Flowers in springtime

I have been struggling with infertility for years. In fact, I've known for most of my life that I would probably have some issues... I just never understood how much difficulty I would have in conceiving nor how hard it would be to deal with. I have one miracle child, my Angel Boy. He's almost three years old now. I have been on Clomid for WAY TOO LONG, and my doctor is threatening to cut off my supply.

I finally got pregnant again this past fall, but had a miscarriage two days before Christmas. Merry Christmas. I remember waking up from the d&c screaming at the top of my lungs, "My baby! My baby! My baby!" over and over again, and not understanding that I was the one screaming or why the screaming lady was so upset. I could hear the other patients in the recovery room murmuring and shifting restlessly. It took several moments for me to work through the haze of anesthesia and realize that it was me screaming, and a little longer to remember why I was screaming. I was able to stop at that point. Burying my face in the pillow and asking for my husband, I sobbed to him "Just get me out of here. Take me home."

As I was being wheeled out of the hospital I looked at the world around me. It was cold, grey, and lifeless. Just like everything inside me. I have never needed spring to come like I need it this year. It has somehow become part of my grieving process. I needed something to look forward to, and I couldn't lie to myself and pretend that I would be able to get pregnant. I mean, maybe, but I knew I couldn't count on it. So I turned to my flowers.

See, I planted several hundred flower bulbs this past fall. I have been waiting anxiously for them to come up and bloom. But when I was leaving the hospital and everything was dead, they were the only life I could think of. "Just wait until spring. Wait until you see your flowers. You'll feel better by the time the flowers come." I don't know if that's true, but it got me through some of my roughest days following the loss. I faced death in the winter with the hope of life in the spring.

Some of my flowers are starting to bud now. I am ecstatic about it. I go outside almost every day, get on my hands and knees, and look at them fondly. I am absolutely giddy. My neighbors must think I'm totally nuts. "There she is, crawling around on the ground again. Doesn't she have anything better to do?" And I feel absurdly protective of the flowers. My dog is no longer allowed in the front yard for fear of her walking on them, and it took every last bit of self control that I have to keep myself from running outside and screaming like a maniac when some neighborhood children happened to run through my flower beds last week. I'm not totally crazy. I know that the flowers aren't ACTUALLY my child, but they are very important to me. They represent my hopes and dreams, they are my proof that life does in fact go on.