Facebook Status: Jan. 22. 2009 – I swear if I keep crying over babies Im gonna dry up. Patience damn it.
My son, Hunter Daniel, was born on Tuesday, February 2, 2010 at 8:35pm. The road to that delivery was a tear stained, perilous road but one I would repeat in a heartbeat for the gift it has given me.
I can’t tell you when the mother-bug bit me. But it was something I could not deny, ignore, or live without. But desire is not always enough. Through testing, several procedures and tons of waiting and planning…I learned I was unable to carry a child. I sank into one of the deepest depressions I have ever known. And to understand why, I have to share something that has haunted me for years.
When I was sixteen, I’d suddenly started sleeping a lot, felt achy…just didn’t feel like myself. At the time, I was clueless as to why. I didn’t understand my own body…let alone these new traits. I climbed into a warm bath and accidentally fell asleep. When I woke up, the water was red and my body felt like it was being crushed from the inside out. I was in an ocean of my own crimson life. And the life of what would later be known as the soul I miscarried. Because I didn’t go to a doctor immediately…because I shamefully didn’t tell anyone I knew…my uterus suffered scarring and damage from being untreated. It would be over a decade before I would learn that my body treated a pregnancy like a full blown sickness – doing all that it could to kill off the “virus” inside of me.
Fast forward a decade and you’d have found me bawling my eyes out in a doctors office – calling myself a dirty, disgusting whore, a broken piece of shit who knew sex before I knew what puberty was. Though the earlier situations were not by choice, I held a sense of shame for each and every one of those unwanted touches and penetrations. I lost that unborn soul ten years before because my body was tainted. And now…I was a barren field of snow.
But the doctor refused to wash her hands of me. “By the end of this,” she said, “you will be pregnant.” I wanted to believe her…but I didn’t. I saw the doctor weekly, test after test draining every ounce of my being. And nothing. Finally, she sat me down and asked me what was going on in my life – my schedule, my sleep, my lifestyle. I left no stone unturned. After some silence, she told me she didn’t think medication was going to fix me. Without hesitation, probably sensing my oncoming manic attack, she put it simply, “you’re stressed out. You need a vacation.”
Modern medicine couldn’t make me stop killing anything that remotely resembled a child. But a vacation would. What a quack…
A weekend at Wolf Creek Lodge followed.
Exactly 3 months later, I was scheduled to get my period. But I knew. I took, what felt like, the millionth pregnancy test…and it had two lines. TWO LINES. TWO FRIGGEN LINES!!!!
And so…the light of my life was on the way.