Olivia Folmar Ard

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Dear Future Baby

Originally written December 11, 2016.

Originally written December 11, 2016.

Dear Future Baby, 

You're pretty special. You haven't even been conceived yet, but your dad and I talk about you almost every day. We have a long list of names carefully chosen for their meanings or a respectable namesake. We wonder aloud what you'll look like, who you'll act like, what interests you'll have and what your personality will be. We make a list of all the books we want to read to you, and all the fun things we want to do with you.

We have wanted you for a long time. Even before we bought a house with enough room for you, even before we were married, the thought of one day meeting you warmed our hearts. In our dreams, you came right when we wanted you, but reality is different. It requires more.

We have poured everything we have into making you a reality over the past 398 days. We have held one another and cried month after month when we found out you weren't here yet. We have heard disappointing news.

I have had vials of blood drawn, tests run, levels measured. I spent a month doubled over with nausea as my body acclimated to metformin. At the end of each cycle, I take a week's worth of Provera and pray my body finally learns what to do with a fervor I did not know I had. I muscle through the backaches and the emotional outbursts and the dizziness and all the other side effects and your dad and I join hands and face the new month together. I take a small yellow pill for five days that makes my head ache and steals my sleep from me and I pray some more. I stare at the small pastel box that cost $143 and I hope that this Thursday, after I lose all sense of privacy for fifteen minutes, the doctor will inject the box's contents in my hip. 

This is what I want you to know: you're worth it. Every tear, every sleepless night, every prescription, every pin prick, every bruise. Every moment of discomfort and uncertainty and pain. Every headache and pharmacy bill and procedure. I will do it all as many times as it takes, and if I had to I would start over at the beginning, because I love you. We love you. 

Son or daughter, near or far away, flesh and bone or gift from someone else's heart--we love you. And we will wait for you as long as it takes.

For more information on our journey through infertility, please click here