A Coin Flip I Can’t Lose

I looked down at my son’s sleeping face. The awkward transition of puberty has made him almost unrecognizable from the early pictures and memories I have of him as he grows into his teenage form. But in this state of sleep, I can see the sweet innocence and soft features that captured my heart when I first saw his eyes, his smile, his cheeks - through the screen of my cell phone. I remember the almost electric shock I felt, as if a direct jolt from the universe, telling me this boy in my phone was meant to be here, in my life. Motherhood arrived in a way fitting for my life: chaotic, unplanned, thrilling, and requiring a leap of faith from everyone involved.

In that quiet moment as I sat at the foot of my son’s bed, my mind wandered back to a lonely late night trip to the emergency room. My husband was three thousand miles away in California for a wedding, and just days before had brought home our future baby’s first “onesie.” He saw it at a concert and we both smiled thinking how cool our little DC baby would be in his Anthem outfit. But not 36 hours later, I drove myself to the emergency room, straight from a swim team pre-All Stars dinner, to sit in a room and hear a nurse tell me, “Well you were pregnant, but you’re not anymore.”

I looked into her eyes, searching for some comfort, but instead she swiveled in her chair, closed the manilla folder containing a chapter of my life that was now erased in an instant. The late night staff on call shoved a few papers at me to sign and told me to watch for excessive bleeding, and have a good night. Once the elevator doors closed, my body released itself from fight or flight, and I sobbed.

The elevator stopped after two floors and a family got on. Their presence didn’t stop my sobbing, I couldn’t stop. I cried in the corner, clutching my meaningless paperwork, as we traveled down three more floors to the lobby. The family exited quickly, but the mother glanced back at me as she stepped out. Her eyes found mine, and she mouthed, “I’m sorry.”

I drove home in silence, no music, no podcast. I didn’t call my husband. I moved like a robot through the parking garage and made my way up to our apartment, crawled under the covers and went to sleep. Not even a week later, my sister sent me the first picture I would ever see of my son.

Holding my newborn nephew in his arms, his ice green eyes pierced through cellular wavelengths, hopelessly as if asking, “But what about me?”

I walked home from the market near the new house we’d just bought, still believing we were growing our family. I was so happy for my sister and her husband; after years of trying, they had finally become parents through adoption. While waiting for the baby, they met his older half-brother; a quiet, observant seven-year-old. Just a few days later, she sent me a picture of him holding his newborn sibling. His green eyes stared into the camera, as if searching. Hoping. And I couldn’t look away. At just seven years old, he knew his baby brother was getting a new home, new parents, a new life.

My husband was in the kitchen when I walked in from the market. He had seen the picture too.

“What if he came to live with us?” I asked my husband. Years later, he would recount to me that in that moment, he knew the second the words left my mouth, we were going to be the boy’s parents.

I never got to hear my son’s first words, or watch him take his first steps. My son was well beyond the major milestones of existence by the time he called me “Mom.” But in all the “firsts” I missed, I was overwhelmed with gratitude that I would be the one to get to see him grow up. However, I wasn’t ready for how fast it would happen.

Every parent warns you, “the days are long, but the years are short.” But maybe since we missed out on the newborn, infant, and toddler stages, I was blissfully unaware of just how fast a child can change, even when they are “older.” I regret now the moments I wasted worrying over ovulation strips and negative pregnancy tests after we decided to “try again,” and the deep, almost guttural anguish I felt when I heard his birth mother was pregnant, again - but raising the baby herself this time. I still shudder thinking of us all living the worst year of our life when adolescent growing pains clashed with the stagnation of middle-aged working mom monotony. But we came out the other side, stronger, happier, and bonded in a way that I can’t help but wonder might be stronger than if we were obligatorily bound by DNA.

My sleeping son stirred and I ached to touch his cheek to reassure him I was still there, that I always would be. Instead I smiled and tip-toed up the stairs to my waiting husband.

“He’s asleep,” I sighed.

“What took so long, it seemed quiet?” My husband knows bedtime can still wear on me, so he was kind to check in.

“Oh he’s been asleep, I was just watching him, thinking what it would have been like to have him as a baby…and if maybe…I want a baby?”

We talked about it occasionally, when sitting in Starbucks and a particularly adorable baby would stare over at us from a parents’ shoulder, or a chaotic toddler would dawdle past, seemingly mid-conversation with nobody. In the years we tried, there was another loss, corrective surgeries, and mental anguish. But now, life had finally settled. Would trying again risk the balance I’d worked so hard to rebuild?

“We could at least have an appointment,” my husband offered. And it was true - there was no harm in an appointment. My hopes were no longer hinged on two faint lines on a urine-soaked stick. Raising my son has been the single greatest thing I have ever accomplished, and if missing the first eight years of his life was the cost, then so be it. And if somehow we ended up with a baby, as I barrel towards forty, then sign me up. As long as that baby is ready to become a baseball fan and cheer their older brother on while he pursues his dreams playing high school baseball and beyond. It was a coin-flip I couldn’t lose, so, I pried open my laptop and requested an appointment.

The pandemic was awful, but if I could appreciate one lasting consequence, it was the ease of telemedicine. My husband and I huddled in front of his desk and sat in the “waiting room.” Soon the black screen flashed to a spinning circle before a man in seafoam scrubs appeared. I hadn’t seen him in years, but his eyes were still kind.

“Hello! It’s great to see you both,” he smiled, asking about our son. When we said he was starting high school, he leaned back and grinned wide.

“Oh wow! Has it been that long? That’s wonderful.” Then, more gently: “So, what do you want to do?”

My husband turned to look at me - he stared into my watering eyes, and just as he knew back then that I was so sure of bringing our son home the moment I uttered the words, he knew I was sure now. But this time I didn’t have to say anything.