He removed a black velvet box from his pocket and handed it to me to open. Blushing in both anticipation and slight intoxication, I gently lifted the lid to find a small cross lined in flawless diamonds. It was attached to one of the prettiest, most delicate white gold necklaces I had ever seen.
“Eric, it’s stunning. Really beautiful. Thank you.” My eyes welled up with tears. I couldn’t take my eyes off the necklace — or the diamonds twinkling in the candlelight.
“I thought you deserved a real treat, Nicky. I was having lunch in Yorkville last week and walked by a little jewellery store. I saw the cross in the window, and I instantly wanted you to have it.” Eric looked down at the chicken Marrakesh he was eating and cleared his throat. “I thought you could wear it as our sign of hope. We will be parents, Nic. I know it. I feel it with every part of me, and I want you to believe it too.”
Listening to his words, an array of emotions took over: gratitude and adoration for the husband who loved and understood me in a way I didn’t even think was possible. Sorrow for the guilt I knew Eric had carried with him since he learned about the source of our problems. And absolute heartbreak for what we were going through as a couple.
We would be wonderful parents. We deserved the chance to prove it. To have a baby of our own. Yet, for a reason neither of us could imagine, we had been dealt the shittiest of hands in the game of fertility.
I scooted around the table to join him, handed him the box and lifted my hair. “Will you put it on me, please? It’s so beautiful. I never want to take it off.” I turned my back to Eric to make it easier for him to put it on me. Expertly, he worked the clasp. I turned back to face him, kissing him slowly and fervently in an effort to show my gratitude and hint at what was to come.
When we parted, the waiter approached, indicating it was time for dessert. “May I bring you something? A brulée royale perhaps?”
I shook my head no, but Eric had a different idea. “I’ve definitely got room for dessert. The molten oasis, please. Two spoons.” Eric winked at the waiter, knowing my obsessive love of chocolate.
When it arrived, I forgot about being full and dove in. Once we had scraped up every bit of the silky chocolate, I took a sip of my tea and touched the cross necklace around my neck. For the first time in a very long while I felt happy. Well . . . almost happy. But it was as close as I was going to get.
Eric and I agreed to take the advice Dr. Sansi had given us; we would take a few months off before trying our last round of frozen embryos. We both needed a break, emotionally and physically, and my frame of mind needed to be in the right place for the in vitro to work.
Given my need for happy hormones, I extended my search for some serious serotonin. After reading too many articles online about how to become pregnant, I became obsessed with the softer side of fertility. And by softer, I mean downright loony. Sure, I did the typical stuff, such as Bikram yoga and a weekly massage, but I was also infatuated with alternative methods that some mothers swore helped them get pregnant.
I tracked down the top fertility hypnotherapist that I could find and drove an hour each way for my sessions. Billy the Fertility Guy, as he was called in the business, was about a hundred years old and vowed his sessions would help reduce my stress and increase a sense of control in my life. I met with him once a week for in-person sessions and meditated on a daily basis by listening to the CD he gave me.
When I wasn’t working with Billy or listening to his CD, I strove to become “harmoniously balanced” through the help of reiki. In my first session, I met with my reiki master to become reawakened through an initiation process called attunement. Apparently — and I must admit that I never fully came out of my skepticism shell with all of the new-age gibberish — a reiki master would open up my path so that more life force energy could flow through my body. Before beginning, I read that I might have a mystical occurrence, and would experience visions, colours or body sensations. In truth, I really felt nothing at all except a very deep relaxation.
When I told this to Bib, my reiki master, he responded by saying that this was normal for some, and that the deep relaxation I felt had released blockages within my physical, mental and emotional bodies.
“Nicky-san, the releases I gave you have allowed the natural flow of energy through your body, releasing toxins and waste products,” Bib said, shaking his head after picking up on my disbelief. “You may now receive, hold and store more energy in your body so that you can accelerate your positive vibrations. Have faith, my dear Nicky. Have faith.”
Despite Bib’s committed belief in reiki, I remained doubtful — yet optimistically hopeful. So I moved on to a reiki drum healing ceremony after Bib promised it would help.
“I will bring you a profoundly uplifting experience through the combination of reiki energy and the ancient, sacred energy of the drumbeat,” Bib said, preparing the room as I looked on. “The combined vibrations of the energies will reach into every cell and layer of your body to create a harmonic resonance in which healing can occur on a deeper level.”
During my drum healings with Bib, I lay fully clothed on a low treatment table. He used a shamanic drum to produce specific rhythms over my body, sometimes drumming close to me and other times farther away.
I did my best not to laugh, and Bib would fervently shush me, telling me to close my eyes and get lost in the beat of the drum. I have to admit, somewhere into each healing session, I fell into a deep trance. Then again, I could have been just sleeping.
And then, despite Maggie’s constant chatter telling me I had officially entered into the world of crazy, something happened while I was venturing down my loony-tunes path that must have worked. Because on a bright and sunny morning a few months later, after our final round of in vitro, I found out I was pregnant.
3
The first twelve weeks of my pregnancy were pretty easy. I had some mild nausea, but nothing overtly crazy like some baby-bumpers complain about. One woman in my Mama2Be group confessed that she couldn’t stop craving dirt — it was a condition called pica, her doctor told her. Another complained about getting up close and personal with her toilet every hour of the day; the only thing she could keep down was chocolate cake. But it had to be devil’s food cake. With white icing.
Eric and I promised ourselves that we would hold off on telling our families the big news until I was thirteen weeks pregnant and we were officially out of the first trimester fear zone. We hadn’t thought we’d be able to keep it to ourselves, but Dr. Sansi had urged us to wait — she knew Eric and I were both a frazzle of nerves, given what we’d been through, and she was worried that well-intentioned yet unpredictably overbearing family members would add to our strain.
The days ticked by until, finally, we were able to break our news. It happened on the most scorching day in June, and we used my parents’ pool as an excuse to visit. They were tipped off over mid-morning freshly squeezed lemonade, and Eric and I soaked up their reactions alongside the sunshine. My parents came through with the requisite grandparent reaction, complete with squeals and weeping with joy. My mother wiped away a tear, laughing at herself for getting so emotional, then crying all over again. My parents had continually provided us with support through our whole IVF ordeal, and knew almost every personal and intricate detail about what Eric and I had been through — except for the tiny fact that we had started our last round. We had decided to keep that part to ourselves in an attempt to alleviate any additional pressure. “We thought you were still doing hot yoga and meeting with that crazy reiki guy. A baby, Nic? A baby! Amazing.”
“No more hot yoga for me. And that crazy reiki guy must have helped!”
My father slapped Eric on the back, beaming from ear to ear. I couldn’t tell whether the flush in his cheeks was from the warm weather or sheer grandpa pride.
“We’ve got to call Maggie!” My mother said, jumping up after setting her lemonade down in the shade. In t
he typical way I had witnessed so many times in my life, she doled out instructions to my father. “Paul, go and get the phone! And can you track down Maggie’s number?”
Maggie had spent the previous year backpacking through Asia, and was currently in a small village called Ban Sida, somewhere in Laos. Maggie and a backpacker named Pradheep, a Canadian-Indian girl she had met at a Buddhist temple in Luang Prabang, had just tackled the steep uphill climb through the jungle into Ban Sida so they could help villagers plant rubber trees and rice. Although I applauded her philanthropy, it wasn’t an ideal location for phone service.
My father emerged from the house five minutes later with both a number and the cordless phone in hand. Maggie’s reaction was just as I predicted — animated and piercing, even over a crackling phone line with horrible reception. Her high-pitched tone took my mind to a long-ago time when Maggie and I were little girls. It was sad to hear her unchanged shriek overtop of the soft buzz of a bad telephone line. It reminded me of how far away she was, and just how much I missed her.
“Oh, sis, I was just about to book a fall ticket to Moscow, but it looks like I’ll be landing at a different airport now! I can’t wait to meet my little niece or nephew. I will definitely be there. I wouldn’t miss it for the world! I’m just so happy Dad tracked me down. It’s really quite shocking that we’re speaking right now. You should see it here . . .” The phone cut out momentarily, before Maggie’s stream of consciousness babble picked back up and she chattered on about Laos and all that she had seen.
After a few minutes, she veered the conversation back to our baby. “Do you have names picked out yet, Nic? Maggie, maybe? Sure has a nice ring to it, yes? I definitely think it should be considered.”
She took a breath, and I laughed. I told Maggie that, yes, we had talked about a few names but, no, her name wasn’t on our short list.
“Okay. Then how about Julia?” Maggie pushed, moving to her middle name.
“We’ll see, Mags. You just focus on getting yourself home so that you can hold your baby niece or nephew,” Eric’s voice chimed in from the phone upstairs, where he was listening in. I knew he’d be nearly as excited as me to learn that Maggie was coming home when our baby was born. As one of four boys, Eric had never had a kid sister and Maggie had become like one to him.
We chatted for a few minutes longer and said a reluctant goodbye to Maggie. After hugging my parents one final time, Eric and I got in our car and drove the three hours north to his parents’ cottage in Muskoka. Although Toronto was still officially home to Eric’s parents, they traded in their smoggy summer days in the city for boating on Lake Rosseau — a venture that had become particularly easy since Eric’s father had officially entered into retirement by selling his three pharmacies in Toronto.
We had spent a lot of time at the cottage in the down days of fertility treatments. It had become a place of mental escape for us, the healing powers of the water never ceasing to amaze me. Somewhere on our rough road, Eric’s family cottage had come to feel like a home away from home for us and we loved going there as much as we could.
In complete contrast to the mezzanine bedrooms and exposed brick of the Candy Factory Lofts where Eric’s parents spent their winters, their cottage was designed to mirror the coastal classic style inspired by Cape Cod. It brought the natural elements of lakeside life indoors, with antique hemlock floors and picture frames made of birch. The slip-covered toile sofas and handmade quilts created the feeling of true Muskoka living for anyone who visited — and also contributed to the cottage being featured in a double-page spread in House & Home the previous summer.
Eric’s parents, Brian and Amelia, were surprised to see us join them on the dock, having just settled into their matching red Adirondack chairs with an open bottle of Barolo and two newly filled wineglasses sitting between them.
“My goodness! To what do we owe this surprise?” Eric’s mother asked, jumping up to give us both a hug as our flip-flops hit the dock.
“We were going to call, but we thought it would be more fun to surprise you,” Eric responded, giving his mother a big squeeze.
“We brought dinner,” I added, wanting them to know we didn’t expect them to feed us. “We picked up some steaks from the Cottage Butcher in Bala, and some vegetables and potatoes as well. We didn’t know Gravenhurst had a farmers’ market, but it worked out well. We drove through just as they were starting to close.”
“Lovely — this will be wonderful,” Brian said as he stood up. “We’re so happy you’re here. Let me just get a couple more wineglasses.”
“Just make it one, Dad,” Eric said, squeezing my waist from the side. “And a fruit juice or water for our future mama.” Eric placed his other hand gently on my tummy as I looked up at him, grinning.
“What?!” Amelia screeched, holding her hands to the sides of her head. “Oh darlings! What amazingly wonderful news.”
“We were going to tell you at dinner, but I guess Eric couldn’t wait any longer,” I said, laughing. “Yes, I am definitely pregnant. Thirteen weeks and one day, to be exact.”
“Well, tell us everything!” Amelia pried, hugging Eric, and then me.
Brian joined the hug, his words muffled through the enclosed grip. “A brand new baby for you, and an eighth grandchild for us. How great! And what a reason to celebrate.”
Amelia enthusiastically nodded her head, her diamond hoop earrings dancing in the sunlight.
“I’ll get the third wineglass and a bottle of sparkling peach juice. Is that okay with you, Nic?” Brian asked, holding his hand to his eyes to shield them from the sinking sun.
“Perfect,” I answered, returning his grin and getting comfortable on the chair Eric had brought me from the boathouse. Despite my not even showing yet, Eric felt an Adirondack chair wouldn’t be comfortable enough, and wanted to get me something more upright. It was typical Eric: thoughtful and protective, but sometimes overly so.
When Brian returned from the cottage, he poured a glass of wine for Eric and raised his own glass in a toast. “To my youngest son and his lovely wife, Nicole. I cannot think of two people more deserving of parenthood or the joy it will soon bring you. You will be loving parents and our grandchild is lucky to be born into your family.” Brian raised his glass to meet ours and the bubbly yellowy orange of my peach juice contrasted against the light red of the Barolo. I clinked their glasses and thought about how nice it was to hear such soft and loving words come from Eric’s father, whom I had only known to be business-like and stern in all of the years I had known him.
As I lowered my glass, I could practically feel the quickly beating heart of our developing baby and my stomach flip-flopped as I realized that, next summer, our seven-month-old baby would be sitting with us on the cottage dock.
“Will you find out the baby’s sex?” Amelia asked.
Eric shook his head no while swirling the wine in his glass; wide stripes slowly rolled down the sides of his glass before he continued. “We thought we’d wait. Keep the surprise for as long as possible, you know?”
I took a sip of my peach juice as I watched Eric inspect the wine’s legs. While I had agreed to his request of not finding out if we were having a boy or a girl, I knew in my heart we were having a daughter. And the daily baby email I had received that morning told me she was about three inches long and could already be sucking her thumb.
“Makes sense. Well, what about names?”
“Nothing yet, Ma. We’ve thrown around a few, but have decided not to share until we narrow it down.”
“Totally understand. Okay, well, I didn’t want to tell you before now, but I’ve got a bunch of baby clothes tucked away at home,” Amelia gushed. “I couldn’t help myself. I would find these adorable little outfits, and I knew I would one day be able to give them to you.”
“That’s very nice of you. Thanks, Ma. ”
I nodded, smiling at Amelia
. I sipped my peach juice, glowing at the thought of the tiny baby clothes that were waiting for us. “And what about a shower?” Amelia continued. “We simply have to throw one for you. Perhaps we could have it here? We’ll invite all of Eric’s aunts, and Jocelyn, Laurie and Emmy too, of course.”
“Have you told them?” Brian asked, referring to Eric’s brothers and their wives.
“Not yet, Dad. We wanted you to know first.” Seemingly happy with the wine’s legs and clarity, Eric took a long pull from his wineglass. I could tell he was overjoyed to have told his parents, and the realization of becoming a father was beginning to sink in. But at the same time, I noticed a certain tightness forming in Eric’s jaw, the way it often did around his parents. While he was close with both of them, he didn’t like their — at times — overbearing nature.
“They are going to be as happy as we are that you’re adding to the Sedgwick rug rat pile,” Brian joked, referring to the nickname he had given to his growing fleet of grandchildren.
“Well, there’s no point waiting any further,” Amelia said, finishing the last sip of her wine and collecting the empty bottle. “Let’s go up to the cottage and spread the news!”
“You guys go ahead. I’ll put Nicky’s chair away and join you in a minute,” Eric suggested, crossing the dock to hold my hand as I stood up from the chair.
I agreed with his suggestion, but deep down I knew he really just needed some time to himself. As thrilling as our news was, it was also a bit overwhelming for him. In our years together, Eric frequently needed “moments of pause” as I called them, when he could organize his thoughts and let the big things in life sink in. It wasn’t overly surprising that he wanted a few minutes by himself before we let his whole family know.
“You sure, dear? We can just put the chairs away after dinner,” Amelia coaxed him, pushing Eric towards the cottage so we could call his brothers.
Chai Tea Sunday Page 2