By Alyssa Silvester

My phone rings, and Hubs, the affectionate nickname assigned to my husband Nick, lights up on the display.

“Is she in yet?” he asks.

“Not yet,” I sigh. “I’ve been waiting in her office for thirty minutes. This is worse than being stuck in traffic.” I refold the sleeves on my favorite chambray shirt and wiggle my foot. Electricity pulses in my stomach and out my fingertips. I analyze the artistic rendition of DNA, a twirling ladder in pastels, hanging behind the doctor’s desk. Shades are half closed to provide privacy and cast slanted strips of light across the room.

The door finally swings open, and the doctor walks in. She sits at her desk after three efficient steps.

“Nick is on speaker phone,” I say, gesturing to my phone. My green notebook and purple pen lay next to it.

“Hi, Nick,” the doctor says. She nods, opens her computer, clicks a few buttons.

“Most of your lab results came back normal,” she declares, her eyes fixated on the computer screen. What she says next begins to shatter my dreams: “Except for one hormone level.” I furrow my brow. “It indicates you don’t have much time.”

The office feels warm now, and I push up my sleeves. I wish Nick were next to me, holding my hand. Instead he is across town at a different hospital, waiting to perform his own diagnostic procedures as a physician.

“Given the months you’ve been trying, your age, and your prior two healthy pregnancies, I consider yours to be a case of Unexplained Age-Related Infertility.” She looks up from my chart to meet my eyes. She brushes shoulder length brown hair off her shoulders, and the DNA charm hanging from her necklace shifts with the movement. “You can give it a few more cycles before seriously considering fertility treatments if you’re set on a third baby.”

I scribble every word she says in my notebook, hand cramping as I try to keep up with her. I write down chances for success, what should be occurring on which cycle days, and what fertility treatments would look like.

“Wow, you’re certainly a good student,” she remarks, gesturing at my detailed notes. I always have been, I want to tell her. Stellar grades. Impeccable references. Multiple promotions. Long-distance runner. But at this moment, the only accomplishment that seems to matter is my inability to surrender.

“Do you have any questions?” She interrupts my running tally of successes.

“I don’t think so,” I squeak, the shock of her diagnosis sitting in my throat. “Nick?”

“No questions from me,” he states.

“Hopefully you’ll call back when you’re pregnant. If not, call back on the first day of your cycle, and we’ll schedule you from there.” She speaks with the nonchalance and warmth of a customer service representative organizing a dryer delivery. I wait until I get in the car to burst out crying.

***

Almost two and a half years before that doctor appointment, my second child was born—only twenty months after my first—and life felt like being on a tilt-a-whirl. I was dizzy, ungrounded, and someone was always puking. The world was coming out of COVID, my family was finishing a military commitment, and we moved, again.

“I’m ready to get a vasectomy,” my husband declared when our daughter Anne was two months old.

When we married, Nick and I decided we wanted at least two children. He grew up with one brother less than two years older, and they still make it a priority to visit one another. I grew up in a family of five, and I loved the camaraderie of two siblings, skiing with my brother and playing dolls with my sister. While pregnant with Anne, I took for granted the way my belly stretched and the private dance parties she and I shared nightly. Would I really never be pregnant again? Did I enjoy it enough? Would Anne not have the chance to be a big sister?

My heart beat rapidly, and my inner voice shouted, “This isn’t the end!” For the first time, I realized I always imagined I would have three children. After months of tears, discussion, and Nick’s waning certainty, we agreed to wait on a decision. So, we moved bins of baby clothes and gear across the country. They filled the attic in our new house like a swollen belly.

A year and a half later, life began to feel more stable. We settled into our forever home and adjusted to civilian life. Nick excelled at his job. Our neighborhood and church became our source of community through Bible studies, pool parties, and park dates. We celebrated our seventh wedding anniversary with whisky cocktails and roasted lamb. Our nightly prayers now included discernment for expanding our family.

One Sunday after church, Nick and I sat on our couch while the children napped. We completed final homework for our children’s church dedication, contemplating who we hoped our children would become. I leaned forward to look into the dining room at our table. My eyes focused on the two booster seats between two regular chairs. “I think there should be one more person sitting here, with us,” I confessed.

“I think so too,” he agreed.

“I wonder who God has for us,” I replied, moving closer to him to hold his hand.

We smiled broadly, and I snuggled into him. Will we have a son or a daughter? Those newborn snuggles! Will the kids share a room? I’m so glad we didn’t get rid of anything!

The next day, I woke up with pain like a tornado ravaging my body. Knife stabs began in my lower back and continued down my leg. Lightning coursed through my SI joint, hip, and hamstring. It landed in my calf and caused muscles to spasm, constricting and releasing with raging intensity. I wept into my pillow and hobbled out of bed. The only relief I found was laying flat on my back on our wood floor.

Unable to drive, walk, sleep, or sit without intense pain, not one area of my life escaped unscathed. I spent the next eight months in physical therapy and orthopedic physician appointments. The source of my injury was unknown; doctors surmised it was a culmination of regular physical activity, growing and delivering babies, and mothering small children. I completed physical therapy exercises with religious fervor instead of pushing physical limits on the Peloton bike.

It’s not supposed to be this way. I was in the best shape of my adult life just months ago.

***

I glance at the black and white wedding photos hanging above my bed, taken just after our first dance. Nick’s hand rests on my lower back, and my bejeweled feather hairpiece spins with us. I can still hear the opening notes to Thinking Out Loud and feel Nick’s eyes on me like the sun.

I place my feet on the floor and take a deep breath in and out. I look back at the computer screen in front of me, the familiar face of my therapist materializing. We have been meeting remotely together for the past eighteen months. She waits for me to respond.

“I don’t feel in control of my body,” I tell her. I take another deep breath to gather the courage to say out loud what I’ve been thinking for the past four months. “Between my injury and infertility diagnosis, it feels like my body is failing me.” I wipe away tears gathering on my bottom lashes. “This is too heavy.”

“Can you think of another time something felt too heavy?” she asks. My room darkens when a cloud moves in front of afternoon sun streaming through the open double window.

Silence fills the room. I look at the overhead fan whirling above. I think back to Spring 2020. My stomach clenches, and anxiety stabs tiny incisions in my sides. The pandemic. My husband’s deployment. My pregnancy. Our unwanted move.

“How did that turn out?” she probes, gently.

“It was so hard,” I confess. Throbbing begins in my forehead and threatens to take siege behind my eyes. “We fought it as best we could.” My cat squeezes in through my cracked bedroom door and weaves around my ankles, her fur like velvet on my legs. “But it ended up better than I could have imagined,” I finish.

“Tell me about it,” she nods in encouragement.

“I made the very best friends.” My mind flashes to daily play dates with neighbors. “And I made our temporary house feel like home.” The cloud moves on, and my bedroom is full of light once more.

“How did you do that?” my therapist asks. She tilts her head, and her long brown hair ripples like a wave.

“I hung pictures on the wall.” I smile thinking of all the frames Nick and I attached with command strips in our rental. “I opened the door to people who became like family.” I exhale and clasp my hands over my heart.

“I’m hearing about your resiliency,” she encourages with eye contact. “I’m hearing how you created joy, just for you, even though you knew it was temporary.”

“You’re right,” I say with surprise and shake my head up and down.

“How do you think you could hang pictures in your current season,” she challenges me. “What might it look like to search for opportunities for joy in the midst of pain?”

“I don’t know,” I admit and look at my dresser instead of the camera. A truck screeches outside.

“I’m not saying it’s easy, but I am saying you’ve done it before, and I bet you can do it again.” I turn to meet her eyes, and she smiles at me. Our session ends, and I contemplate her suggestion.

***

Later that day, with arms wrapped around my toddlers in my lap, I realize it’s something I couldn’t do with a round full belly. I inhale the faint scent of cotton on their damp, post-nap heads while I read—their warm bodies melting into mine. My heart hopes for complete healing and a fulfilled dream for a third child, but I acknowledge it might not happen. I sit with both the joy and sadness.

I recline on the couch and open a book. My cat jumps on my lap and meows until I rub her belly. Choosing physical rest to read and write instead of exercise when my body aches brings relief. My pulse slows, and my shoulders relax.

At dinnertime, I relish the citrusy tang of lime in Nick’s homemade margaritas. The drink swirls in crystal tumblers and ice cubes clink when our glasses tap together. Today, I am determined to savor fleeting moments.

The next morning I sit at our porch table with all windows open. Bright morning sun dances around pine trees to illuminate the room. With my purple pen in hand, I lift the cover of my green notebook and begin to write, "Where can I hang pictures?"

Guest essay written by Alyssa Silvester. Alyssa is a Type A Midwesterner who cares for her people through home cooked meals and words of affirmation. She lives in Hoover, Alabama—a born Michigander turned Washingtonian turned Southerner through her family’s journey in military medicine—with her husband, preschoolers (son and daughter 20 months apart), and two cats. Alyssa loves a good spreadsheet, seasonal decorations and foods, great books, and her Peloton streak. You can connect with her online at her blog, Alyssa’s Writing.

Photo by Jennifer Floyd.