36 Weeks

Today I am 9 months pregnant. And I feel the urge to grumble about it, because what do you mean I still have a whole month yet to go? The marketing around the whole thing needs a brand overhaul, if you ask me. The math just ain't mathin' on this one.

I felt like grumbling even more (or straight up curb-walking myself right into labor) when I went to my 36-week ultrasound and learned that homegirl is measuring in the 96th percentile and already pushing 8 pounds. This lore about IVF babies being growth restricted is laughable—both of my girls have been huge, and my body has most certainly paid the price.

After a bit of shameless begging for an induction, I walked out of my OB's office with a roll of 3-D ultrasound photos so long, it dragged on the floor. And I nearly walked right into another couple.

The woman was sobbing into the man's chest; his arms wrapped tightly around her. His face was pained as he gently stroked her hair, as if he, too, were trying to hold back tears.

It hit me so hard, I nearly began crying myself. The brutal contrast in the days she and I were having—me, whining about acid reflux and pelvic floor pain; her, wondering how life could so quickly and ruthlessly be split into two: the before, and the world-shattering after.

It transported me back to the day when my own reality fractured; when I lost all sense of time and place and soaked Kris's shirt with my tears, willing myself to wake up from the nightmare I never consented to having.

I don't know if her news was anything like my news. If a tiny heart stopped beating. If the genetic condition would be lifelong. If only one twin was projected to survive. But I can only imagine the possible scenarios in which a couple breaks down just outside the doors of an OB/GYN office.

The reminder caught me right in the throat: not everyone gets 36 weeks.

I am truly fortunate that our second go-around with IVF has been so uncomplicated; that our first transfer took, that our daughter has remained healthy and growing—so much so that she might come out needing 6-month onesies and size 2 diapers. But today I wondered if it has caused me to lose touch with just what an absolute miracle it is to get pregnant, and to bring a child safely into the world.

A couple I know are pregnant again after the devastating stillbirth of their son last year. A colleague of mine moved on to adoption after countless rounds of IVF never took. A friend who has long dreamed of motherhood is now faced with needing a hysterectomy.

36 weeks is a damn blessing, and I feel like an absolute jerk that I, of all people, forgot that. In the throes of my own journey through infertility and miscarriage, I resented no one more than a whiny pregnant lady.

Does she have any idea how lucky she is? Does she know how much I would give to trade places?

My friends and family are always kind to remind me that two things can be true: that I can be grateful for a healthy pregnancy, and that I can also be honest about the difficulties of surrendering your body, mind, spirit, and all your best nutrients to a very demanding fetus. But I don't want that to become a reason to be glib; to complain about how tired I am to someone who would never sleep again if it meant that they got to be a mom.

So as much as I can through these next 4 weeks (or hopefully less), I am choosing gratitude. I am taking intentional time to reflect on the road that led me here: to 36 weeks of growing a child who is nothing short of a miracle.