Move-In Ready

Man, I love nurses.

I have concluded that it takes an incredibly special person to be a good one.

Health, by nature, is vulnerable. Nurses build entire careers around meeting people in some of their most vulnerable moments with compassion, care, humility, and a remarkable ability to take things in stride. The fact that they also handle bodily fluids without flinching only further proves my point: nurses are basically superhuman.

I had my first appointment with our fertility clinic on August 20^th, 2026. That is not a statement I ever expected to say. I'm not sure it's one anyone expects to say, but it felt especially strange after having no issues conceiving our son.

In some ways, walking into the fertility clinic reminded me of every time I’ve walked into Clearview with Jacob. There was a distinct sense that I didn't quite belong. There were also frequent reminders that the reason I was there wasn't exactly the norm.

I was called back quickly and led into a room with an ultrasound table and another table holding all the necessary instruments to make sure my uterus was in tip-top shape for carrying another baby.

When I called Jacob afterward, I described the nurse practitioner who came in after I got situated as having about the same energy I used to have when I greeted him on the Auburn band field at 5:00 a.m. on a game day. Bubbling with way more enthusiasm than he ever believed that hour of the morning called for, especially before coffee.

At the beginning of the appointment, she looked over my chart and realized I was there to start the process for a frozen embryo transfer for embryo adoption. "Oh, you've done this before," she said, referring to the procedure we were about to perform. I told her I hadn't, but that I had had a baby.

There was a moment of understandable confusion, so I explained that my husband had been diagnosed with a rare genetic condition earlier that year and that embryo adoption was the path we had chosen in hopes of having another baby.

Her demeanor shifted for just a moment. She became a little more serious and reassuring, explaining that they would make sure everything looked perfect for both me and the embryo before we moved toward a transfer. Then, almost immediately, she shifted right back into genuine excitement about this little embryo we were adopting.

It was another one of those moments that reminded me we're walking a unique path on an already unique road. From everything I've learned about embryo adoption, many families arrive here after a long journey through infertility, often after exhausting other options for having a genetically related child. Our story is different. We didn't slowly reach the conclusion that having another biological child wouldn't work. That road ended abruptly with a genetic diagnosis, and we chose not to keep walking it.

None of that made the interaction uncomfortable. If anything, what stayed with me was her care. Once she understood how we had arrived there, she seemed deeply invested in ensuring everything went as well as possible and was delighted about our next steps.

Once I adjusted to her exuberance, I realized it was exactly what I needed. Any woman's health appointment involving stirrups can only be so pleasant. Her contagious enthusiasm and impeccable sense of humor thawed some of the anxiety I had been carrying coming into this procedure and moving closer to the transfer.

I've always found medical appointments like this fascinating. At one point in my life, I considered pursuing an MD/PhD. That dream ended after a wonderful MD/PhD I talked with pointed out something embarrassingly obvious: as interesting as the research might be, doctors have to be okay with dealing with sick people. Somehow, that hadn't occurred to me. I decided engineering was probably a better fit.

My fascination with blood work, ultrasounds, and diagnostics, and the answers they can provide, never really went away, which was helpful when the nurse informed me that my cervix was feeling shy that morning and that she would have to call in reinforcements.

As the other nurse walked through the door, the first nurse explained that after we finished, I would check out and head to the lab for blood work. They needed to make sure my hormone levels were appropriate for my goal of a natural-cycle transfer. That was important, she explained, because what they were doing now was essentially the home inspection. I absolutely loved that comparison, probably because I love houses and spend way too much time stalking Zillow.

A home inspection happens in a space between now and not yet. You've found the house. You've made the offer. You’re under contract. If you’re anything like me, you spend hours staring at the listing pictures, trying to imagine where the furniture will go and what life might look like there, but you don't have the keys yet. The whole thing could theoretically fall through, but if the inspection goes well, it’s almost impossible not to get excited.

Once they were finally able to start the ultrasound, I started hearing various exclamations from both of the nurses as they looked around on the monitor: 

"Beautiful."

"Apartment in perfect shape."

And my personal favorite:

"Everything looks move-in ready."

I think their excitement was what I needed that morning, because if I'm being truthful, excitement has felt a little dangerous lately. There is a fear that has been slowly creeping around the periphery of my thoughts that sounds something like this: The last 50/50 chance y'all prayed about didn't turn out the way you hoped. What makes you believe this will be any different?

It’s a gut punch every time it comes fully into the open.

But, for a little while that morning, two nurses helped me stop and release. They were genuinely excited for us and celebrated what was good today alongside the truly beautiful possibilities of tomorrow. Their joy made it a little easier for me to do the same.

I left the appointment with several exciting updates. We learned about the embryo's grading and found it was really good. We learned that our clinic had officially approved the match, which meant the ball was back in Snowflakes' court to move us into the next stage of the process. We also learned that my tentative hope for a late-November natural-cycle transfer seemed entirely doable.

I felt encouraged, more encouraged than I had in a while. Unfortunately, soon after leaving the appointment, the what-if scenarios started back up. Now I had a new piece of information: embryo grading.

It didn’t take long for me to start plugging that into my mental calculus to see whether this new variable might give me some certainty about an outcome we won't know for another four or five months.

I knew it was a bad idea before I even did it, but eventually I texted one of my best friends, who I've mentioned before and who happens to be an embryologist. I gave her the information I had and asked what outcome she expected.

The irony is not lost on me that I was literally in the middle of my workout, trying to burn off some of this anxious energy, while texting back and forth with my friend and giving her as many puzzle pieces as I could to help her fit them together. I found myself reading implications into the finer points of the adoption profile, mentally reconstructing details from a five-minute conversation with the embryologist at the clinic and wondering whether I'd missed some hidden clue. Eventually I had to laugh at myself and apologize to my friend. What I was asking was unfair on so many levels. I was looking to her for a definitive answer and for a prediction of the future.

It doesn't matter how much expertise she has or how highly graded the embryo is. It probably wouldn't even matter if I somehow obtained every piece of information I could possibly want.

It is still impossible to know the outcome.

I can't logic my way to it.

I can't deduce my way to it.

And if I understand God's nature at least somewhat correctly, I don't think I can pray my way to certainty either. Even if He chose to give me a clear “yes” today, I would still have to live by faith for the next several months while I waited for that answer to be fulfilled. Prayer isn't another variable I can plug into the equation until the math finally gives me the answer I want. I've found myself returning instead to Paul's words in Philippians:

"Do not be anxious about anything, but in every situation, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God. And the peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus."

I've been thinking a lot about the word present.

Presenting something to God seems to require opening my hands long enough to actually hand it over. Presenting my fears while continuing to pick them right back up again isn't really surrender. It also leaves very little room for God to deposit something back—namely, as this verse promises, His peace. The kind that comes from knowing His presence is with me even in the waiting and the unknown.

But probably the part I've overlooked even more is with thanksgiving. I have spent so much energy asking God what will happen next that I sometimes miss what He has already given me today.

Today, my appointment went well.

Today, everything looked healthy.

Today, we learned we have a highly graded embryo.

Today, our clinic approved our match.

Today, a November transfer feels possible.

None of those things tell me what happens next, but all of them are good.

There is joy available now, even before I know the ultimate outcome.

I'm still learning to fully embrace it. I'm learning that protecting myself from future grief can also mean protecting myself from present joy, and I'm not sure I want to walk through this story that way. I also have to remember that skipping the present to reach the outcome I want means missing out on a lot along the way.

I have to recognize that hope will always feel a little risky when what you're hoping for isn't guaranteed and really matters.

Maybe the peace Paul is talking about isn't found by gathering enough information to finally eliminate the risk. I am also pretty sure he didn’t mean we will experience it only when we get what we hope for. I think, instead, the promise is that I experience peace when I let go of my need to know what happens next, long enough to inhabit what God has given me today.

Apparently, two incredibly enthusiastic nurses spent their morning trying to teach me the same lesson that Judah & the Lion have been singing into my headphones lately:

Just enjoy the ride.