I met my husband in April.
It was a Friday night and a friend and I were celebrating the end of my third year of university at a downtown bar. Paul was there with a group of friends and somehow we ended up dancing. Before that day I had never believed in love at first sight but the first time I looked in his eyes (and saw that amazing dimple when he smiled) I knew I would marry him.
A year later -- also in April -- he proposed. The circumstances were bad, the words weren't romantic and he didn't get down on one knee. But there he was: the only man I had every really loved was holding a ring and asking me to spend the rest of my life with him.
We used to celebrate both of these 'anniversaries'. We would go out to dinner or if he was away he would make sure to call. When you are young and have no kids to distract you these milestones seem so important.
But now I hate April.
The dread starts a week before and by the time April finally rolls around I am in a full-fledged funk. I used to try hide it. Friends would comment that I was unusually quiet but I would smile and dismiss it as nothing. After ten years it seems too difficult to explain.
Some people suggest that time makes grief fade but I have come to realize that some types of sadness are always a part of you: hiding in your tissues, in your heart, in your mind. Sometimes it ebbs and your focus turns to other happy aspects of your life but you know it is not really gone. It will flow back.
Sometimes you know it is coming and sometimes it blindsides you when you least expect it.
I always expect it in April.
In April 2000 we should have been celebrating the birth of our first child; the baby Paul and I had nicknamed Gaffer. We had been waiting for this little person to come into our lives for almost three years. With each doctor's appointment, drug treatment and negative test Paul would hold me and remind me to focus on the baby that was waiting for us. His faith never wavered.
Our struggles with infertility started in 1997 when Paul and I decided to have kids (you can read about it in this post: http://juliehollingergendon.blogspot.com/2010/05/my-journey-to-motherhood.html) There were tests, pills, injections, mood swings and ultrasounds galore but in early August 1999 my prayers were answered. Against all odds -- I was pregnant.
I had just finished a disastrous treatment cycle and I had not held out a lot of hope for success. Midway through the cycle the specialists at the fertility clinic considered discontinuing the treatment, I had to take twice as many injections as they predicted and ended up I ovulating the day before a business trip (we had to ditch the insemination at the lab and buy Paul a plane ticket to San Francisco instead). When I started to bleed a few weeks later I was not surprised, I simply tried to put it out of my head.
Try as I might though I could not snap out of it. I was exhausted and nauseated and I chalked it up to the fertility meds working their way out of my system. The nurses at the clinic were not convinced. One of them explained that since I had two eggs there was still a chance I was pregnant. Sometimes one egg won't 'take' but the other will hang on. She encouraged me to buy a pregnancy test and find out for sure.
After three years in infertility hell, I had spent a small fortune on pregnancy tests. I had never, ever seen a positive sign and I was not holding out hope that this would be any different. I didn't even tell Paul I was doing it. I woke up, peed on the stick and braced myself for another heartache. As I sat on the side of the tub I watched the stick. One line appeared -- the test was working. Line two appeared -- I screamed.
Paul was in a dead sleep but was in the bathroom in a second, thinking I had either been attacked by a home invader or had been cornered by a spider. He was not prepared for a happy wife and the positive pregnancy test we had been dreaming about. We got dressed immediately and headed to the clinic for a blood test to confirm. I was pregnant.
Ten days later it started to unravel. More spotting, some cramping... I called the clinic and they told me it happened sometimes. Don't panic. A few days later I called my GP who sent me for another blood test. My levels were still climbing, he assured me. I was pregnant. A few days later I woke up with more horrible cramping and after a trip to the bathroom I woke Paul and told him that we had to go to the hospital. We drove in silence as I cried.
After a quick exam the doctor started an IV and did a blood test. They gave us a private room because I was almost hysterical. Paul was a rock but held it together for me. I can only imagine how much he was hurting. Finally the doctor came back. He was quiet and sat down on the stool by my bed. I never looked at him. I remember staring intently at the IV on the back of my hand wishing he would just leave. I knew that as soon as he opened his mouth it was over.
My levels were dropping he told Paul quietly. If I had not already lost the baby it was only a matter of time. There was nothing they could do. "I'm sorry," he said as he left us. I remember hearing the paper crumple as Paul sat down on the table behind me and held me as I sobbed. I remember the nurse peeking in and then leaving. When she returned a few minutes later her eyes were glassy. She removed the IV in my hand without saying anything to us. What was there to say? Instead she rubbed my arm and asked if there was anything else that she could do.
"Do you want me to call someone," she asked. "We have a chaplain and a social worker on call." Paul assured her that we were fine and after she left he helped me get dressed and all but carried me to the car. The next few days are a blur. I called in sick to work. I avoided phone calls and I cried. I was devastated and I was angry. I have never felt so out of control in my life. There was nothing I could do or say to bring my baby back so I punched walls, I kicked things and I cried some more.
After a few weeks, Paul convinced me to try another round of treatment and I got pregnant again. I was petrified of losing this baby and I did everything the doctors told me to do. We found out that we were having a baby girl and we picked a name. My parents bought us a crib and we set up a nursery. There were pink outfits folded in the dresser and hanging in the closet. I was so busy that when April rolled around I was surprised to feel the sadness set in.
The baby I lost had been due in April. While my belly was swelling with a daughter I loved more than life itself, I felt empty. While my rational mind reminded me that I was blessed to have a healthy baby kicking me from within, I mourned the baby I had lost. I would never know if it was a boy or girl. I would never give it a 'proper' name. That child would always be my Gaffer. I felt selfish as I cried. I wanted my baby back. I wanted them both.
At first I dismissed it as hormones. I was pregnant -- crying came with the territory. But the following April it happened again. And with every passing April for a decade the grief takes hold as the snow starts to melt.
Every April I open the beautiful wooden box that Paul and I bought after my miscarriage. It contains the pregnancy journal I had been filling out during my treatments and through the brief weeks my baby was with us. There is an ad for the hotel in San Francisco that trumped the fertility clinic. There is a ziploc bag with the positive pregnancy test. Some condolence cards. A poem that was sent to me by a friend who lost a baby and understood my pain. The hospital bracelet from our trip to the emergency room. A coin set. A package of seeds -- Forget-Me-Nots.
I never planted the seeds; I fully intended to when my mother gave them to me but the next year I was afraid. What if they didn't take? What if I planted them and they died? It would make me too sad. Instead I keep the packet. The seeds have potential -- the promise of life. It is seems odd to me that I am clinging to possibility of life that these seeds carry as I mourn the potential life that was lost. Instead of planting the seeds and letting them thrive, I am hoarding them. As long as the potential is there then I can't be hurt again.
I have thought about this post for a few days and struggled with whether or not to publish it; it is very personal and the pain is still raw after eleven years. But as I approach my fortieth birthday and look back at the events that shaped the woman I am today there is no way to ignore this part of my life. This child that no one had a chance to meet is as real to me as my others. I am also sharing this story because I know that I am not alone. Many of my friends admit quietly that they too have lost children. I am willing to bet that I am not the only one still mourning.
So as April sits on the horizon I brace myself to feel the sadness, to pull out the wooden box that no one else ever opens and to shed a few more tears for my Gaffer. This summer I will buy a flat of Forget-Me-Nots and plant them in my garden. The seeds will stay in the box.
