In Bloom

---The below excerpt is a chapter from my debut memoir, Temple and Ash---

My gerbera daisy bloomed this morning.

I didn’t think she would flower again. Mom said she has never been able to get hers to, and her thumb is greener than Shrek’s. 

There were times I thought she was a lost cause; dead for good. But this morning she stands tall and bright. Resilient. Hopeful.

That relentless canary yellow daisy is the first thing I see in my mind’s eye when Dr. C tells me that we are moving forward with the transfer.

My uterine lining had been too thin, too mucusy, too gappy. Just like the last three times. Every cycle, cancelled just days before the finish line. 

At my last ultrasound, Dr. C still did not seem too optimistic. But I begged him to let me try anyway. He agreed to check one more time early Monday morning, just to be sure.

“Are you ready for some good news, Megan?” he asks now, and I am not. I really am not. I had only prepared for another cancellation.

But today is the day we transfer our son.

I start chugging water to fill my bladder in preparation. I swallow the Valium prescription we picked up just in case we got the green light. I call my boss to tell her that I will not be at work today after all. 

We have time to kill now. So Kris and I go out to breakfast a few minutes down the road. He is quieter than I expect him to be.

“Are you excited?” I ask, though his hunched shoulders and pensive stare have already answered my question.

“I’m glad we got good news,” he says, pushing runny scrambled eggs around his plate with a fork. “I’m nervous though too. I want you to keep your expectations low.”

I smile, despite myself. This is the man I know. He has always been the self-appointed safety and security manager of our family. The risk evaluator. The logical one.  

His caution is how he seeks to protect me, and I love him for it. But I cannot be protected from this. I am choosing to stand at the edge of a cliff that I have already fallen from. 

An hour later, I dress in a faded, creased gown that reeks of bleach. I remove my jewelry. I came with no makeup, no hair product, no deodorant. The hospital-issued no-slip socks make me feel like I’m at a slumber party. It’s strange not to wear shoes in a public place.

I have to keep returning to the small bathroom attached to the operating room to pee, but just a little bit. They need my bladder to be “half full” which feels like an unachievable task, especially now that the drugs are making my limbs loose. The urge is strong, so forcing the flow of urine to stop when I still have to go is harder than I expect. Back and forth to the bathroom until Dr. C achieves the visualization that he wants.

As I wash my hands for the third time, I catch my own eye in the mirror. I feel more beautiful than I ever have, despite my naked face. Maybe it’s the Valium, but all I can think is that I look like a mom. 

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