Dear Future Baby

Hi, Baby.

I’ve had today’s date written on a white board in our kitchen—June 16: pregnancy test. This was the day we were to learn if you were finally on your way. However, I figured I would have a pretty good idea if I was pregnant or not before today. My period was due three days before, and that would be my biggest clue.

My period’s expected day came and went without a trace. On the second expected date, exactly two weeks since our IUI, I took a pregnancy test. We were visiting your cousins, and I woke up early before everyone else to test. It was negative. For the next two days, I googled how common it was to have a negative test 14 days post ovulation, and while most things I found said that if I was pregnant I would know at this point, I still hung on to the hope that this was a false negative.

I had few symptoms, some cramping and fatigue, which is also not uncommon for 4 weeks, which is what I would be at. Maybe the test I took was old or not sensitive enough. Maybe I implanted later than expected or that my urine was diluted. The only way to know for sure was to take have a beta done which is a blood draw to determine the the HCG levels.

My hopes were not high going into the doctor today. There was only a small chance, after that negative home pregnancy test, that the beta would be positive. How amazing, though, if it was. There would be my surprise. There would be my miracle. My end to this misery.

I expected the nurse’s call between 3 and 4 p.m. Having been with this clinic for months, I know that is when all the bloodwork has come back and the nurses are notifying patients of results and next steps.

When Rebecca called, there was a hint of melancholy in her voice. Surely, if she was calling to tell me I was pregnant, she would be happier. Would a positive pregnancy call be an easy one to make?

I am not sure. I haven’t been on the other side of that call.

“Your HCG levels are less than 1, so it is a negative.”

I knew this, and yet it hurt. It was more than hurt, though. It was heartache, hopeless, unyielding grief.

We talked more about next steps, which include going off all medication so that my period can come and we can start the next round. Your father and I are planning a move soon, and we barely have enough time for another round, but your father wants to give it one more shot.

This is so unfair, baby. It’s in these moments that I start to play a victim’s narrative. I think about how I am getting older each month, and that even if we are able to have you, I will be over 40 when you enter kindergarten. I wonder why so many of my friends, who are financially better off than us, get pregnant on their first try but we have to spend thousands of dollars. I question if what we are giving up is worth it. I try to predict when will be my stopping point.

Baby, you have to understand that I want you more than anything, but this journey is taxing. It’s relentless. It has taken so much from us—financially, emotionally, mentally, physically. I feel like I am putting every thing on hold for this, and yet, nothing is returned. I don’t know how to keep going right now. I can’t take another negative cycle treatment that costs hundreds of dollars. I can’t take anymore heartache.

I don’t know what to do, baby. Why aren’t you here? What else can we do?

Please come, baby. Soon. We need you here.

Love,

mom