Bruised bellies

By Róise

As I press the injection into my bruised belly, my mind wanders back over the moments, the hours, the days, the months, the years that led to this.

I see her, just a face in a bar; our first hello, a drink, a chat, some smiles, an excitement, jitters.

I see our love grow; dinners, dates, I love yous, nervous chats sharing what we each want…

A shared home, a ring, a promise.

I see our first appointment; talk of fertility, tests, sperm, eggs, heads full but hearts full too, brimming.

I see the day, the dancing, the I do’s, dancing under the stars and the love - all of the lovely love.

I see the first tablet, the first injection, the hope, the excitement, the exhilaration.

I see the first disappointment, the heartache and break, the tears, the embraces, holding each other from falling apart, the care and the kindnesses that rebuild.

I see the strength build again, and the efforts and the strength, the love and the pain – intertwined, interwoven, mashed up into one.

I see the lows – body bent over the sink, unable to stand, wrists grasping the taps, tears from the depths of within, the longing, the lost hope, the weakness, and the greatest worry, the worst fear – that it may never be.

Then I see the smiles - the rebuilt, rediscovered hope and joy, dates for scans, procedures, positive results, the beginnings… the fear to let yourself hope, but the desire to give it a go.

And now, the continued work - injections morning and night, tablets, acupuncture pins, vitamins, supplements, life changes, rest, treatments, medications, fridges, sharps bins, chemists, clinics, the money, hospitals – and waiting. 

So much waiting.
Waiting for results. 

Waiting for the day. 

Waiting for results of the day. 

Waiting for the next day. 

Waiting for the next and the next and the next..

I pull the needle out and wince at the sting.

I finally, tentatively start to see us as mothers. Mammy and mam, mum and mama. Our little family growing.

I see what might be – belly growing bigger, tears of joy telling friends, family, their hopes too; sickness, pushing, a newborn’s cry, skin to skin, tears of relief, exhaustion, cots, buggies, four hands joined on walks. Growing old, a family of three or four.

My poor, bruised belly will heal, our tears will turn to smiles, and we will mother, one day soon.