The roller coaster ride

With each passing day, the more I realize what intense roller coaster emotions I am experiencing. It's like the tallest, most spirally roller coaster ride you could imagine.



Much of the time my emotions are even keeled and I think I can be prepared for any outcome. But then out of the blue I'll start to feel real and intense grief about this transfer not working and the idea of being abruptly thrust off of the path of embryo adoption. I'll try to talk some sense into myself, finally get it together and go on with my day. Then maybe a few hours later I'll fall into blissfully daydreaming about this transfer actually producing a real-live baby (or two!) I'll dream about receiving good news (for once) on beta day, even making it all the way to the ultrasound where we identify a heartbeat. I'll dream about Kevin squeezing my hand with tears in both of our eyes as we realize we've made it further than ever before. I'll even go as far as to dream about what it would be like to learn we were having twins! Then like a cruel rubber band, I get snapped right back into the grief and I tell myself that these events happen to other people, but not us.

It's driving me certifiably insane.

I can confidently say that approaching such intense crossroads is not for the faint of heart. And I can feel these bipolar-ish swings getting more and more intense each day that grows closer to transfer and beta day. I really wish I could fast forward and see the outcome of all of this. I wish someone could hand me a sealed envelope that contains the future and I could quietly go into my bedroom with a box of kleenex, tear it open, and process the results. I know that the exponentially heightened emotions for this transfer are because of how much is at stake.

I'm also thinking a lot about all of the things that are planned post beta day as life inevitably moves on. I am thinking about how blissful future events (especially Holiday events) will feel if it works, and how awful and empty they will feel if it doesn't.

One event that comes to mind is the annual Holiday party Kevin and I throw every December at our home. I was hesitant to plan it this year seeing how it would be December 14th, which is barely beyond beta day. Being realistic, the party could possibly land right in the middle of a miscarriage. How in the world could I host a Holiday party if things go badly? But if one thing the past three years has taught me, it is that I can be strong, even when I think I don't have it in me to be strong. And even amidst our grief and sadness, we can choose to have moments where we set it all aside to live life again.

I think back to 2011. The very morning of that year's Holiday party, my mom was admitted to the hospital. During that stay, doctors prepared our family for the end. They assured us she had only about a week left to live because the cancer had caused her liver to shut down and was sending toxic fluid throughout her bloodstream. I immediately booked a flight to Utah for the following Friday to say my final goodbyes. The news was absolutely crushing. Yet somehow I still went on with the Holiday party that night. I really didn't think I could do it, but it was too late to cancel on everyone.

But what shocked me is that I had a lot of fun.

I find myself drawing strength from that day when I believe I can't make it through an event where I'm supposed to be happy. That night I chose to have fun, and fun is what I had. We are entitled to a night where we can forget our problems, our losses, and grief, and feel like everything is okay. And this year, I want to laugh, dance, and listen to Christmas music with my friends and coworkers no matter what. I did it once, and I know I can do it again.

I just hope I don't have to pretend. I hope I can enjoy the party sipping on non-alcoholic cider and hot chocolate because I'm six weeks pregnant with my beloved snowflakes.