Cake

I don't know if I'll ever be ready. They say that no one is.

What I know is that I want my girl to have a sibling. To grow up playing House and School and Spies with her sisters, just as I did.

What I know is that I want to feel my body swell with new life again, want to snuggle a tiny bundle in my arms who isn't yet so independent that she insists on being put "down, down, down".

What I don't know is how to get from point A to point B. The path of least resistance. How to guarantee outcomes without pain.

I met with my new fertility doctor last week. Our previous clinic closed, and I grieve it almost daily. There, they knew my name; knew my story. Here, I am a small fish in a big pond. Trying not to get swept away in the current of paperwork, procedures, appointments.

"This will be a piece of cake," my doctor had said.

I couldn't stop my face from reacting. "Cake?" I asked, incredulous.

"Well," she backpedaled, clarifying. "Compared to everything else you've been through."

Everything else I've been through.

A year and a half working a side hustle job for medical benefits that cover fertility care. A laparoscopy and endometriosis diagnosis. Hormone injections and an egg retrieval. Two miscarriages. Dilation and Curettage. Another egg retrieval. Three cancelled transfers. A placental lake and a growth-restricted fetus. Preeclampsia. Induction. A week in the NICU.

But she's here now. My absolute miracle of a baby is nearing two years old. I know how beautifully this journey can end. And I also know how deeply it can destroy you.

This time, though, I can't fall apart. I can't lie in bed grieving the babies I didn't get to hold.

This time, I have a toddler who needs me. I have to stay strong for her, no matter what else comes.

I wish, though, that I could keep just the happy ending and forego the rest. All the baggage, the uncertainty. The grief. I wish I could jump to the conclusion of this story without the hard, character-building chapters.

That I could have my cake. And somehow eat it too.