The memories were vivid, as if everything happened the day before. In many ways it had. And today was just the happiest day of all the happy days she could have hoped for.
She remembered the project: that was what it became after a while, although a child should never really be a project, should it? It’s a journey. It’s a wish. Maybe even a gift. But when they told her she had PCOS and that her chances of having a child were close to 0, it did become a project.
Because it potentially interfered with everything else in their lives. Schedules were planned according to appointments, to blood tests, to shooting hormones at specific times every day.
It became a project because all her life and her husband’s eventually revolved around that baby that wouldn’t come to them on its own. The rest of their lives… well it didn’t become secondary but something had to give. Work couldn’t. They needed the money. But it suffered; she couldn’t be expected to be 100% all the time, when she had to be up at 6am to be at the clinic at 7am, to drive back through rush hour in order to eat the same meal as diabetic patients then get to work at 1pm and finish at 10pm if she was lucky, while sticking a needle in her belly or thigh at 7:30pm precisely in the office’s bathroom where anyone could have seen her. She was exhausted all the time. But the end game was something they’d wanted for years.
It was all so vivid. The day of the puncture; the nurses, the additional blood tests, the anaesthesia – well really it wasn’t that, she was conscious throughout – the slight pain, the blood. The aftermath; and then the implantation. Just one they said. Because twin pregnancies could be difficult and they didn’t want it to be more of a risk. She remembered the disappointment. What if the one didn’t hold on? At least, with two, the chances were higher, weren’t they? Maybe, but more risky. So one it was.
She remembered the disappointment, the pain, the loss, the sense of failure when the first time didn’t work. It took months… she didn’t have months, but even as she started a second round of treatment, she was still struggling to come to terms with the fact that her body had refused that first baby. Thankfully, the pain, she didn’t remember so vividly anymore. She knew she’d felt them, but somehow it was subdued, almost washed away when the second time worked.
She remembered being so very careful. A project in itself: she reduced her work hours, brought them back to a normal 40 hours a week instead of 50. She spent more time with her husband just relaxing, reading. She spent a lot of time sleeping: that little one was consuming much of her energy. But she was fine with it. Most of the time.
And then the moment they placed her newborn baby on her chest. It felt as if her heart was going to burst. Tears of joy had run down her face. Happiness had been almost overwhelming. It was not a project; it was a living child, a beautiful boy right here in her arms. It was a gift, the most beautiful gift in the world.
Time had brought its lot of joy, sorrow, fun, laughter and tears. But today was the happiest days of all. Her boy, her long awaited, long desired boy was becoming a father himself. He and his lovely wife never struggled as they had. She could only feel gladness at that. And just like she’d cried when her son was given her, she cried when she held her granddaughter in her arms, as her husband gathered the two of them close to him.
A lifelong project… love and family.
This post is in response to multiple prompts:
– Mindlovemisery’s Menagerie’s writing prompt Share
– Linda G Hill’s stream of consciousness Saturday prompt Project
– and to the Daily Post writing prompt Vivid.