I know this is repeating my earlier post a little, but I wrote this recently for another purpose, and I think it says something new too.
About this time, nine years ago, I learned I was pregnant for the first time. Stunned with the test result, I was more than a little scared. We had thought it wasn’t going to happen. But once we recovered from the shock, we were excited. The next day, my husband sent me a huge bunch of flowers, with a note that simply said “You know why.” I was filled with an unnatural feeling of boundless energy. I didn’t think pregnancy would be like this. I felt good.
But within a very short time, it was over. We learned new words: ectopic, laparoscopy and methotrexate. We learned about life-threatening conditions. I learned to hate Mr Bean, the Christmas show now forever a reminder of that night in the hospital, when my unviable and dangerous pregnancy ended.
Just over a year later, as Christmas approached, we were again filled with optimism, cautious, but hopeful. After all, the odds were in our favour. This time I felt tired, and nauseous. How I loved those feelings. We even had time to tell a select few the happy news. We talked about names, imagined soccer-playing boys, and netball-playing girls. But Christmas morning brought fear. And again we were disappointed, grief-stricken. This time we learned words such as trophoblastic disease, metastasize, cornual, and embolise. We learned that one of us, at least, was mortal, though thankfully a reprieve was given at that time.
Since then, though, we’ve also learned about healing, support, and recovery. We’ve learned about the importance of living our lives, the joy of giving back, the depth of friendships forged in pain, the truth of friendships made over the internet, the strength that results from surviving pain. And so, at this time of year, I also give thanks.