The moment you enter, the squeaky door alerts everyone you've arrived. Everyone is looking at you and you know, they know, why you're there. As Amanda signs us in I go straight for the free coffee. Not that I'm especially in the mood for it, but I've learned it's better to occupy yourself. Quietly sipping from the 8 oz Styrofoam cup helps prevent you from accidentally making eye contact with anyone else.
Peering around the dusty room, I'm relieved when the chair I prefer is empty. It is one of the most desired spots here because it is positioned up against the big front window. Sitting here protects me from the judgmental eyes of the passerby.
The only sound comes from the squeaky door and a 27-inch tv that is internally tuned to HG TV and a rerun of "House Hunters." Coffee finished I set the empty cup down on the end table beside me. The familiar coffee ring welcomes my cup and reminds me of how many times we have been here, how many times we've been stuck with needles, built up with hope, and destroyed with failure. Discouraged, I turn my thoughts to something else, but there is nothing else. "Why have they not called our name? The waiting, the unknowing, it's killing me. I can't sit here much longer."
Shyly and somewhat curiously I look around at the other couples. They look just like us, normal. This always surprises me and I'm not sure why. It's not as if the feeling of inadequacy can be seen on the face of the infertile. Everyone's is buried in their phone and I remember that what I'm doing is Taboo. I am breaking the unspoken rule of the infertility waiting room. You don't look around. You don't talk. You're supposed to keep your shame to yourself with your head down.
All this yet I know, I will do it again and again. Because I am relentlessly hopeful. Because I know it will be worth it. Finally, our name is called. Hope restored; I'm saved from the shame of the infertility waiting room.
Update: Atlas and Sailor were born on January 30th, 2017 (birth video) . They have our whole heart.