Superheroes

I was once taught a valuable lesson with hamburgers, although it started with an unanswered phone call and reminded me of carpet.

When Greg and I were first married the word got out we knew how to clean carpet. We cleaned a lot of carpet because everyone in our circle was renting and needed their deposit back. We also cleaned a lot of carpet because we owned the machines, we rocked at pretreating stains, and we fluffed pile like nobody’s business. Two years ago our bishop asked us to list the skills we could bring to the ward storehouse and I totally wrote CARPET CLEANING with zero feelings of sheepishness. Greg and I are boss at carpets. Period.

MONDAY 3 DEC 2012

When our initial IVF failed I went into shock, then into hiding. Minutes after posting "Not Pregnant" on facebook my phone rang. It was Matt McMullin. I didn't answer. Matt was an ex-neighbor farmer-type who always had good sense, good music, and time to chat. He’s the kind of guy who fixed busted pipes and busted ipods for free and left peaches and yogurt-covered cherries on porches. My friend Michelle and I called Matt "Bubble Boy" because he needed a plastic bubble around himself to maintain personal comfort. He hated neighborly pats on the back and a hug almost killed him once. It spoke volumes he was willing to exit his bubble to inquire after me. Then again, maybe he was calling for something unrelated and had no idea of the timing. Or maybe Candi was calling me on his phone. I’ll never know. However, as a younger version of Charles Funke, I think Matt was just being his own brand of nice. That ring signaled the beginning of a long round I’d have to fight alone, but someone was already cheering beyond the ropes.

TUESDAY 4 DEC 2012

The first person I let in was Frenchie and I'm glad I did because she brought me a roast beef and tomato sandwich on blue china with a bird card. I had forgotten to eat since the bad news; sometimes sadness masks hunger. I remember fake smiling and rambling on with a mouth full of meat until my voice started to shake. Then came the ugly crying. I was so sad. I remember her telling me sad was okay, sad was part of grieving. She was sad for me, too. Everyone was.

WEDNESDAY 5 DEC 2012

The next day Tiff sent the perfect email from three houses away. Perfect like she took a class on how to email people at rock bottom and aced it. I decided to come out of hiding to attend the church Christmas program Tiff spent hours making homemade angel wings for. Feathers galore hanging from the ceiling, no Tiff. Her husband was out of town and her kids weren't up for church nursery that night. Camille Baxter gave me the "mom hug" I desperately needed, stroking my greasy hair while I made a wet spot on her blouse. Then Charlotte Carson, age 90, whispered "mom things" in my ear with her unique vernacular. Who will be my mom when you are away? Relief Society will.*

THURSDAY 6 DEC 2012

A late knock on the door. It seemed late, then again, the sun sets an hour after school is out in December. It was Jonny Poole, Tiff’s fast-talking, witty husband who happened to be managing several Smashburger locations at the time.

When Tiff called and told me we were both so sad for you.

We were talking and we just didn't know what to do for you.

We were like, WHAT CAN WE GIVE?

And then we realized...

WE CAN GIVE PROTEIN.

Jonny handed me a shrinkwrapped stack of 52 meal vouchers for Smashburger, enabling me to eat a Beehive Burger with bbq sauce and fried onions once a week for the next year if my broken heart so desired. He stayed a few more minutes, cracked jokes until I’d laughed a few times, and quietly left.

Greg and I went to Smashburger often. The burgers in January and February were still sad burgers. Spring burgers were looking up, we had booked Paris. Birthday burger in May tasted bittersweet; I was 37 and not pregnant. Anniversary burger and end-of-summer burgers had anticipation aftertaste; we suspected a second IVF was in our future. September burgers tasted like hope and October burgers were swallowed whole by a hungry giant because I was on fertility drugs. November burgers tasted like victory; I was 37 and pregnant. Ooh la la! And on New Year’s Eve 2013, minutes before they expired, Greg, RE, and I used the last three vouchers, added on three Haagen Dazs salted caramel milkshakes, and ate It’s-a-Wonderful-Life-George-Bailey bliss burgers.

I still repeat it in my head every now and again. And, scene: WHAT CAN WE GIVE? WE CAN GIVE PROTEIN. So awesome. Jonny once lamented he missed his shot at being Batman when he stayed in his warm bed during a thunderstorm instead of driving to the Thornton’s siding-free home in the dark of night. I, too, have blown opportunities handed to me on a silver platter. But Jonny was Batman for us. His sonar sensed a need and saved the day…with protein.

Interestingly enough, Blue-eyed Becca (whose house did not wash away despite Jonny’s slumber) became Batwoman when she simply texted “You will know what to do” on

FRIDAY 26 APR 2013, 12:34 PM

I recorded the time in my journal because it’s always been my “lucky” time since I was a kid. She sent it following a heart to heart disguised as a butter-pounding croissant demo. I hid her words in a safe spot and pulled them out countless times as I bumped into question marks over the next year.

Some lessons are slowly learned because we have to live all the way through them before we can turn around and see with ease. I was taught over and over (and 52 times over) everyone has something to give, so just GIVE WHAT YOU'VE GOT be it reaching outside your bubble, a roast beef/listening ear combo, emails, hugs, or hamburgers. I still give the gift of cleaner carpet, it remains one of my many superpowers.

*Julie B. Beck, Fulfilling the Purpose of Relief Society, October 2008: My parents, who had been my neighbors, announced that they would be moving to another part of the world. I had relied on my mother’s nurturing, wise, and encouraging example. Now she was going to be gone for a long time. This was before e-mail, fax machines, cell phones, and Web cameras, and mail delivery was notoriously slow. One day before she left, I sat weeping with her and asked, “Who will be my mother?” Mother thought carefully, and with the Spirit and power of revelation which comes to women of this kind, she said to me, “If I never come back, if you never see me again, if I’m never able to teach you another thing, you tie yourself to Relief Society. Relief Society will be your mother.”

Announcement: there is now only one essay not crossed off of my “Lessons from 12 Years of Infertility/IVF1/IVF2/Archer Miracle” list. One more go to. One more! I can do it! I will write my record with my own hand!