Waiting Rooms & Pregnancy Tests

I remember sitting in the waiting room of my OB/GBN's office to have an ultrasound. Babies, children, and their respective mothers swarming about as if they were in a club only they belonged to. Women with swelling and swollen stomaches smiling expectantly with the knowledge they were walking announcements of new life.They were young, old, and middle-aged women, and most importantly mothers. Here I was waiting to have an ultrasound to find out why my body would not perform like a woman's body should. Why my body would not allow me to join their happy, little club that included nursery rhymes, sticky kisses, and glowing happiness.

The ultrasound technician started her ultrasound of my abdomen with no foreknowledge of why I was there. I recall seeing her startled look as she attempted to take pictures of my uterus in search of a baby and an additional heartbeat. I stupidly said knowing full well, as a nurse, she was not doing the ultrasound ordered by my OB/GYN "Is this a trans vaginal ultrasound?" I could see the relief flooding her face as I explained they were needing an ultrasound to see what kind of shape my ovaries, uterus, and fallopian tubes were in.

Trying to have a baby is not for the faint of heart. I am not taking about the simple things one has to do to try and have a baby, like have a mate, wait a few months, and oops there you go... Some do not know have the same definition of what it is to try.

I have carefully catalogued my basal body temperature more times than I would like to count. But I could count it up, that's the real miracle. I have them numbered.

Day 1,

Day 2,

Day 3,

Just when I think I am tired of it, I keep going on with it. It's automatic. I have an alarm set on my phone for some awful time in the morning, because it must be done at the same time every. single. morning. I grimace while searching for my basal body thermometer on my night stand, one eye open, much like a drunk person might look. Heaven forbid you even pee before taking your temperature. It's a big no in the trying to conceive community: Don't even expend any energy that could slightly raise your temperature. Don't breathe. Don't move. Don't pee. Just grab the thermometer, and close your eyes until you hear the beep that signifies you're finished.

I keep trying to patiently watch for signs that my body is preparing itself for another human to grow inside of it. When day after day, I don't see the changes I had hoped for, that signify I have a womb, that's when the hurt starts to invade my heart. Thats when the tears start. It's a small trace of sadness that I try to leave behind in that moment so I can carry on throughout the rest of the day, week, month.

It has been and is a dark time. Not always, but there are days. I remember when I first got married it was easy to be happy for other people who are having babies. Of course, you would naturally come to this stage in your life where you would have a baby. There would be no struggles. I mean, for goodness sake, teenagers are getting knocked up all over the place. Why would a couple of 30-year-olds have any trouble? I noticed a slow progression of friends, who knew our struggles to conceive would avoid telling us they were pregnant. The Facebook announcements were more difficult to see.

That's when I utter the prayers only God can hear. That's when I cry the tears only God can see.

But still there is nothing like holding a newborn baby in your arms and spreading those kisses along their sweet, soft skin. I know what it is like to hold those sweet babies, who are not my own, and love them. There are generations of babies who have already graced my arms with their baby essence. My husband's side of the family has turned me into a great aunt, which as made my biological clock tick even harder.

As soon as I I look at my drawer of dollar store pregnancy and ovulation tests, equipped with tiny plastic cups that I have to pee in so I can drop the urine into its proper place, because the dollar store ones aren't as fancy as the easy to use ones from your local grocery store, and quite frankly, I'd be broke from the cost of those darn things, I am reminded of this pain that I have carefully tried to hide in a drawer no one can find. I don't tell my husband anymore I have bought a pregnancy test because he said it would get his hopes too high. These are the things I do in secret, in hiding. My two dogs are the only ones who know my monthly routines, and they are not telling a soul. They comfort me when I'm disappointed by the results. With their slobbery little tongues licking hope into my bones, I know I can't be sad. If I can't have babies made from mine and my husbands DNA, at least I can be comforted by the only children I have ever known.

It's funny how even my body sometimes tries to trick me into hoping, only to let me down. I will wake up with nausea more than one morning, tender breasts, and what I think are a million other signs and symptoms that allows me to form hope. It's trying to fake something that I cannot do on my own to give me a will to carry on with this arduous task of making a baby. Despite all these disappointments, I still hold onto a small thread of hope. It is unbelievable to me how a thin string can pull you along, but it does. It makes me believe there will come a time when I will see two lines instead of the just the one.

And that will be a glorious day.