The houses behind the ones at the end of our cul-de-sac were on fire as I frantically packed some belongings. Photo: Chad Kean
I?m pregnant. And all it took to conceive was a massive fire in Fort McMurray, Alta., that completely destroyed our home and everything that we had worked so hard to put in it.
But let me back up a bit.
In November 2014, I had a destination wedding in Jamaica. I?d been on birth control for fifteen years, but the day before the wedding, I took my last pill. We hoped we might conceive our first child while we were away.
We didn?t. And eight months later, we still hadn?t conceived.
Thus began our infertility journey?one that would involve bloodwork, ultrasounds, diagnoses, procedures, medications, hope and heartbreak. And yet, despite the two miscarriages that would follow?one on New Year’s Eve, of all days?I wouldn?t find out until the spring of 2016 just how much hope and heartbreak can intertwine. We were preparing for another trip to Jamaica, this time to attend a wedding, and my husband and I had agreed that we?d take this cycle off so I wouldn?t be pregnant on the trip. No ovulation testing, no timing intercourse, and none of the old wives’ tales for conceiving that I had been trying incessantly in the past. But I broke my promise and did an ovulation test in the middle of my cycle. It was positive. My husband was at the bachelor party, so I waited up half the night for him to return, in the hopes of getting one try in before truly ...