Every time I go to my OB’s Hartford office, I second-guess myself about where to go—do I send the elevator to the 7th or the 9th floor? Each time, I look at the directory on the wall to confirm that I need the 7th floor, then ascend with the elevator to my appointment.
Why, halfway through my second pregnancy with the same OB, do I continue to forget what floor I need to go see her?
This building, on the 9th floor, also houses the office for the reproductive endocrinologist who helped us get pregnant with Lenny. For months we would, in fact, choose the 9th floor from the buttons on the elevator, which would take us to our appointments where we talked about ovulation, sperm count, and hormone injections. So many times, I hit that button on the elevator—it was the only floor I needed to know, ingrained in my brain. Even now.
Finally, after months of treatments and counseling, we were pregnant, and able to choose the 7th floor instead, no longer needing the help of the reproductive endocrinologist.
Our IVF experience is unforgettable for many reasons—the emotions, the injections, our beautiful son. I never thought, though, that such a small detail of that time would be so deep-seated in my mind that I truly have to double check the building directory at every appointment.
For us, the 9th floor represents an extremely difficult time in our lives, but it also represents hope and happiness. The 9th floor gave us the chance to have a child when our chances were low. The 9th floor called me to say simply, “Congratulations, Mom,” telling us that our IVF cycle had been successful. The 9th floor gave us the unbelievable gift of Lenny.
These days, I happily choose the 7th floor, still a little incredulous that we did not need the help of the extraordinary doctors on the 9th floor for this pregnancy. I may forget what floor I need, but I will never forget what the 9th floor did for our family.