse. I felt breathless with anticipation as I answered with a frantic “Hello.”

  “Hi, Sarah, it’s the nurse at the fertility clinic,” she said cheerfully.

  I held my breath, afraid of what would come next.

  “I wanted to let you know we pulled your old records, and you both did mark the box saying the embryos would be in your possession. So, everything should be good to go for you to start on your IVF.”

  I exhaled deeply. The relief was instant. Nothing was standing in the way. I was really going to do this.

  A huge smile lit up my face as I thanked her. She asked me to come by the office the next day to sign off on a form and we would be good to go. I hung up the phone and turned to look at my one-and-a-half-year-old son, who gave me one of his big, toothy grins. I wrapped him in my arms and gave him kisses all over his face, while the sound of his loud giggles filled the air.

  Oh, how I hope this boy gets to be a big brother, I thought.

  The next day I was back at the fertility clinic to sign off on the final form I needed to proceed. The nurse pulled out my chart and began to flip through it. She landed on a page and showed me the old signatures she had referenced. There I saw my husband’s large and loopy signature above mine. Seeing it in person brought back another wave of emotions as I tried mightily to swallow them down. She continued on to the back of the chart.

  “I am going to need you to sign, riiiiiiiiiiight here,” she said, directing me to the wife line while the husband line stood empty above.

  I quickly signed my name on the line, just wanting to be done.

  “I want you to know, we all think you are very brave,” she told me earnestly.

  Stunned, I didn’t know quite what to say. She was one of the first oppositions I had encountered in my decision. Now, her opinion had softened.

  “Thank you,” I said. “That means a lot to me.” I meant it. It did.

  “I hope you get the results you are wanting,” she said.

  “As do I,” I responded.

  There was nothing more to say. The results were in God’s hands. I was so thankful they were out of mine.

  The next thirty days were a normal cycle of IVF. I would take fertility drugs and shots daily. At a certain point, I went in every other day for ultrasounds and blood work, to see how everything was progressing. The nurses liked what they saw. Everything was rolling along as it should. The way things were lining up, I would have the embryos implanted a few days after Valentine’s Day.

  This was my fi
rst Valentine’s Day without Joel. While it was never a largely important holiday to us, it still stung not having him there to celebrate. My girlfriends rallied around me, several sending flowers and chocolates and taking me out to dinner.

  The day after, Milo and I went to breakfast with my friend Liz, who would accompany me to the implantation. As we were seated at our table she started in excitedly.

  “Sooooooo, are you ready for this week?” she asked.

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

  “Are you nervous?” she asked.

  “I’m not nervous about the actual procedure because I know what to expect. I am nervous about the results. It’s been such a work up to get to this point, what if nothing happens?” I asked.

  I explained to her the odds of normal IVF success, which were a little below 50 percent. The doctor had sought to quell my expectations by reminding me that IVF with frozen embryos had much lower odds, more around the 30 percent mark. I knew there was a small chance the embryos could not survive the unthawing process. I also knew I had a miscarriage with Milo’s twin. That was always at the back of my mind and another risk to contend with. As much as I felt a purpose for this child, there were still many fears to face.

  “I don’t know,” she said. “I get what you’re saying, but I just think it will happen. It just all seems meant to be, you know?”

  “I hope so. I really do. It seems hard to even imagine being pregnant and doing this on my own,” I admitted.

  “Well, you’re not ever alone. I’m here, your friends are here, and your family is here. Don’t ever feel alone,” she said sincerely.

  I knew what she meant. As thankful as I was for her encouragement, I also knew the end result, good or bad, would be one that would have emotional ramifications all my own.

  “You’re so sweet, girl,” I told her.

  “I’m just so excited to be with you. I know you would rather it be Joel, but I’m honored it gets to be me. I just still can’t believe it. Your life is kind of crazy,” she said.

  “Crazy doesn’t even begin to describe my life most days,” I said with a hearty laugh.

  We finished up our breakfast and headed out the door with a week of unknown expectation waiting to greet us.

  I woke up four days later, quickly hopping out of bed and heading to the shower. Implantation day had finally arrived. Liz and my mom would arrive in an hour to take me to the hospital. My thoughts had raced all night long as nerves kept me awake. I stood in front of the hot water, willing it to wake me up and calm my worries. I couldn’t believe the day had finally arrived. All the tears, the prayers, the fears, the wonder, had all brought me to this moment in time. I didn’t know what was ahead, but I knew I had done all I could do. The outcome was up to the Lord.

  I finished my shower and dressed in comfy clothes. I pulled my hair in a messy bun and threw a protein bar in my bag for a snack on the go. Forty-eight hours of bed rest was to follow, so I made sure my sheets were fresh and I had a pile of reading material stacked high. I tidied up my room and house, knowing it would be the last time I would be able to do so for a few days.

  Just then, my doorbell rang, signaling the arrival of one superexcited Mom and an equally excited Liz.

  Liz handed me cards from several of my girlfriends, one to open each hour. Each card was filled with encouragement, scripture, and reassurance of prayers. I smiled as I opened the first one and tried to hold back the tears. Milo came running around the corner, and I enveloped him in a huge good-bye hug.

  We stopped for a quick lunch on the way to the clinic so I would have a full belly during the implantation. Though I largely stayed quiet, nervous energy abounded as we talked over food. It was incredible the amount of thoughts that were racing through my head.

  Today was the day. Today, though my husband had died, a living piece of him was going to be placed inside my body. It was almost beyond comprehension. I wondered what was in store for my life if this were to work. I wondered what was in store for my life if it didn’t. It felt as if I was standing at a fork in the road and today would be the start of one direction or the other. No matter what was to happen, I was relieved we would soon reach a long-awaited conclusion.

  We arrived early and made our way to the stairs to the second floor. By this time the entire staff knew of my story and seemed even more excited than we were. They took us back to the preop room and put me in the very same bed I was the first time. I looked at the chair in the corner, where my husband once sat. Closing my eyes, I pictured him in his scrubs, a huge grin on his face, while waiting to enter the procedure with me. Looking at the chair, now empty, brought a tinge of sadness to my heart.

  They listed the familiar instructions: going to the restroom one last time, and undressing from the waist down, wrapping a blanket around my body. The nurse handed my mom her scrubs since she would be taking Joel’s place today. Once we were all changed and ready to go, we sat on the bed waiting for them to come.

  An embryologist came in the room to confirm my name and the fact that I had two embryos left and would be implanting them both. I had chosen to do two, just as I had my first IVF round, to increase the chances it would work. My doctor always said, “We implant two with the hope for one.” While I could never only root for one embryo to work, I was fine with one or both taking. The woman had me sign off on the procedure one last time.

  “I just wanted to let you know that your embryos look really, really good. They are still the same grade and look exactly as they did when we first froze them. That is unusual. Typically they change and degrade a bit upon freezing,” she stated.

  “So that’s a good thing?” I asked.

  “Oh yes. That’s a very good thing,” she said with a smile.

  As soon as she spoke the words, instant calm washed over me. I remembered the talk Joel and I had while he was in rehab. He had told me we would have another child. He was emphatic about it. That was one of the driving forces leading me to my decision. This was the first part of the day, and we were off to a positive start already. I knew the Lord was with me, but in that moment it felt as if Joel was, too.

  The time came for them to take me back for the implantation. I read the very last card my friends had given me, once again touched by their thoughtfulness. Liz gave me a huge hug and a thumbs-up sign. I held the blanket tightly around my waist as my scrub-clad mother and I made our way back to the room.

  It was just as I remembered, sterile with bright lights overhead. They had me lie on a bed with my legs in stirrups, much like it was during a monthly exam, only this time it was awkwardly in a room filled with people.

  The doctor made his arrival and greeted us warmly. He asked if I was ready to go, and I nodded in response. He looked at my mom, then to me with a smile.

  “All right,” he said. “Let’s get started.”

  The room was silent as he began the procedure. When he asked for the embryos, I knew the time had arrived. I said a silent prayer to the Lord, asking for success, but surrendering to His will at the same time. My heart filled with joy at the thought of a part of Joel about to become a part of me. A quick tear of thankfulness slipped down my cheek, thankfulness I was even able to be doing what I was doing. Fear left, and hope abounded.

  I clutched my womb and spoke directly to the embryos.

  You are both loved, and you are both wanted, I said in my mind over and over.

  It was the same mantra I had repeated during my first IVF round. I believed in the power of prayer and positive thinking. I tried to imagine those embryos going inside my body and burying themselves in, just as they are supposed to. I imagined positive pregnancy tests and holding a baby in my arms. I imagined the joy I would feel at successful results.

  You are both loved, and you are both wanted, I repeated again.

  “Okay,” the doctor announced. “We are all done,” he said as he pulled the blanket down over me. “You are pregnant until proven otherwise.”

  With that, he pat
ted my arm and left the room. My mom looked at me with a huge smile as the nurse came to transfer me to a rolling bed. From there they took me back to the preop room, tilting me at an angle, a position I would assume for the next hour.

  When that was done, they put me in a wheelchair to escort me to the car.

  As they pushed me out past the nurses’ station, the ladies gathered round.

  “Good luck, Sarah!” they said.

  “We will see you back here in ten days,” one said.

  “Ten days?” I asked, surprised. After my last cycle, we had results in seven days. Waiting an additional three days to see if your life was about to massively change seemed like an eternity.

  “Yes,” she said with a knowing frown, “it is ten days now. But don’t worry, it will be here before you know it.”

  She patted me on the back as another came over to give me a quick hug.

  It felt good to be done. The worst part of the drugs was over. My only job now was to rest and do one additional daily shot. That I could handle. It had been a long road, but we were finally reaching the finish line.

  I lay down flat in the backseat of the car for the ride home. As I tried to rest, I could hear my mom and Liz chatting up front while Journey’s “Don’t Stop Believing” played over the radio. I laughed at the silliness of the situation.

  I never knew what it was like to get pregnant in a “normal” way. My normal included doctors, nurses, drugs, shots, procedures, and surgeries. Now, after that was all said and done, I was lying in the back of a car wondering if I had just gotten pregnant. It was a sensation that was odd the first time and even odder the second.

  Touching my belly, I marveled at the life that could be inside. Oh how badly I wanted this to work.