Our baby is the size of a blueberry. Though, I feel like the size of a whale.
I’ve known I wanted to be a mom since I was a little girl. I remember combing my dolls hair with so much love and rocking them to sleep. I was constantly reminded by my mother that my brothers have a mom and I do not need to tell them what to do (though being bossy is in my nature).
I’ve been tinkling on sticks for months and kept getting one measly line. I was surprised how much it disappointed me each time. Stupid, faint, pink line.
It was the night the Boston Marathon bomber was caught. A long day at work and I came home to tinkle on a stick. I saw one line creeping in and threw the whole thing in the bath tub.
I told Joe, “Well it will never happen!” And I poured myself a glass of wine.
Our eyes were glued to the news for the next few hours until applause in Boston and the bad guy was caught. I needed to hurry to bed so I could get up and re-cap for the early Saturday show. I headed into the bathroom and leaned in to grab the dumb stick I’d tossed only to see it—- Was this true? How did this happen? Two lines! Two lines! Two lines!
I ran out and screamed for Joe, I think he thought I fell or was going into cardiac arrest. He hates when I scare him like that and I do it all the time. I have the exact same reaction if a car is braking two miles ahead of us, or if a man with a knife walked through our front door.
Some call it dramatic— I call it living in the moment.
I took another test and there it was— two lines. We both just stared at one another in shock. Holy cow. Now what do we do? And boy was I glad I sucked down one quick glass of wine before I knew!
We waited 2 whole days to tell our parents. It was the most difficult secret I’ve ever kept. Hearing the joy in my mom and dad’s voice from over the phone was amazing. Seeing a flicker of joy in Joe’s mom’s eyes was something we haven’t seen since before his dad died 8 months ago. We all felt so good and said, “This, finally, is our year.”
Fast forward to the next week. Joe had blood tests on Wednesday. We saw the baby doctor to confirm the pregnancy on Thursday. Then on Friday, a cat scan for Joe. Why yes it was a bit of a rollercoaster, thank you for asking.
A lymph node is small– about the size of a blueberry. The damn thing is lighting up like a Christmas parade on the scans and the doctors are “concerned”. I hate when doctors use that word.
The cancer snuck in through some crack in Joe’s body and has made a tiny home in his lymph node. It’s so cozy. We’re worried it’ll invite friends and family, they’ll all take out a mortgage on a node and then get really greedy and take over ‘Liver Estates’. Cancer is known for gluttonous behavior.
The day we got the call from the doctor we mourned. Joe cried anytime we talked about the baby. “Will I even be here to see it grow up?”
“What if you’re a single mom?”
He never likes to remember these things he says, but I do. They knock the wind out of you.
The reason I already love this baby blueberry growing inside me is because it’s not letting me stay in that place of sadness. I can’t. I have to create a zen, nurturing place for the berry to nest.
So that’s where we’ll stand. We’ll knock out the tiny lymph node with the love for our tiny growing blueberry.
It leaves you wondering, how can something so small fill you with so much hope? And, how can something so small fill you with so much fear?