ChezPerky

One year ago tomorrow, I saw (and heard) three tiny heartbeats fluttering inside my belly. I was terrified and shocked. I had been ASSURED that there was no way I would have triplets. At no time did it look like all three babies would actually make it. And then those three heartbeats appeared and Dr. L's first words were, "Okay, so I'd like you to talk to someone about something called 'selective reduction' which I think will give you the best possible result. It will be the safest thing for you and the babies. We're looking for you to have, at most, a healthy twin pregnancy."

I fretted that some day my children would learn that I really DID consider reduction. I received so much pressure from a lot of doctors to reduce that pregnancy. And for some very good reasons… I'm five foot nothing, I have a history of stroke, a history of late miscarriage, my mother had 8 miscarriages that she knows of, and a number of other pretty serious risk factors without adding in the triplet factor. But I think even while I was rationalizing with myself all the reasons why it was okay to consider the possibility of reducing… I think I knew I'd never do it. I think I knew I could only consider it as an academic possibility, but I could never commit to it emotionally. Because from the instant I saw those three flickering heartbeats, I knew I had three babies growing inside me.

And six months ago, today, those three amazing wonderful babies were born. And I'm crying just thinking about it, because I'm a big blubbery mess about it, even now. I can't believe this amazing gift I was given after so many years of praying for children, and now I have them.

I've seen so much loss in the triplet world lately, and it hits me hard every time. I cannot imagine losing ANY of my four children. I cannot imagine if my trio weren't a trio anymore. I would feel like there was a giant piece of myself missing. I feel that way every day that I'm at work away from them, actually, cheesy as it sounds. It's like a piece of me is missing all day, until I get home and they smile at me and my world is whole again.

I recently participated in a market research interview on infertility and the interviewer clearly hadn't experienced infertility and didn't know a lot of people who had and I was trying to explain to her something about infertility and the emotional side of it and I said to her: "The arms of an infertile woman are heavy with the emptiness of the babies who should be in those arms." My arms are heavy with babies in them now, and I cry tears of joy at the gifts I've been given. I shed tears for the losses of others for the horrors they have suffered. And I still mourn the years of emptiness behind me.

Six months have passed since my babies were born. A year has passed since their heartbeats were first visible to me. Five and a half years have passed since the day I started trying to have children. Each of those periods is an eternity. And the best is yet to come.