“Known as a fertility god, prankster, healer, and storyteller, Kokopelli has been a source of wonder for centuries.”

-IndigenousPeople.net

Do I tell him on Father’s Day?  The question did a quick lap around my heart and head as I stared at a positive pregnancy test. I slipped it into a small box and when he opened it at the kitchen table, with Abbie in a high chair and Luke in a bouncy seat, our eyes met and his eyebrow raised with an inquisitive “Really?” 

Since we were leaving for an upcoming camping trip, I got into the doctor to evaluate the pregnancy progress.  By my estimate, there should have been a heartbeat, but there was not.  I had been to this rodeo before, so it was easy to slip on my big girl boots and sigh away the short lived wonder of a fifth family member.  Luke was almost six months old and barely sleeping through the night.  This would be my ninth miscarriage.  

We had not used contraception for a decade, but without hesitation I asked my doctor for options.  I was ready to end my fertility journey to avoid “double-digit” miscarriage statistics in my life story.  He had seen me through the most recent losses, but he still encouraged me to hold out hope.  He gave me his personal cell phone number in case there were any issues on my trip.  Tom and I finalized our decision to have a tubal ligation and I made an appointment for surgery upon our return.  A sense of calm serenity washed over me as I realized a chapter was writing it’s last paragraph.  

A few nights into the trip, I felt warmth between my legs and knew there was probably bleeding.  Like a seasoned war veteran, I put on my combat boots, grabbed rations and a backpack and headed to the campground latrines armed with a book and flashlight.  I internally chuckled to myself that I had always dreamed of a birth in nature.  Thankfully the campground facilities were clean and… empty.  I looked to the sky and thanked the stars for allowing me this private time, during the dark of night, while all were sleeping.  

Many chapters in, I am triaging myself.  Did the spotting stop? Are there any cramps?  Is this a false alarm? Should I call my doctor?  I pack it up and head back to the camping trailer.  I’m well prepared if required. 

We carry on with the trip and head to spend the day at a hot spring pool and spa.  Tom treated me to a relaxing massage and as she prepared she held her hands above my belly and commented that she felt a lot of energy and activity in my abdomen.  I confessed that I am experiencing a miscarriage.  She paused and gave me a compassionate look, and I am thankful that she does not speak her empathy and sorrow. She expresses a wise and calming smile and I quickly relaxed under her spell.  I got a vision that upon my return, I will hold my own personal ceremony to celebrate the end of my fertility.  I felt empowered.  

As I went to check out there is a dish of arrowheads and I decided to choose one to be part of my celebration.  I smiled when I saw the symbol I had worn for years on a charm bracelet; it is Kokopelli, the little humpbacked flute player, the symbol of fertility.  My confidence continued to gain depth and serenity.  The next day was Independence Day and I felt the freedom in knowing that this was my last pregnancy. I felt as if a rainbow surrounded me and a sense of inner glow as I joined Tom, Abbie, and Luke in the naturally warm water.  They are my life boat.   

On the last day of the trip, I found myself in a field of wildflowers.  The sky was bright blue.  The clouds floated by with ease. For a quick moment, my calm inner happiness was briefly interrupted by the need to take a deep and full breath to steady myself in the high altitude.  As I hiked down the trail path, I snapped this picture in my memory bank to hold as a bookend.  

As I headed out to do my pre-op appointment and then go to the hospital to do the blood work and preregistration, I grabbed my list of ceremony items to be picked up on the way home for that evening.  This was going to be one hell of a personal ritual with fire, flowers, music, and maybe even some singing and dancing under the moonlight.  My fertility was going to go out in a blaze of glory.  I shared my “Bye-Bye Pre Tube Tie” plans with my doctor as he rubbed the cold ultrasound gel on the vaginal wand.  As I chirped, like a bird greeting the morning, he told me to look at the screen, there was a heartbeat.  Plot twist. 

In all honesty, I wasn’t all that surprised.  There had been signposts that week: the brief book with flashlight adventure, the look on the reiki massage therapist’s face, the wave of nausea in the wildflower field, and a lack of the old familiar feeling of dread.  There was a thread of hope in the forefront of my mind and I think I used party planning to fill those few days until another ultrasound.  I laughed uproariously as I grabbed my cell phone to call Tom and give him the play by play action on the screen.   “You aren’t Fu**ing with me right?”.  I assured him this was real and we set off on another road to travel, but this one felt like a huge wide highway with multiple lanes for Abbie, Luke, Tom’s and his business, and Pregnant Mary.  

It all felt different which gave me hopeful optimism.  Through all the infertility years, I had grown to value and appreciate my “glass is half full” approach to pregnancy and life.  It doesn’t cost a penny to wish and it doesn’t hurt any less to dream about a heartbeat that keeps beating and then see an empty space on a monitor.  Always Keep Hope in your Heart was my mantra. Rather than worry about what we would see at the next ultrasound, I decided to believe it was progressing perfectly.  And it was.  The screen was alive with a 12-week baby with arms and legs moving like jumping jacks.  In awe, Tom asks the technician how she does it. She replied, “Dad, that is your child, all on it’s own, and don’t let any ultrasound tech you they have the ability to pull that off.  She had never seen this before.” I took it as a greeting: “Hi, I’m here!” For the first time ever, we hear the sound of a strong heartbeat over an audio speaker.  

Three weeks later, there is bleeding.  Rather than panic and throw in the towel, I toss a question to The Universe: “You wouldn’t be this cruel would you?”.  It’s the dark of night, and I tiptoe back to bed to wait until dawn to call my doctor.  As I lay there breathing in and out to Tom’s sleeping body, I felt it.  A flutter.  Reassurance.  Another message: “I’m OK, no need to worry”.  The perinatologist appointment revealed slight placenta previa over my cervix.  An explanation to the one time spotting and something to monitor.  The high tech ultrasound shows a beautiful clear image and when she asks if we want to know the gender, the legs open wide and I reply, “It’s a boy!”.