It’s been a year, today, since the worst day of my life, aka the retrieval that led to my son, the other embryo we transferred along with him, and the frozen embryo we will use someday.
I’m emotional on the anniversary of this day, knowing that my Alex, the bouncing almost-four-month-old I dropped off at daycare this morning, was conceived right about this time, one year ago, in a different state, in a lab.
Until that moment, there was no Alexander. He was one of 17 eggs and one lucky sperm of millions. It’s blowing my mind to think about it, even now.
When I think about that awful day, I remember some things with crystal clarity:
1) the pain. The pain was so intense. It was far worse than anything I experienced with my c-section.
2) waking up in my husband’s arms on the floor of my parents’ house, feeling weaker and sicker than I’d ever felt
3) squeezing the nurse’s hand and crying “I just want to have a baby” over and over
4) the feeling of lightness I finally experienced, after hours in the ER, when they gave me some pain medicine that actually worked (I think it was toradol?)
It was a horrible day, but it was so worth it. My little boy is the most yearned for sort of miracle.
No matter how much he cries, how little he sleeps, or how much I have to sacrifice for him, I will never forget the longing I felt in my bones before I got to meet him.