October 7, 2014
Dear Josie,
Today we got the news.
Driving to the store I felt a familiar wave. Within minutes of unlocking the door I would know, grocery bags untouched on the table.
One can imagine the events that likely followed. The jumping up and down, the wrapping of your brother in my arms to spill the happy news. The call to your father, your grandparents, the press...
Only that isn't what happened this time. This time was very different.
When I learned you had died, I had questions. So many questions. One of them was answered rather quickly. "When can we try again?"
As if it were that simple, the trying.
Six months we were told, and so we waited. We waited for blood work and pathology reports. We waited as friends and family had their babies, drove them home in cushioned car seats, dressed them for birthday parties and weekend trips to the lake. We waited through more blood work, more tests, through therapy sessions and condolences. We waited for the green light to hope again.
As if it were that simple, the hoping.
And now. Now as I sit, this test before me I shake.
I shutter at the thought of telling anyone. I imagine there is some universal entity, hand just above the button. He watches me and he glares.
"Oh yeah? " A smile curves his lips. "You think?"
I desperately want to run and hide, to fall forever into a life under the covers. I want a life with little chance of this pain. I want a life with my hand on that button.
It is calm there, in that life. It is predictable and it's safe. The minutes and days and years of leaving well enough alone. This memory that haunts me, quells the dreams that rage within.
Yet I can sense the rise in my pulse, feel it accelerate even as I sit. Although there is no guarantee, there is an excitement. There is a chance. Something the softest blanket could never provide.
It is one way to survive, my hand on that button.
It's no way to live.
Love,
Mom
Today we got the news.
Driving to the store I felt a familiar wave. Within minutes of unlocking the door I would know, grocery bags untouched on the table.
One can imagine the events that likely followed. The jumping up and down, the wrapping of your brother in my arms to spill the happy news. The call to your father, your grandparents, the press...
Only that isn't what happened this time. This time was very different.
When I learned you had died, I had questions. So many questions. One of them was answered rather quickly. "When can we try again?"
As if it were that simple, the trying.
Six months we were told, and so we waited. We waited for blood work and pathology reports. We waited as friends and family had their babies, drove them home in cushioned car seats, dressed them for birthday parties and weekend trips to the lake. We waited through more blood work, more tests, through therapy sessions and condolences. We waited for the green light to hope again.
As if it were that simple, the hoping.
And now. Now as I sit, this test before me I shake.
I shutter at the thought of telling anyone. I imagine there is some universal entity, hand just above the button. He watches me and he glares.
"Oh yeah? " A smile curves his lips. "You think?"
I desperately want to run and hide, to fall forever into a life under the covers. I want a life with little chance of this pain. I want a life with my hand on that button.
It is calm there, in that life. It is predictable and it's safe. The minutes and days and years of leaving well enough alone. This memory that haunts me, quells the dreams that rage within.
Yet I can sense the rise in my pulse, feel it accelerate even as I sit. Although there is no guarantee, there is an excitement. There is a chance. Something the softest blanket could never provide.
It is one way to survive, my hand on that button.
It's no way to live.
Love,
Mom
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