I’ve walked to the Hudson River every day for almost a decade.
We win a middle-income housing lottery apartment within walking distance of it. The rent is still “too damn high” but it has two rooms and we hope to grow into it.
I have been on the East Side of Manhattan for 12 years, I have forgotten that sunsets are a thing. The first few months we run to the pier every night to watch it.
After a couple years of trying and failing to fill our second bedroom we start looking at our options. I've always dreamed of adopting. My husband thinks we should do IVF. After endless research and discussions, although both options are wildly costly and full of potential heartbreak, we decide to start with IVF.
I go to the river to look at it and remain hopeful, it watches as I try.
The first round doesn’t work. My hope remains. I notice a wind chime has been added to the pier. I promise myself every time I hear its ringing it means my baby is coming, there is still hope.
Day in day out, needles in needles out. Waiting, failed cycles, bad news, waiting, failed cycles, bad news. When finally different news comes – I’m pregnant! But why does the nurse sound so unhappy? She says my beta number (a hormone level) is low. Did you know you can be “kind of pregnant?” I sure didn’t.
Three weeks have passed. My beta is still low but growing. They say there is a 50/50 chance of survival, I obsessively scour the internet for more information.
I walk to the river, I watch as it stays, it watches as I pray.
Five weeks have passed. My beta is growing, slowly but surely, my ultrasound shows a small empty bubble. They say we wouldn’t be able to see anything else yet and it’s good that it’s there. I am in awe of the bubble.
I try to will it into existence. I begin listening to Queen’s “Don’t Stop Me Now” on my walks. I stand at the river and put my headphones to my uterus, I hope the song inspires whatever is going on in there to keep going.
I listen to the river lap against the docks, it listens as I talk to my body out loud.
Six weeks have passed. The bubble has grown, the beta has grown. Our usual doctor is out, there is a substitute. He doesn’t know our story. He does my ultrasound and is very blunt. He says it's highly unlikely to be a normal pregnancy.
I look at the river as it is, the river watches my denial.
Seven weeks have passed. My doctor is back. We check on my bubble. My silent dark bubble. There is nothing to listen to. There is nothing there. He says we’ll check back in one more week just in case. I listen to the wind chimes.
I miscarry in slow motion, not totally believing it until the final ultrasound. I go to the river.
I look at its beauty and life, it watches me cry.
In some cruel twist of fate, someone takes down the wind chime. Months pass, and I’m in shock at the devastation I feel. People tell me over and over how common it is. It does not feel common. It feels primal, I feel broken. I stop feeling hope. There is only silence.
I sign up for therapy. I burn a piece of paper with a secret note to myself to try to let go, I throw the ashes into the river. I look at the water and wonder if it’s sick of watching me cry. I know I am.
Six months pass, we take a cross-country trip. We see old friends, it is refreshing, I buy a bright yellow coat. Life starts to move forward. We decide to try yet again. We have two embryos left.
When they “transfer” the embryo into you they first show you a giant projection of it in a petri dish with your name labeled on it to confirm it’s the right one. I know, it’s weird. Something feels different this time when I look up at it. I try not to let the feeling turn into hope. I know where that leads.
I watch as the river passes by, it watches as my tears dry.
The phone call finally comes. I wish to be either pregnant or not, but nothing in between. The nurse tells me she’s sorry, I’m pregnant, but the beta is low. Again. I am numb. I try not to care.
My beta grows a little faster this time. I attempt to remain neutral. I delete “Don’t Stop Me Now” from my playlist. I crave peanut butter sandwiches all the time. I try not to think about it. I uncharacteristically fall asleep in the middle of the day, it must be the stress, I tell myself.
I go to the river, it is hard not to feel hope when looking at it.
6 weeks pass and I dread the appointment, it’s the bubble appointment. I can’t get the image of the empty bubble out of my mind, I don’t want to look. The doctor puts the ultrasound roller on my stomach, there is the bubble. He squishes to a tiny spot, there is what looks like a grain of rice, He says that’s my baby. I say, “are you sure??” He is offended and tells me how many babies he’s seen. I’m not listening, I'm in awe of my grain of rice. We can’t hear the heartbeat yet. He says that is normal. I try not to hope.
I listen for the wind chime. It is still gone.
It is week 8 when we hear it, the steady beat, the bubble, the grain. I still have trouble believing it. I realize I’d rather enjoy the time with my rice grain, however short or long it may be. I embrace my little grain.
I watch the river as it flows, it watches as I grow.
My baby is born, I knew her before I met her. I understand the ‘twinkle in your eye’ saying, but for me it is more like a speck, in a petri dish. She is everything to me. When we go to the river I only watch her now, is she in her stroller right? Does she need her pacifier?
I watch her as she naps, and the river continues its quiet laps.
My daughter is getting bigger. She's learning to walk, I take her to the pier, we practice in the grass. I hear a sound, the most beautiful sound. The wind chime is there. I don’t know who took it away or who put it back. I half wonder if it was just a trick of the mind, that I had been so blinded by grief that I couldn't see or hear it.
We listen to the tinkling chimes, we feel the breeze from the river.
A baby book inspired by this experience, It Had To Be You, is available now.
