We’re sitting in the women’s hospital waiting room where I’m nervously awaiting bloodwork from the lab in the lobby. I’ve had to bring Jude with me because I really didn’t want to call anyone to explain what I was doing. So there we sat.

“Mom?”

“Hmm?”

“I need to go potty. Can I go by myself?”

My eyes shifted from the couple in front of me with the only-days-old baby who were also waiting for the lab to the single restrooms only about 20 feet from where I was sitting. Mentally calculating if he’d be fine going alone.

“Okay.”

The clock ticked on a few minutes longer when all of a sudden, a light over the bathroom door starts blinking furiously and the siren goes off. EMERGENCY!

I knew IMMEDIATELY what had happened and mentally slapped my forehead. I rushed to the bathroom door as a legion of nurses comes flooding from God only knows where, assuming that some poor pregnant woman has toppled off the toilet in a “Help I’ve fallen and I can’t get up” kind of moment and yanked the emergency cord. We all arrive at the door at the same time, and I open it to find white-as-a-sheet Jude standing there, eyes huge as saucers, and he’s muttering, “All I did was pull the cord!”  (pause)  “Mommy, why is there a cord in the bathroom?”

Dear Lord in heaven. I didn’t know whether to laugh, cry, or beg the floor to swallow me up. I found myself apologizing to the nurses profusely and then lead poor terrified Jude back to our seats. I then began to laugh because really, what else can you do?  He was white as a ghost for a good 5 minutes. And then they called me back for bloodwork and Jude asked if he could see my blood.

Because of course he wants to see the blood. He’s such a boy.

Overall it was perfect comic relief for what otherwise was an extremely tense moment for me. God bless Jude, you know?  The day before this particular event, I had finally gotten a very faint positive line on a  home pregnancy test after months of Clomid and bloodwork for thyroid issues and emotional roller coasters and all that hullaballoo. I sucked my breath in and felt cautiously optimistic, allowing myself only minimal glee. But I also felt an overwhelming sense of fear. I knew I needed to call the doctor’s office, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. The next morning, I called my parents and blurted out all of it. My Dad told me I needed to face up – call the doctor. I was brave, he said. I’ve faced harder things. I could do this.  So I did.

I was frankly extremely scared that the experiences of last summer would repeat themselves. Which, inevitably, they did. Only a few days later, I started bleeding, which I knew was coming because the bloodwork numbers were so abysmally low.

Sigh. Why?

In a way, I’m relieved to be heading on to the fertility specialist. Having fertility issues is no big surprise, in a way. I knew after all the surgery I’ve had that having fertility problems would be a 50/50 kind of deal. But that doesn’t make it suck any less, you know? I don’t know why it is that survival of the species clearly isn’t our forte over here. Why the heck does this have to be so hard?

I have  no big answers here. Shaken faith? Yeah. I can be transparent enough to admit that. But I’m going to keep on going because I know we’re not through over here yet. And I’m going to open my mouth and talk about it because when we let our voices be heard about difficult stuff, we can soften our own pain and aloneness. I’m not the first to deal with this, and I certainly won’t be the last.

I will find joy despite my circumstances.