When I arrive, the receptionist will already know my name and tell me to take a seat. I will head straight to the front row, like I always do. I won’t want an opportunity to make eye contact with anyone or to see their expressions. Not the relaxed, casual faces. Not the red-rimmed eyes and silent tears. I can never again be able to sit in this office, relaxed and unburdened, and it is my fervent hope that I’ll never again be the one with the red-rimmed eyes and tears down my cheeks.

I will be too uptight as I wait to find something to pass the time. I won’t be able to eat with a stomach in knots, and I also won’t have the patience to scroll my phone. With people-watching out of the equation, all I’ll be able to do is cross and uncross my legs and shift in my seat every few moments.

When I’m finally called in, it will feel like the world is moving in slow motion. I’ll walk softly through an endless corridor, yet it’ll still seem as though I arrive too quickly at Room #3. Sometimes, a tiny part of me wishes for a few more moments of blissful oblivion, but the rest of me just wants the truth. The sooner, the better.

Inside the room, I will answer questions and make an effort to hide my impatience. And then I will ask the consultant to tell me immediately if they can see the heartbeat. At that point, I won’t be able to handle the suspense anymore. I won’t be able to wait an extra second.

The kind, kind team of midwives and consultants and doctors do their best to make me feel at ease. Sometimes, when I come in, they ask if there’s anyone with me. I always shake my head. My husband is dedicated and loyal and would love to attend these appointments with me. He isn’t here because I’ve asked him not to be. If the consultant softens her voice and says those dreaded words, I wouldn’t be able to bear the depths of my pain mirrored in his eyes. It’s happened too many times. So he stays home, waiting anxiously by his phone for the message I send him as soon as I am out of the room.

I have a dream. It’s simple, really. I want to hold my live baby in my arms, and I want to bring my breathing baby home with me.

I do not know what tomorrow will bring. So tonight, once again, I will soak my Tehillim and beg Hashem to finally say, “Yes.” Maybe this year, I will proudly walk out of the hospital with a living baby. Maybe this year, I will send out happy messages and bring so much joy to our parents. Maybe this year, it will be me telling my boss that I’ll be taking maternity leave.

Tomorrow, I have an appointment.

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 927)