“So, how many children do you have?”
Immediately I looked down as a lump began to form in my throat, and tears slowly filled my eyes. I debated on whether I should give you the answer on my heart or the one I had rehearsed. But when I wiped away a tear that had snuck its way down my face, I noticed you were starting to fidget and shift in your seat. I could sense you scrambling to excuse yourself from the conversation, and I knew at that moment you weren’t ready for my answer. At least not the one on my heart.
And so instead, I flashed you a smile to let you know it was okay, and then I gave you the answer I had rehearsed. But it’s not because I didn’t want to talk about them or the incredible imprint they have left on my heart. It’s not even because I am ashamed of my story, but simply because I was afraid…
I was afraid you wouldn’t be able to understand that those eight precious embryos that were lost in a lab and the two that survived only a short time in my womb meant the world to me. They were the beautiful combination of me and my husband’s genes created in love and hope… they were our ten beautiful children…
I was afraid you wouldn’t understand that those “dots,” tiny as they were, were just as precious in my sight and God’s sight as any other beautiful baby born to full term.
I was afraid you wouldn’t be able to understand that even though they were only five days past conception, God had already picked their hair textures, given them their eye colors, and branded them with unique personalities –all of which I often catch myself wondering about.
I was afraid you wouldn’t be able to understand that despite never hearing their heartbeat or feeling them kick, toss, or twirl inside of me, I had already developed an unbreakable bond. And I had already dreamed a million dreams for their lives and pictured a thousand moments they would live to remember…
I was afraid you wouldn’t be able to understand the guilt I so often feel and painfully carry around because if it were not for me and my decision to pursue in vitro fertilization, this wouldn’t have happened to them. And it hurts…
I was afraid you wouldn’t understand that my ten embryos, as “early in the game” as they might have been, were boys who would have fished with their daddy and little girls who would have one day held his finger as they twirled around in their ruffled dresses. And had each of them survived, they would have grown up to be someone’s best friend, perhaps lead a lost soul to Christ, or even become the president…
I was afraid you wouldn’t understand the grief spasm I might have if I do mention them to you. It’s nothing scary, just a few moments, maybe minutes, where I start to cry because I begin to replay my darkest days. And I begin to think about how it’s been four tiring years, and I still long for a baby to be in my arms…
I was afraid you wouldn’t understand that every embryo created, even though it was inside of a lab, was a life to me. A life that, no matter how short-lived, was meaningful and special. A life that changed who I am today. And a life that I will always view as a person. Because as Dr. Seuss says, a person is a person, no matter how small.
Even microscopically small.
Maybe one day, I will be able to share with you about these precious lives that have left an incredible imprint on my heart. And maybe I’ll be able to do it without being afraid of what you might think or fearful of how you will react. But until then, until I think you will be able to understand my unique grief that comes from a unique loss, I will continue to smile and give you my unique answer. It’s the one which I rehearsed and the one in which I proudly say, “I hope one day I will have more than ten.”
Because I do still hope.
I believe God is not finished writing my story. I have hope He is not finished in His pursuit to fulfill the desires He has placed in my heart. And I cannot help but dream of the day I am rocking a baby in my arms…a sweet baby whose eyes, ears, nose, and mouth will look like the ones his ten brothers and sisters would have had too.
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