I peed on a stick

And that title alone should be enough of a content warning about the words to follow and how they delve into fertility and pregnancy (loss). I wrote this for myself because grief can only be processed by feeling and recognizing every emotion, raw as they may be. I’m sharing because that is also part of the healing process, and also because one of the viable ways forward as recommended by my healthcare provider is through a gestational carrier (so, are you or is someone you know willing to lend us your/their uterus for a few months?). I understand that everyone has their own struggles and stories. These are mine/ours. Read at your own discretion. That uterus question is real, so be in touch if you have any leads.

I peed on a stick. 

I return from Denver, suspecting and hopeful, three months recovered from the last of three surgical interventions that started over three years prior. Positive. A rush of gratitude and surprise and hope and unknowing for all that would come. We go to Chicago. We submit a passport renewal application. I feel a pinch, a warm, slippery gush. The blood does not stop. For weeks and weeks it does not stop. The blood flows out of me for longer than you were ever in existence. The ER doctor tries to make it stop. The bleeding will not stop. It’s midnight. I throw up. Emi holds a hospital barf bag to catch my vomit. They call for a blood transfusion. My blood pressure falls dangerously low. I don’t recall the order in which that all happened. They wheel me into emergency surgery. I wake up. It’s 5 a.m. The bleeding has stopped. Scars remain. I’m relieved to be alive. I’m hopeful we can just heal and try again. I spend the rest of the summer restoring my hemoglobin level. Weekly blood draws track the progress. It takes a few months to return to normal. 

I peed on a stick. 

Over a year and three months after I peed on the last one, three months healed from another surgical intervention. We finally made it to Australia on our postponed 2020 vacation, three years after originally planned. The time is right. This time will be better. I start to feel you. We go to Mexico because work calls for it. I abstain from coffee and alcohol and other dangers to protect you. I owe no explanations. We return. It’s my birthday. I’m cautiously optimistic. We’re in the dark ultrasound room. The doctor says your heart does not beat. My heart shatters. I carry you, lifeless, to Argentina because work calls again and because what’s the worst that could happen? The first time I bled and bled. This time, I do not shed a single drop. We return to the north. Your lifeless cells refuse to leave my body. I grieve harder than I ever have before. Surgery number six. The people give their advice. I take none of it. The people mean well. I can’t stand any of it. I wallow in sadness. My doctor orders tests. Results say it's my phospholipids that rejected you, not my job or my diet or my lifestyle or because God willed it this way. You were perfect. Your genes were sound. I go back to Argentina. I carry the sorrow with me, and the load lightens as I heal. I learn to move forward with the pain. The pain will always be there. The pain lives alongside the joy and the happy moments. 

I peed on a stick. 

The third time’s the charm, they said. Just as I was losing patience and hope. I peed on some more sticks, this time to track ovulation. The trackers lead us to a miracle. I do everything I can to keep you safe. I take aspirin. The doctor said it would be enough. I feel a pinch. Déjà vu. The scan shows two of you. Come back in a week, they say. The next scan shows one bigger, the other smaller. The aspirin was not enough. We’re back in the dark ultrasound room as Taylor Swift and Bon Iver reverberate in my head. “I think I’ve seen this film before, and I didn’t like the ending.” We lose you both. We wait for your lifelessness to exit my body. You refuse to let go. Surgery number seven in as many years. I’m angry. I pray to not lose faith. I pray for patience. The people mean well, again, but all I can see is ignorance and insensitivity. Living in the present is much too painful. I must live where hope remains. You were also genetically sound. The doctor says there is a way. Blood thinners. A glimmer of hope. 

I peed on more sticks.

I keep tracking ovulation. I pee on sticks again and again, month after month. The lines indicate optimal conditions, yet the months pass and nothing results. But what about the blood thinners? We need a positive result before we even start those. Why is the result negative, month after month? The people are dying for an announcement, not knowing that each passing month kills me (us) more inside, too. “I thought you were trying to…?” We are. “I thought by now you’d…” Us too. The doctors tell us we qualify for testing. We’ve been through it all before. The results are the same. This should be working. Why is it not working? The imaging shows “debris” and “calcification,” perhaps more “scarring.” We schedule another procedure. Genetics? Fine. Phospholipids? Not enough evidence indicates that phospholipids are the issue. My uterus? Problematic. Best to borrow someone else's. Someone who is willing to do a huge favor. I’m exhausted.