The
day I started bleeding, John dug a hole for his mom’s dog. It was
really his grandmother’s dog, Billy. The day before we had been at his
grandmother’s memorial service. Surrounded by family, and babies, and
mothers and grandmothers. I was pregnant and so happy to be with
everyone even if they didn’t know.
I
woke up the next morning to a little blood. Everyone said it was
probably nothing, that spotting isn’t always something serious. John
dug this stupid hole and half way through he found a gas line. So he
stopped.
His
mom ended up cremating the dog and probably two weeks later we filled
the hole back in. A few weeks later I noticed this little green sprout
coming up from the hole. I figured it was a sugar berry or some other
junk tree, or had come up from the dead peach tree’s roots. I ignored
it.
It
got bigger and bigger and I swear it looked like a hydrangea. I had
wanted to plant one in the spot but had not bothered yet. Every day on
my way to and from work I would see this little plant getting bigger.
One day I noticed it had buds. What surely look like hydrangea buds. Who ever heard of a hydrangea sprouting out of nothing?
I’m
still not pregnant, and every month it’s been harder and harder for me.
I am fine for days at a time and then someone asks me if I’m pregnant
yet, or mentions that surely I’ll be pregnant soon (not knowing that I
already was pregnant) and it just kills me. I am so happy for all of my
friends who are pregnant or having babies, and I realize that almost
every woman before me has gone through this, but it really fucking
sucks.
That
plant is now in full bloom. Three gorgeous white hydrangeas. At
least, it gives me a bit of hope, even if the logical part of my brain
doesn’t care for signs or messages or anything of the sort.
