Rain

Part I

I am waking from a dream. No, a nightmare. My temple leans against the cool, foggy window and the sudden movement of the car shifting into gear pulls me forward, causing my head to lift. Consciousness rolls in and I remember why I am here. This is not a dream. 

I instinctively lower the window for air and the freezing February wind blasts through the darkness onto my face. My cheeks and hands are wet from tears. My body feels sore and foreign. Sobs roar out of me onto the icy river illuminated only by the lights lining the bridge we cross on our way home from the hospital. 

The next morning, the air in my bedroom feels cool and light. I pull the covers up over my shoulders. A chill runs through my body. I feel the weight of my heart in my chest. It is raining outside and I can hear the wind whipping viciously. The bare branches of the maple tree that stands in our yard stretch out in front of my second story window. They shake and rustle with an unsteadiness that resonates with my soul. It almost doesn’t make sense how trees can withstand the elements, holding onto their branches as they are pushed and pulled in every direction. Their twig-like frames look fragile and defenseless against the bold wind, almost as if God himself is trying to rip them apart. I know that if I went outside and looked in my front yard, I would find twigs and sticks laid out in front of me. The fallen ones. The ones removed from their mother tree. 

Part II 

The sensation of panic rising from my abdomen as my mind races to recall the date of my last period is not an unfamiliar one. Going back as far as my adolescence, I can remember thinking, what is going on, where is my period? A month would go by. Another week, and then another. I couldn’t possibly be pregnant, could I? I worried each time this waiting game played out. Even as a teen, and technically still a virgin, there were moments when I entertained medically impossible “scares.” What if I somehow got pregnant, even though we never had sex? Sperm can’t swim through denim, can they? I confided in my friends and less often, my mother. I was unconvincingly assured that sometimes our periods are late for no reason. This confusing monthly irregularity, paired with a desire to stay on developmental pace with my friends, led me to start taking oral contraceptives at sixteen. 

I would like to say everything leveled out nicely while I diligently clicked out my pill from the pink dial each evening. My breasts grew, my skin cleared, my fear of virgin pregnancy subsided; but my periods were worse than ever. More time, more pain, more blood. I went from hardly ever having a period to lamenting over the need for super tampons with my girlfriends. Yet, somehow this felt normal, more in line with what society and older women warned us about. I stayed vigilant with my pill popping and reminded myself of the benefits of having a regular cycle, as well as the protection from an unwanted pregnancy.  

It wasn’t until years later, at age thirty, I realized I may actually want to become pregnant sometime in the not so distant future. I decided it was time to relinquish myself from the daily ingestion of synthetic hormones. It wasn’t that I was certain about the timing or unquestionably ready to be a mom, I just wanted to see what would happen. Could my body regulate itself naturally? Would I get pregnant spontaneously? I had been married for two years by then. We both had stable jobs. It didn’t seem irresponsible. I can still remember the hard look I received from the nurse practitioner at my annual gynecologist appointment when I told her my plans to go cold turkey. It was not a good idea to go off the pill unless I was indeed ready to be pregnant, she warned. 

After months of anxiously waiting for a period that never came, I furthered my investigation by having a “full fertility workup” at the reproductive endocrinologist’s clinic. I was diagnosed with a form of Polycystic Ovary Syndrome, which was described to me as a collection of symptoms (most of which I never had) that resulted in infrequent or absent ovulation, thus causing late periods and difficulties becoming pregnant. I felt relieved in some ways to have cracked the mysterious code of my body. With a sliver of pride, I explained to a friend, “See, there must be something wrong with my hypothalamus. The hypothalamus is supposed to release a very specific hormone that triggers the pituitary gland to produce another hormone, and that hormone initiates ovulation. So, in my case, it all goes back to a faulty hypothalamus.” Back then, knowledge felt like power and gave me a sense of control.  

Shortly after my thirty-first birthday, my husband and I decided it was time to start actually trying to have a baby. After trying for several months to no effect, I returned to the reproductive endocrinologist’s office. I was given a prescription for a medication that would push my hypothalamus into drive and initiate ovulation in a timelier fashion. We followed that recipe to a tee for months. It was hard not to be consumed by it. The buildup, the waiting, the letdown. It just happened over and over, until one month something clicked. It was our eighth round of fertility medication. We had just had a visit with the doctor who told us, “If this time doesn’t work, we will try a more aggressive intervention.” 

I gave birth to a beautiful, healthy boy the following November, plunged into a life of new motherhood I was far from mentally or emotionally prepared for. Everything was moving so incredibly fast. As a new mom, I was overwhelmed on a visceral level. Overwhelmed with joy, with fear, with exhaustion, and with love. It felt like someone had picked up my life and drop kicked it into another stratosphere. Days turned into weeks, weeks into months. When my son’s first birthday rolled around, I finally recognized myself again. I had figured out some semblance of rhythm and began to loosen the tight grip I traditionally held on the steering wheel of my life. Along with my mind, my body seemed to return to some normalcy too. My cycles came and went. I hardly had the time to notice. 

Part III

Barely one month into 2020 the horizon appeared serene. I was no longer thrashing through the tidal wave of new motherhood. The chaos settled into a routine I felt we’d earned. We had a rare date night planned. I was digging through my closet in search of a particular pair of jeans when I was hit with a pinching sensation so sharp it caused me to bear down on my dresser. Cramps? Seriously? One week away from my 34th birthday and in literal gripping pain over menstrual cramps? 

My husband poked his head in and asked, “When will you be ready?” 

“Just give me ten more minutes,” I snapped, pulling on my jeans. In the bathroom, I found a bottle of ibuprofen in the cabinet. I swallowed two pills and shook off the pain, telling myself I must be ovulating. 

Two days later I found myself compulsively checking the time on my phone while waiting in the lobby of my ob-gyn’s office. When the nurse finally called me back, she casually asked, “How are you doing today?” I wanted to say, “Annoyed. Today, I am annoyed.” Annoyed to have what was beginning to feel and look like a second period in one month, annoyed my hormones were evidently going off the rails again, and annoyed I was wasting my time at this appointment on a Monday morning. Instead, I replied, “Fine. And you?” 

On any other day I would have been the one slowing down the pace of the appointment, but on this day, they couldn’t move fast enough. The wheels of the doctor’s stool glided across the floor until she met the corner of the counter and opened a miniature laptop. She posed a series of questions, which I confidently flicked responses back to. 

When was your last period? Two weeks ago.

Do you ever get pain during ovulation? Yes, I always feel it.

Do you have regular cycles? I have PCOS, nothing is regular. 

Is there any chance you might be pregnant? Absolutely not. 

After an ultrasound revealed a large cyst on my right ovary, I left the office with a tinge of resignation. It was suspected that my PCOS was rearing its ugly head again and that the cyst itself was not a significant concern. In fact, not much could be done, unless I wanted to go back on birth control to regulate my hormones.  A part of me still questioned why the pain was on my left side if the cyst was on the right? But I chalked it up to medical mystery and popped a couple more ibuprofen before heading into work. The pain was still there, but it was manageable.

The call came about an hour later. They wanted me back in the office, as soon as possible. Blood work needed to be done. I stammered on the phone after hearing, “a large mass on your left fallopian tube.” The brevity of the nurse’s responses infuriated me. What the hell was she talking about? Hadn’t I just been there and they said it was an ovarian cyst? Finally, she shifted her tone and explained in a voice that suggested something sensitive was happening. They suspected an ectopic pregnancy. 

Hearing those words flipped the switch in my brain that linked sensation to my body. I felt immediate pain flooding my system. I drove myself to the doctor’s office despite the surging pain like knives crashing into my side every few minutes. My husband made it just in time for the nurse to present my urine test results.

 “Well, you are pregnant,” she announced reluctantly. Then she explained that I needed to go straight to the emergency room.

My husband and I exchanged confused and disoriented glances as we listened and then rushed to the ER.  “I am in complete shock. I can’t even imagine what you must be feeling,” he said.

“Pain,” I replied, my voice labored. “I just feel pain.” 

The next two hours were a blur, mainly thanks to the morphine drip systematically pumping into my veins. Everything turned light and soft. Somehow, all the pain, both emotional and physical, was quieted. It had been confirmed that somehow, someway, in the midst of finally landing back on earth after what felt like a year in space, I had become pregnant. Despite all the odds and all the science, it had happened, and the embryo was implanted in my left fallopian tube. 

“So what do we do?” I asked quietly. My body lying limp on the hospital bed, monitors and tubes attached to it. 

My doctor’s eyes were steady but apologetic, in the way all medical professionals must be taught to look in situations that require such condolence. Before he even spoke, his sadness for us was so palpable I almost wanted to hop up and comfort him, to assure him that whatever it was, I would be okay. He told me there was no way to salvage my pregnancy. I would be going into surgery as soon as possible, not only to end the pregnancy I just learned of hours before, but also to remove my left fallopian tube, as they suspected it had burst. 

I stared back at him, my eyes wide and bleak. His words slowly registered through my morphine induced haze. “No! I can’t do that,” my voice raised to almost a shriek. 

By my side, my husband took my hand. “Just breathe,” he whispered. “We have to do this. It is for your own safety.” 

The doctor nodded empathetically at both of us.  “I’ll see you on our way into the OR,” he said. He turned and briskly pushed through the curtain partition, leaving us alone. 

The nurses moved in and out of the room like little machines, each one seeming to hold an individual responsibility in preparing me for surgery. 

“If you are wearing any jewelry, please take it off,” one instructed.  

“We are ready to move her,” another woman announced to the room. She introduced herself as a hospital transporter, and maneuvered the bed I was on out of the tiny room and through the hallways. 

At the threshold of the operating room, six or seven people in head to toe scrubs congregated, my doctor included. They were all waiting for me. As I was wheeled to the crowd, each individual quickly gave me their names and roles in the surgical procedure. My husband and I kissed goodbye and someone pushed me into the operating room. 

Confined to the visitor waiting area, my husband was struck with the realization that, despite our infertility history, somehow, we had made a baby, without even trying. If every cloud really does have a silver lining, that would be ours, right? The fact that I was able to get pregnant again, without any medical intervention. Still, dark clouds loomed overhead. After the surgery, the doctor explained that the trauma from the internal bleeding resulting from the ectopic may have damaged the remaining tube. It needed several months to heal before we could conduct a test to see if it was functioning. 

Part IV

Two weeks until the true beginning of summer, but in some ways, it is already here. Days lengthen. The humidity thickens. The cold wind of February feels like a distant memory. The trees have grown full of new life. The edges of their soft, green leaves curl on the warmest days. 

There is white wine chilling in the refrigerator. I pour myself a glass as my mind reviews the instructions the nurse gave me over the phone earlier in the day. Next Thursday, eight AM, four ibuprofen, main lobby, registration desk. My hysterosalpingography. A term even the nurse can barely pronounce. An x-ray test, to see if my surviving fallopian tube is functioning. Four months have already passed since that nightmarish day in February. No more waiting, no more wondering. By this time next week, the test will be over, the test that will dictate whether or not I can naturally conceive again. There is no amount of preparation that can increase my odds. 

Setting my glass of wine on the dinner table, I notice the room darken as a pack of clouds shade the sun. I place two sets of forks and knives neatly on their folded, white paper napkins and walk to the front window. Rain is coming. Dark clouds approach in the distance, ominously engulfing the sky behind the pointed peaks of the house across the street. In the kitchen, a large pot of water boils. The rapid bubbles make a gurgling sound loud enough to drown out the clicking of the rain drops as they hit the window pane. I turn the dial on the range down a bit before dropping the shucked ears of corn into the steamy water one by one. Out back, individual droplets speckle the bluestone patio. Slowly at first. Their shapes melt together until the stone glistens, revealing its deep purple undertones.

Remembering that my husband and son took a stroll before dinner, I peek out front to see if they are walking (or more likely, running) home in the rain. But they aren’t scurrying down the sidewalk or even trying to get back inside. They are safely sheltered under the branches of the maple tree. This time, in this season, the fresh leaves on her branches are not swayed by the elements. She is still as the rain pours down on her, allowing it to flow through her, to nourish her instead of challenge her. 

Barefoot in the grass, with our son hoisted on his hip, my husband holds out his hand as a few drops of water fall between the beautiful, green leaves onto his palm. Our little boy’s face lights up with wonder, and he echoes his father, “Rain.” 

-Lauren Royer

Lauren is a school psychologist living in Pennsylvania with her husband and son. Most of her writing happens in the context of psycho-educational evaluations but she also writes for fun and catharsis every chance she gets.