Day 2396: As I sat in the waiting room at the hospital, nervous and eager to be seen, I am surrounded by children everywhere I look. A crying two-year-old, a fussing four-year-old, a woman with infant twins that looks so exhausted, I think she might just fall asleep while she is waiting in these uncomfortable chairs. It takes all I can to not burst into tears from the jealousy and envy I feel building up inside of me.
I want, so badly, what they have.
And maybe someday I will get it. But right now, there are just tests and needles and doctors and referrals, and I know they just have to be able to help us, but the longer we wait, the harder it is. This heartbreak is defeating me one blow at a time and I fear that I will soon have no hope left. I fear that every day, I am waiting for something that might never happen. Waiting for something we might never get to have. And that hurts.
It hurts in the supermarket with the kids begging for cookies, or at the work party with the teens hugging their parents. It hurts at the park where every child wants to pet my dog, and at my friends house when I hold her beautiful baby. It hurts when I see that negative test and know that it's just another month to tack onto the end of the timeline of when we will finally get to hold that perfect little miracle in our hands. When we will finally get to have what we have been waiting for, for so long.
And I know it will be worth it. I know that every time I cried, every time I broke down, every time I felt like I couldn't go on will disappear when our time finally comes.
