There’s a patch of sun on my patio. It’s one of those weird warm days in the middle of winter in Denver. The air smells good, like damp dirt and spring. I’ve got no where to be so I’m still in my pajamas. The dogs are combing through the yard enjoying the warmth. It’s quiet, but I can hear cars and motorcycles driving in the distance. It’s quiet because my baby is asleep just on the other side of the door inside the house. As I’m sitting in the tiny patch of sun, a sudden wave of nostalgia rushes over me. For a second I’m wondering why this feels so familiar. It’s a mix of fear, hope, and a little bit of, well-let’s-just-see-what-happens. It’s because around this time last year, in this same sun patch, I was having these feelings about starting my meds for our embryo transfer.
Thinking back, even though I was scared of another failure, more needles, more bad news phone calls, in a weird way, I actually enjoy feeling those scary memories now … because it didn’t fail and I know I got through it…I’m safe in the present.
It’s funny how deeply ingrained our five senses are to memory. In addition to the nostalgia, I remember the smell of the soap I washed my hands with before doing an injection. I remember the smell of the alcohol wipes. I remember the ringtone on my cell phone. I remember the voice of my nurse telling me that I was pregnant. And I remember this sun patch.