A Thousand Miles From The Place I Was Born

In the past several days, my sweet Lauren has matured a little bit more. Yes, she’s almost 7, and if you asked her, she’d tell you that 7 is about 30 seconds away from TEENAGER! Still, she’s my baby. While it’s so fun to see her becoming more and more independent, I sometimes miss how much she used to need me.

As a parent of an only child and a girlfriend of an only child, I am acutely aware of how toxic my relationship with Lauren can potentially be.  As much as I want her to know that I cherish her and adore her, I don’t want her to think that my entire world revolves around her.  It does, but I don’t want her to KNOW that it does.  I want her to not feel smothered by my love.  I want her to be her own person, not the person she thinks I want her to be.

It’s hard, though, because she truly is the whole ball of wax to me.  She is my miracle baby, the one I never expected to have… the one who changed my life in a million ways I never could have imagined.  And have I mentioned that she’s such an awesome kid?  She’s funny, smart, sensitive, adventurous.  She is all the best parts of my personality and none of the bad.  She is so many things I never could be, and although she’s only Almost-Seven, she is already one of my heroes. And that part when I said that she was a miracle? All true, every word.

When I was a teenager, I was diagnosed with an unusual gynecological situation.  I won’t go into details, but when I was diagnosed, it was by a small country doctor who had never seen my situation before.  I imagine back then (25 years ago), it was probably not a well-known condition, and must have seemed extraordinarily rare to this doctor.  Since then, I have read enough information on it that I now understand it to be a relatively common phenomenon.  But back then, it seemed grave.  I very clearly remember the doctor speaking to me solemnly and informing me that I was infertile and would never bear children.

I grieved over that news, but eventually became accustomed to the idea that I would never conceive my own child.  Adoption seemed like the only answer, and I was okay with that.  I never doubted that I would be a mother, I only assumed I would not give birth to my child.  Years later, however, I found an OB/GYN who was very informed about my condition and she assured me that pregnancy was indeed possible.  Her words to me are as imprinted on my brain as the small-town doctor’s words had been.  She assured me that when I met the right guy, “Between the three of us, we’ll figure out a way to get you pregnant!”

I didn’t dare get my hopes up, but when I met my ex-husband and we became engaged, a little spark of hope settled in the deepest part of my soul and quietly flickered there.  I remember an evening early on in my marriage when my mother-in-law told us how excited she was to have a grandchild.  I told her in the most gentle way possible that I was probably never going to get pregnant, that we would try everything we could, but that she shouldn’t expect much because it was likely never going to happen.  She was crushed, and I’m sure it was at that moment that she decided she hated me.  Her opinion of me never really improved, for the record.

A few weeks after we returned from our honeymoon, I found myself having strange symptoms.  My period was late, but that was no cause for alarm because I had never in my life been regular.  One day, I was minding my own business when I was seized with the most horrendous cramps I’ve ever experienced.  I tried hot packs, Motrin… nothing seemed to help.  I’ll skip the details, but it soon became apparent to me that I was having a miscarriage.  I went to see my OB/GYN who ran a pregnancy test and said that my Hcg level was elevated, indicating that I had indeed been pregnant.  I should have been crushed, and I actually was somewhat disappointed.  But mostly, I was absolutely elated that I had conceived at all!  It WAS possible, my mind screamed!  At that point, that little flickering spark of hope ignited into a raging inferno inside me.  I absolutely believed with all of my heart that I would have a baby someday.  I no longer had any doubt whatsoever.

Before I left her office, my OB/GYN recommended that I set another appointment for six months from that day.  Her advice was “try for a few months, and if nothing happens by then, you can come back to see me and we’ll talk about your options.”  I made the appointment and went home to practice conception with my new husband. Six LONG months later, I found myself in my OB/GYN’s office to discuss my “options”.  I had no idea what they would be, or what it would take to conceive, but I was ready to do whatever it took.  I knew I could GET pregnant, I just needed to STAY pregnant now.

The nurse called me from the waiting room and got my weight and blood pressure.  She had me take a pregnancy test just because it was “routine”. I guess you can’t discuss fertility options unless it’s certain that you’re not pregnant. In any event, the test came up negative, so I waited in the exam room to speak to my doctor about those “options” she had up her sleeve.

My doctor came in and gently started to discuss the ins and outs of taking Clomid.  The testing, the post-coital exams (ewwww) and the regimented schedule I would have to follow.  I was in the middle of a heavy dramatic sigh when there was a knock on the exam room door and the nurse poked her head in.  She said, “Dr. B, that test actually came back positive!”  I sat there, disinterested, trying to not eavesdrop while the nurse discussed some other patient’s test with my doctor.  It wasn’t until my doctor let out a huge scream, threw her pen in the air and grabbed me in a bear hug that I realized the nurse was talking about ME.  I was stunned!  I was like a rag doll in poor Dr. B’s arms.  She was literally jumping out of her chair, and all I could think to say was, “What? Does this mean I’m pregnant?” We got a follow up blood test that confirmed it, and I was elated!  Dr. B made sure to explain to me all the risks associated with my unusual situation, and told me that she was going to refer me to the High-Risk Obstetrics department to have them follow me too, just in case.  But I didn’t care about any of that.  I was pregnant… I was pregnant… I was pregnant.

My pregnancy wasn’t without drama, and each month that I saw the doctor, she would remark on the fact that I was still pregnant, despite all the many reasons why I should not be. I had a more difficult pregnancy than most, but I somehow managed to carry Lauren to term. However, at my first postpartum appointment, my doctor regretfully informed me that the pregnancy had taken too great of a toll on my body, and that it would be in my best interest to not get pregnant again. In fact, the damage was so intense that it eventually necessitated a hysterectomy. I certainly regret that I wasn’t able to give Lauren a sibling, but I know enough to not look a gift horse in the mouth. My daughter was an amazing gift – one that I never expected I would have – and it would be wrong for me to wish for more than the miracle that I was given.

Every day with Lauren has been a joy. Even when she’s less than perfect, she’s still… you know, pretty much perfect.  At least she’s adorable when she’s naughty, and that makes it easier for me to forgive her.

These days, she likes to tell me that I’m her BFF.  I guess I probably am.  What she doesn’t know is that she’s probably mine, too.  I remember a quote I heard once (and I apologize, because I am not entirely sure who to credit it to) that having kids is like discovering that your life is in color when you never knew it was in black and white before.

Thanks, Lauren, for bringing such beautiful color into my life.  Love, Momma.