Wendy, her husband and their pup. Photo: Wendy Litner
I was certain my seventh round of fertility treatments had worked. Unlike the other six cycles, there was no spotting this time?no bright flash of pink that left me Googling ?IVF and bleeding? with trembling hands.
Not getting my period was monumental, but there were even bigger signs. On the morning of my pregnancy test, there was a yellow baby blanket lying on the sidewalk?an obvious foretelling of a baby to come. And then there was a vanity licence plate on the car in front of mine on the way home, displaying the very name I had picked out. My mother passed away 11 years ago and this, to be sure, was a message straight from her, telling me I was pregnant and that she liked the strangely artsy name I was going to call the baby she would never meet. ?Can you believe it"!? I said, calling my husband to tell him the news. ?It?s finally our turn.?
I was giddy, flushed with love for him and for our baby. This is the story I would tell my baby about her conception and her name, making the years of hardship and money and injections all worthwhile. When you are dealing with such grand expressions from the universe, you don?t need a nurse to call and give you blood test results. I didn?t even answer the phone when she called. I was pregnant?I just knew it.
Except I wasn?t pregnant, nor will I ever be with a child that is genetically mine and my husband?s. My husband, Stephen, and I had conceded to using a sperm donor fiv...