“I allowed myself to be a momentary creeper. I just pulled back, parked my cart and watched all the sweet mamas. I wanted to say what all the elderly ladies used to say when they saw me in Target at 8 a.m. – ‘Enjoy it. It goes fast.’ But I resisted.”
“I got a call from my daughter’s teacher. She said there had been a pretty catastrophic incident while cleaning up. I listened intently, but none of this was a surprise to me. I got off the phone and was so mad. That little girl would never ask her to play again; likely she’d run home and tell her parents about the bully in class.”
“I was STRONGLY encouraged to wait for kids. My incision was paper thin. 3 months later, I was pregnant. My little baby was growing alongside fibroids the size of ORANGES. To make matters worse, he was sunny-side up. My life was in danger. In my foggy head, I heard, ‘Amber, we can’t get the bleeding to stop. Do you want your tubes tied?’ I woke up covered in blood.”
“‘Oh God no. Please no…’ I whispered that night, my legs numb from sitting motionless. I stared straight into the eyes of the young doctor, trying to digest the news I’d just heard. Brain cancer. Earlier that evening, within 5 seconds of pulling into the driveway, I received a frantic call from my husband. ‘No, no, no,’ the only coherent thought I was able to form.”
“The ‘love of my life’ went to prison. ‘Why?! Finally, I can get away from him! And now I’m carrying his child!?’ I was so scared. Once I had my daughter, I didn’t say a word. Until one night, she was 3 months old, he randomly shows up at my door at 9:00 p.m. When I opened it, my heart felt like it was in my throat. He just stood there and stared at her as I held her in my arms. She was his twin.”
“My phone rang. I could hear excitement in the social worker’s voice. I waited anxiously. ‘Sydney, we have a match. 18 months. Biracial. He’s perfect!’ He walked in. Little snowsuit on. Shy, but curious. He didn’t make a peep, but he took my hand. I cried the whole way home. 4 years. Thousands of tears. Millions of prayers. One phone call later. This was it.”
“I called the doctor. ‘It should be ok, sometimes people spot. Just come in when you’re back.’ The bright red spotting didn’t stop our entire beach trip. We get to the doctors, in the same ultrasound room as our last baby. I stare at the same ugly ceiling, look at the same vagina poster. I yearn for baby to be ok like the babies pictured in the hideous Sears-looking newborn photos on the wall. It was not ok. The words came once again. ‘I’m sorry.’ Silence. Again. 5 times.”
“We should’ve been on our way to pick him weeks ago. But morning after morning when I clicked on the tab in my web browser, I was greeted with the same disappointing message: ‘Pending.’ Until one morning, it changed. ‘I hate to tell you this news. He tested positive for Primary Koch Infection.’ ‘Primary what? What’s that?’ ‘CJ has $%*&-ing tuberculosis,’ I whisper-yelled to my husband.”
“Sometimes, my husband goes to bed before me. He turns off the big lights, and then turns on a lamp for me. It should be literally no big deal, right? Just a nice thing for him to do on his way to bed, in all reality. It has always annoyed me to my absolute core.”
“We gathered the willing victims. Each of us could hear our hearts pounding. Each of us felt our pulse with the seconds that ticked by. Each of us gasped a little as she rose up from the ground. Inch by inch by inch, her body rose up and floated, barely being supported by our fingers. My friend and I looked at each other, wide-eyed and surprised, mouthing the words, ‘it-works.’”
