Story.

You know those old home movies? The ones on the reels that are so warped and faded that the sound comes and goes and pops every once in a while? The lines run across the screen and the faded brown shadows of days gone by flash across the screen.
That’s how I remember things, no matter how long ago they happened. My past is distorted, a pale outline of the very real story of my life.
I had a lovely childhood by all accounts. Good family, nice neightborhood, close friends. When I was in eighth grade, I found him. The man I knew I was going to marry someday. We dated through high school. We were THE couple. When we sent out invitations a few years after graduation, no one was all that surprised.
Our wedding was perfect. Every last detail was flawlessly orchestrated. It was both traditional and our very own. Everyone involved went out of their way to make this day as special as it could possibly be for us.
Our honeymoon consisted of a two week cruise to the Bahamas. After our time of relaxing in the sun and enjoying each other’s company, we settled down. We had bought a house on the outskirts of our hometown. We soon settled into our new life together; me working from home on my second book; and he a math teacher at the middle school where we first met.
We had only discussed kids once or twice. We both wanted some kids, but were willing to wait awhile. We were still so young, right out of college, and still had so much we wanted to do before we completely settled down. We never dreamed that there could ever be a problem.
Five years later. We’d been trying for at least three, if not four years to have a baby. Five doctors. Nothing was wrong. With him or with me. There was no medical reason that we couldn’t have a child. But we couldn’t.
You never know how much you really want something until something or someone comes along and removes all chance of it ever coming true. My want for a child turned to yearning. I would pray every night for a miracle. A chance. When none came, I lost faith in anything. In God, in myself, in life. There didn’t seem to be any point anymore.
I wanted to be a mother so badly. It consumed my days and nights. My best friend was scared to tell me that she was pregnant again. I tried to be happy for her. I was. Truly. But when I left that hospital room after meeting her new daughter, I felt hollowed out, exhausted with the cares and disappointments of life.
I slipped into depression eventually. I couldn’t understand why I was being punished. My great-aunt Lucy, a zealous Catholic, told me that I or that husband of mine must be hiding some sin. God sees all and will punish you for your disobedience. Must be a sign that you shouldn’t have married THAT man. I told you and everyone else that it would never work, it wasn’t right. But did you listen? No! And now you are paying for it! What are you hiding!?!
When I went to my mother with this, she just waved me away. You’re aunt’s crazy. Just ignore her.
But the crazy ranting of my aunt Lucy stuck in my head. I couldn’t sleep for weeks. She was in my dreams, every single one, cursing me to burn in hell for the sins which would now plague the family. I would wake up, screaming. He would comfort me and then turn to go back to sleep. In my horror and despair, I would pummel him with my fists, screaming and crying that he didn’t care about me. You never wanted a baby anyway! What was you doing to ruin our chances?
He would wrap his arms around me and try to calm me down. We would just lay there, me whimpering in his arms, gulping for air. This happened at least once a week for months. I went to therapy twice, and then made him promise he wouldn’t make me go back. I could get better on my own. He would see. He promised.
I did make progress. I cleaned the entire house one day, spring cleaning in July. I worked in the garden, hoping that the fresh air would clear my mind and calm my churning soul. I still felt dark, but pretending to be happy eventually makes you feel happy again.
My turning point came when I finally opened the door that led to my office. I was just going to dust a bit, and then go eat some lunch. I hadn’t touched my computer in months. My book was saved there, half finished, full of promise, potential. This could be what I needed to pull me out of my stupor.
I sat down on the swivel chair, took a deep breath, and booted up the computer. The startup screen came up. Finally the desktop showed up and I found my files on that story.
He found me four hours later, still in that chair, typing furiously. I didn’t look up, knowing that this feeling of release could not be interrupted. I knew he was watching me, but after a while, I didn’t pay attention to it anymore. I found myself living my story and not worried about the outside world.
The next thing I remember is the bonging of the grandfather clock in the living room. Midnight. I couldn’t believe it. I looked at the computer screen in disbelief. I had finished my book. I didn’t know what I had written. I didn’t know how long it was. I didn’t even care if it made sense. But I was done with it. I knew that I had poured my heart and soul into this book. I was free.
I saved my work and left it on the screen. Standing slowly, I stretched my sore legs and arms. Over twelve hours of straight typing. No breaks. I hadn’t needed them. I rubbed my eyes and padded slowly out the door, down the hall, and into the living room. He was sleeping on the couch. I sat down next to him, kissed him lightly on the cheek. He stirred slightly, saw me, and started to sit up. I smiled down at him and headed towards our bedroom.
I fell asleep almost instantly. I woke up when he sat on the edge of the bed. His face was clouded, like he wanted to cry, but didn’t want to upset me. It’s beautiful. He took my hand, and we both burst into tears. It had been a long time coming.
My publisher loved the book. He only made a few corrections, mostly grammatical errors on my part. But it was in print by that fall. I was ecstatic. This was my breakthrough.
That winter, I was doing some autographing in a little bookstore tucked away in the mall. People liked the “raw intensity” that my book brought out. I would just smile and nod and ask who the book was for. I really didn’t feel good and wanted to just go home. I signaled to the bookstore owner that I needed a break. She kindly stepped up to the table to make the announcement. As I stood to head towards the bathroom in the back, the world tilted to one side, then back to the other. I grabbed for the nearest bookcase, but didn’t make contact. As the carpeted floor got closer, I realized that there were people running towards me. I made an effort to put my arms out in front of me to break the fall. Pain shot up my arm and then I blacked out.
I came around slowly. He was there, holding my hand and soothing me. His eyes held a panic that I could not decipher. He seemed upset, but happy; worried, yet relieved.
The mall nurse was on my other side, taking my pulse and blood pressure. I insisted that I was fine, really, just hadn’t been sleeping well. She asked all the usual questions about what I ate today and if I have ever had a problem with fainting. Of course I hadn’t. She looked me in the eye and asked one of the most awful questions she could have asked at that moment.
Ma’am, are you pregnant?
Her words cut me deep; my heart seemed to shatter in a million tiny pieces, devastating my somewhat calm countenance. The floor gave way to a gaping hole in the earth, swallowed me up. I must have blacked out again because next thing I knew I was in a hospital bed. He was sleeping on the chair next to me. Just as I woke up, a nurse walked in with a man who must have been the doctor. He woke up and took my hand as the doctor looked at his clipboard.
He asked if he could talk to my husband outside for a moment. When they came back, he was very pale. A look passed between him and the doctor that I could not decipher. The doctor started talking. No real damage done. Besides your broken arm that is. The miscarriage did not damage anything else.
Miscarriage? Did he have the wrong room? I wasn’t even able to have children! His grip on my hand tightened. The doctor kept talking but I couldn’t hear a word. The room got smaller and smaller. Soon I was alone, screaming up at the stars in agony.
To be so close and not know! To be so close and then lose it! It might have been a blessing to not have known before the miscarriage. But for me, just the thought that there had been a life inside of me that I didn’t even get to marvel over, to plan for, to mourn. I felt that I did not have the right to mourn this loss, having not known about the possibility of loss in the first place.
I was home within the next couple days. Life started to go back to normal. Not many people knew the real reason for my five day hospitalization. Most people thought I had just collapsed and hit my head. My cast proved difficult to explain, as to others it seemed like such a small deal to fall and break an arm. But to me, every time I was asked, I had to relive that day. That nightmare of a day that had sent my world reeling. But that no one could ever understand.
I went back into my depression. But not so severe, at least to the outside observer. To people who did not know me so well, I was fine. Maybe not as chipper as always, but no one can be happy all the time right? To those who were closer to me, like my parents and husband, I had my moments where they thought they were back to last year. I would fly into a rage about the littlest things. A stupid mistake on my part could turn into a day of crying over nothing. My husband would come home to find that I had not showered, eaten, done anything that day. He would try to find the root of the issue. Most of the time it was something like stubbing my toe on the way into the bathroom. Or slopping a bit of milk on the floor while eating breakfast.
I tried writing sometimes, knowing that it had taken me out of my depression before. Nothing seemed to help. I started at least ten different stories in that four month period. Nothing. Nada. Zilch. I had finally hit the dreaded brick wall.
Eleven months after my miscarriage, I passed out again. It scared me. But I didn’t get hurt this time. Still I couldn’t help but wonder if it was for the same reason. I didn’t tell him, but I went to the doctor and had some tests done.
I felt a new sense of hope welling up in me. I noticed things that I hadn’t for a long time. The way that the snow lay in drifts across the fields. The way the sun glistened off the day-old snow banks. The world seemed new, but I held back my joy, fearing that I was wrong, but hoping against hope that it could be true.
The day that the doctor called me back to his office, I was as nervous as that young girl in eighth grade about to get her first kiss. I felt so small and abandoned in that pediatric doctor’s office. The mother next to me was holding a baby that couldn’t have been more than seven months old, while keeping a mother-hen’s eye on a four year old across the room. She noticed me watching the baby held in her arms and asked if I wanted to hold him.
That moment, holding that tiny baby in my arms, I knew that I was pregnant. I knew that God would send me the precious gift that I had been longing for. Tears filled my eyes and ran down my face. I felt an arm around my shoulder. Soon I was pouring out my whole story to her, not caring that half the other mothers in the waiting room were listening. Not caring that I barely knew this woman.
The release I felt as I finished talking was enormous. Just then, the nurse came out and said that the doctor would see me. I asked her if I could make a phone call first. She told me to take my time. He was surprised to hear where I was. I asked if he could come quickly, it was important. He told me he’d be there as soon as he could.
The miracle of knowing that a life was growing inside of me was life changing. I was the most careful expectant mother in the world. I ate healthy, went to every checkup, and did everything the doctor said. I gathered immense amounts of information from the Internet and from various maternity books.
The day that Micah Ayden came into this world was one of the most memorable days of my life. I was exhausted, but I held that tiny bundle of joy, for truly this baby had given me back my life. I felt like I held the world, contained in that small child for a while. I wondered what was going on in his head, behind that croqueted blue and white hat that my mother had made.
Did he know what I had gone through for this day? Did he know that he was the miracle that I had been waiting for? Did he know that, through him, God had brought me back to where I was truly meant to be?
As I sit here writing this, a few days before Micah’s wedding, I can hardly believe how far we’ve come. From that little knit hat, to his first pair of Winnie the Pooh shoes, to his first bike, first car. His life has been a journey, a blessing for us all. But now I have to go fix dinner for the family, consisting of Micah and his five younger siblings. God has truly blessed my life.