I think there’s a sort of post-traumatic stress that happens once you’ve survived infertility, a thought that lingers in the back of your mind that is always guarding against the tendency toward hope.
I feel it now. Because something inside is always heeding a warning.
“Remember this!” it screams out to me during bedtime snuggles or play-doh sessions or Baby Shark jams. Because something is always so conscious of the fact that this might never happen again. It is always so aware that Judah is growing and that my stomach is not.
There’s a sort of familiar feeling to it all, really. And it can transport you right back to despair. Because the “what ifs” will play through your mind. And I’m always doing the math, calculating ages and possibilities and, and, and.
The truth is that I don’t know whether infertility has clawed its way into our lives again. I don’t know what my hormones are doing or why my cycles are wonky or why that line is still blank.
But I do know that this time is different. Because I’ve seen a miracle. And that miracle, he resides in the gap between me and my fears. Because no matter what happens, there will always be Judah, and there will always be hope.
And if that is all we are ever given, it will be plenty.