Despair and hope sit face to face*

I’ve been working on this entry for a week and a half. I was waiting to get through yesterday to post it, and although I guessed that I may have jinxed it by writing this so far in advance, I couldn’t not write it.

Two weeks ago, I sat on my mother’s grave and wept longer and harder than I ever have. I’m going through this loss all over again because I have to do something permanent and life-changing without her. I still blame myself for her death. Have I ever mentioned that? It makes me the quintessential Lutheran, but it’s true. I sat there crying while Brooke and Dad wandered nearby and chatted about other family plots in the cemetery. I could have stayed there in the sand and the ants all day, but we were preparing to make the five hour drive home. I can bawl just as easily with 250 miles between us as with 6 feet of dirt.

Yesterday, I had the opportunity to see the heartbeat of the newest member of my family. Ebry, as s/he has been titled until s/he breathes on her/his own, is expected to arrive on Super Bowl Sunday, give or take a few weeks. Brooke and I have spent a great deal of time hoping and praying for the arrival of Ebry the Embryo. We sought the assistance of herbalists, acupuncturists, doctors, and friends. We have invested time, money, insurance coverage, and prayer. I’ve been pricked with needles, drunk foul tasting herbs, subjected myself to invasive questions and procedures, and wept, and I couldn’t be happier.

Gestating is an exhausting endeavor, and my mood can shift as the hormones fly. Our nurse, our much beloved nurse, asked how many grandparents the tiny little embryo has. We listed them: Brooke’s mom and stepdad, her dad and stepmom, and my dad. No, I explained, my mother’s not in the picture. She died last year.

And it was all I could do not to weep.

*credit to Carrie Newcomer