It has been brought to my attention that I’ve dropped the ball with regard to the story of how our family became complete. To be honest, after the drama and excitement of our Infertility!!And Contested Adoption!! the rest of the story is a little boring and anticlimactic.
When I left off with the story previously, we were living (unhappily) in Los Angeles, and we had just returned to OKC to (finally) finalize Brayden’s adoption. She was fifteen months old, and Kellen was two months old. We returned to LA after the finalization, intent on making the best of things in southern California. We were two years into our three year assignment there, and having the stress of the contested adoption finally over did make our miserable existence in that city a little less miserable. Have I mentioned that we are just not big-city people? Especially big cities crowded with graffiti, crime, a drug-rehab next door, traffic out the wazoo, and bazillions of non-English speaking people? (I know, that makes me sound incredibly prejudiced, but I like for the people around me; for the people who serve my food, and work in the dry cleaners and the grocery stores and the retail shops, to actually be able to speak the same language as their customers. Sue me for saying it out loud.) I wasn’t happy about living another year in Los Angeles (it is NOTHING like you see on Baywatch, let me just tell you that) but with my two beautiful babies at home, was ready to face that third and final year with a much better attitude, and much less self-pity.
Naturally, a week after we returned, we got orders to move.
So, two months later found us on the highway, driving to our new home in Dayton, Ohio. Wright-Patterson Air Force Base, to be exact.
We had decided, right after Kellen was born, to begin trying for another baby. I had heard that the first year after you deliver a baby can be a fertile time for women, so we figured if the first pregnancy was a fluke, so be it, but if there was a window of opportunity for another pregnancy, we didn’t want to blow it by waiting around until we were “ready to try again”.
Two months went by, three months, four. I wasn’t really surprised. It had never worked all those other months (years!) we were trying, I didn’t expect it to now, either.
Five months went by, six. Still nothing.
It was ok, though. I had a beautiful daughter, and a beautiful, er, handsome son, so the fertility quest was no longer an obsession for me. If it had worked, it would have been great, but if it didn’t, I certainly wasn’t going to complain that the two gifts I’d been given weren’t enough.
Seven months went by, eight. And we went home for Thanksgiving, to visit family and celebrate my nephew’s second birthday. My sister and her husband rented one of those big bouncy moonwalk things, and for kicks the grown-ups got in it after the kids got out and started bouncing around. I even did a few flips and somersaults, I’m such a natural athlete. {said with tongue, firmly planted in cheek} For *real* kicks, they found a neighborhood teenager and his girlfriend in it much later that night … ahem … but that’s another story.
And can you believe that a few weeks later, I found out I was pregnant? I’m pretty sure it was flipping around in that bounce house that did it. I just bounced that embryo against my uterus and it finally STUCK there!
So we returned to Ohio, and despite the fact we already had two children, and it was now eight YEARS after we first started trying, began the first pregnancy that was actually planned.
Showing posts with label Infertility adoption. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Infertility adoption. Show all posts
Friday, May 04, 2007
Friday, March 30, 2007
Sing Hallelujah
Comments on the comments. Again. I know, how obnoxious am I?
**Joy was sung by Staxx of Joy.
**Liz, the hotel reservations I was making in Seattle are for our summer vacation plans, although Blaine will be up there next week by himself.
**To all those who have been kind enough to ask about Blaine, I’ve not been avoiding the subject, I just haven’t known what to say so I haven’t said anything. Ok …. Soooooo, technically, that’s called avoiding. Whatever. We know nothing. Well, that’s not true. We know his next oral surgery is taking place the end of April. We know the mass in his shoulder is bigger and the pain is starting to radiate. We know it took a very long time to get all his appointments in Seattle (that he missed when his insurance authorization expired) rescheduled, but they have been. For April 9th. And the plan is for them to do a CT of the lungs, in addition to the CT and MRI’s they are doing of his head. So hopefully we will know more then. Although don’t count on it, because you know how it always goes for us. I have no doubt the CT machine will be broken that day, or the tech will be out with delirious malaria, or there will be a power outage on the entire western seaboard, or their will be a hijacking and his plane will get grounded in Dallas, or a herd of wild rats will invade his hotel and occupy his room, eating his shoes, rendering him unable to leave the hotel due to the hospital’s “No shoes, No shirt, No service” policy, and he’ll simply fly home sadly, barefoot, without knowing any more than we know now. Which is bupkis. (I threw that word in there for you, Jadine.)
**Sally, yes, the birthday letters are letters I write to my children every year on (or near, and I fudge the date on the actual letter) where I tell them how proud I am of them, what they’ve accomplished, what some of their favorite things are, etc. Sort of a year-in-review. They don’t know I write them, and I keep them in a scrapbook to give to them someday when they are old enough to appreciate the blood, sweat and tears that go into them, as opposed to using them to make paper airplanes or paper footballs, which is what I’m pretty sure Kellen would do to them now.
**Natalie, get out! You’re called Bobo, also? Bobo is the name my dear friend Renee’s boys call her mom, and in fact, what all of us call her. Their family has a whole weird nick-name fetish, though. Her sister Wendy is called Dee-Dee; her sister-in-law Kristy is called Tee-Tee; friends of the family call her Nee-Nee, and her youngest son calls his brother Zo-Zo. She scrapbooks, in fact, and I should definitely recommend she do a layout about this habit they have of re-naming everyone. (Renee, are you reading this? You need to document all of this!) Bobo is pretty much a saint, though, and we all adore her. In fact, she is the credit behind the quote I have in my e-mail signature: “If money can fix it, it’s not a real problem”. A quote that became much clearer to me after Kendrie was diagnosed with cancer. So, Bobo’s of the world, you rock!
**I had no idea so many people loved the Mitford Series. I don’t even remember who told me about them, I just found the note to buy them on my list. (See? See why you should never doubt the Importance of The List? If you write it, they will come. Or something like that.)
**Angela, no, my children write their own thank you letters, although you just reminded me that they are behind, as well. So thank you!
**Elena, ha! About putting a note on your list about checking into a notebook support group!!!
*************************************************************
So, why am I singing Hallelujah???
The entire time I was pregnant with Kellen, the entire time we lived in Los Angeles, the entire time I walked the Del Amo Mall with Brayden in her stroller, stuffing my big fat face with garlic and Parmesan pretzels, I tried to remember how blessed I was, and to be thankful for the gifts I’d been given. A beautiful baby girl to take care of and love, and a beautiful baby boy on the way. And although I probably looked happy from the outside, and inside I *was* truly happy, I often felt as though I was playing a part on a stage. I did all the “new mom” things I was supposed to do, and certainly took care of Brayden’s physical and emotional needs, but looking back, there was definitely a tinge of desperation to my care-giving. I wasn’t the relaxed, happy mom that Brayden deserved. I tried to be -- I pretended to be -- but I wasn’t. I often wonder if the newborn Brayden, and the toddler Brayden, could sense my concern and fear about the court case back in Oklahoma, and the worry about how things might be going. I alternated between anxiety, flat-out terror, and bliss over being a mom to her. They say babies are pretty perceptive, but I’m going to hope she never picked up on my wide range of emotions, otherwise she’ll be in therapy for years to come.
What we thought would be a ten-day wait before we could adopt her, and then thought would be a few months, and then a few more months, had dragged on for over a year. Finally, two days after Kellen was born, we received word. The decision of the trial court was upheld, the appeal was over, and the case was closed. We were free and clear to finalize Brayden’s adoption. If that’s not a reason to Sing Hallelujah, I can’t imagine what is.
I wish I could properly convey to you the relief I felt at that point. Weak in the knees, adrenaline-rush, shaking all over kind of relief. Basically, I’d been holding my breath for thirteen months, and could finally let it out. If the happiness I felt yesterday over finding my lost notebook was a droplet of water, then the joy I felt knowing Brayden could officially, really, finally, truly, legally, formally, publicly be made my daughter, instead of my foster daughter, was the Pacific Ocean and Indian Ocean and Atlantic Ocean, all rolled into one. I would have gladly strapped both babies to my back in a jumbo-Bjorn and walked the twelve hundred miles home, straight to the courthouse, if that had been a reasonable option. But it wasn’t. I had a two-day old baby, and was recovering from major surgery. As much as it KILLED ME not to rush back to Oklahoma and make everything legal YESTERDAY, we knew the logical thing to do was wait just a little while, until traveling was more feasible. We had waited thirteen months, what was a few more weeks?
So, my doctor said six weeks of recovery …. And week seven, we flew our happy butts right back home.
The day of the finalization, our attorney told us it would be a quiet, private affair, taking place in the judge’s chambers. But we had so many family members attend with us, to celebrate, they had to move the finalization into a regular courtroom, just so they could fit everyone in. The attorney who had handled the initial court case, and the appeal for us, who had patiently and gently led us through the process, and gone to bat for us so Brayden and I could leave the state, stood with us before the judge to begin the proceedings. There was a witness on the other side of him, Blaine was holding Brayden, and I was next to Blaine.
Our attorney started the actions by saying, “We are here today to make a matter of legal record what is already a matter of heart” and I burst into tears and blubbered my way through the entire thing. In fact, I tear up to this day when I remember, and think about how special that moment was, and how long we had waited for it.
Brayden? Not so impressed.
She squirmed out of Blaine’s arms and ran straight to the back of the courtroom, where her Grandma and Grandpa were waiting.
Then she got sidetracked by the swinging doors and played with those, entertaining herself the entire time.
I didn’t scrapbook back then, so the pictures I got that day were less than stellar. What the anal, amateur photographer inside me today wouldn't give for a do-over.
Especially, what you can’t see in the photos, is the two hundred pound weight that had been lifted off our shoulders. You wouldn’t think worry and fear would be so heavy, but they are. So is the guilt you feel, when you are forced to acknowledge that your worry is affecting your day to day life in a negative way. And possibly even affecting the one little person you love most in the world. So it was beyond good when the worry and fear was finally gone. And the great big hole they left behind was filled up with even more thankfulness for M, and the amazing gift she had given our family.
At long last, fifteen months later, we were able to appreciate it the way it should be appreciated, with clear eyes, a clear heart, and clear spirit.
And we’ve never stopped.
Sing hallelujah, indeed.
Why yes, I bought her that “My Mom Rocks” t-shirt. You have a problem with that?
I realize an impromptu game of flag football isn’t that extra-ordinary for most families, but this was the first time in close to a year that Blaine had felt good enough to play outside with the kids, even for a few minutes. Their laughter and happiness at having him back, even if only for a short while, was infectious and I ran inside to get my camera. And kept telling them to pose, which apparently ruined the impromptu-ness and flow of the game, or so they kept telling me. Whatever. I have it on record -- they’re happy -- look at their faces. My job is done.
**Joy was sung by Staxx of Joy.
**Liz, the hotel reservations I was making in Seattle are for our summer vacation plans, although Blaine will be up there next week by himself.
**To all those who have been kind enough to ask about Blaine, I’ve not been avoiding the subject, I just haven’t known what to say so I haven’t said anything. Ok …. Soooooo, technically, that’s called avoiding. Whatever. We know nothing. Well, that’s not true. We know his next oral surgery is taking place the end of April. We know the mass in his shoulder is bigger and the pain is starting to radiate. We know it took a very long time to get all his appointments in Seattle (that he missed when his insurance authorization expired) rescheduled, but they have been. For April 9th. And the plan is for them to do a CT of the lungs, in addition to the CT and MRI’s they are doing of his head. So hopefully we will know more then. Although don’t count on it, because you know how it always goes for us. I have no doubt the CT machine will be broken that day, or the tech will be out with delirious malaria, or there will be a power outage on the entire western seaboard, or their will be a hijacking and his plane will get grounded in Dallas, or a herd of wild rats will invade his hotel and occupy his room, eating his shoes, rendering him unable to leave the hotel due to the hospital’s “No shoes, No shirt, No service” policy, and he’ll simply fly home sadly, barefoot, without knowing any more than we know now. Which is bupkis. (I threw that word in there for you, Jadine.)
**Sally, yes, the birthday letters are letters I write to my children every year on (or near, and I fudge the date on the actual letter) where I tell them how proud I am of them, what they’ve accomplished, what some of their favorite things are, etc. Sort of a year-in-review. They don’t know I write them, and I keep them in a scrapbook to give to them someday when they are old enough to appreciate the blood, sweat and tears that go into them, as opposed to using them to make paper airplanes or paper footballs, which is what I’m pretty sure Kellen would do to them now.
**Natalie, get out! You’re called Bobo, also? Bobo is the name my dear friend Renee’s boys call her mom, and in fact, what all of us call her. Their family has a whole weird nick-name fetish, though. Her sister Wendy is called Dee-Dee; her sister-in-law Kristy is called Tee-Tee; friends of the family call her Nee-Nee, and her youngest son calls his brother Zo-Zo. She scrapbooks, in fact, and I should definitely recommend she do a layout about this habit they have of re-naming everyone. (Renee, are you reading this? You need to document all of this!) Bobo is pretty much a saint, though, and we all adore her. In fact, she is the credit behind the quote I have in my e-mail signature: “If money can fix it, it’s not a real problem”. A quote that became much clearer to me after Kendrie was diagnosed with cancer. So, Bobo’s of the world, you rock!
**I had no idea so many people loved the Mitford Series. I don’t even remember who told me about them, I just found the note to buy them on my list. (See? See why you should never doubt the Importance of The List? If you write it, they will come. Or something like that.)
**Angela, no, my children write their own thank you letters, although you just reminded me that they are behind, as well. So thank you!
**Elena, ha! About putting a note on your list about checking into a notebook support group!!!
*************************************************************
So, why am I singing Hallelujah???
The entire time I was pregnant with Kellen, the entire time we lived in Los Angeles, the entire time I walked the Del Amo Mall with Brayden in her stroller, stuffing my big fat face with garlic and Parmesan pretzels, I tried to remember how blessed I was, and to be thankful for the gifts I’d been given. A beautiful baby girl to take care of and love, and a beautiful baby boy on the way. And although I probably looked happy from the outside, and inside I *was* truly happy, I often felt as though I was playing a part on a stage. I did all the “new mom” things I was supposed to do, and certainly took care of Brayden’s physical and emotional needs, but looking back, there was definitely a tinge of desperation to my care-giving. I wasn’t the relaxed, happy mom that Brayden deserved. I tried to be -- I pretended to be -- but I wasn’t. I often wonder if the newborn Brayden, and the toddler Brayden, could sense my concern and fear about the court case back in Oklahoma, and the worry about how things might be going. I alternated between anxiety, flat-out terror, and bliss over being a mom to her. They say babies are pretty perceptive, but I’m going to hope she never picked up on my wide range of emotions, otherwise she’ll be in therapy for years to come.
What we thought would be a ten-day wait before we could adopt her, and then thought would be a few months, and then a few more months, had dragged on for over a year. Finally, two days after Kellen was born, we received word. The decision of the trial court was upheld, the appeal was over, and the case was closed. We were free and clear to finalize Brayden’s adoption. If that’s not a reason to Sing Hallelujah, I can’t imagine what is.
I wish I could properly convey to you the relief I felt at that point. Weak in the knees, adrenaline-rush, shaking all over kind of relief. Basically, I’d been holding my breath for thirteen months, and could finally let it out. If the happiness I felt yesterday over finding my lost notebook was a droplet of water, then the joy I felt knowing Brayden could officially, really, finally, truly, legally, formally, publicly be made my daughter, instead of my foster daughter, was the Pacific Ocean and Indian Ocean and Atlantic Ocean, all rolled into one. I would have gladly strapped both babies to my back in a jumbo-Bjorn and walked the twelve hundred miles home, straight to the courthouse, if that had been a reasonable option. But it wasn’t. I had a two-day old baby, and was recovering from major surgery. As much as it KILLED ME not to rush back to Oklahoma and make everything legal YESTERDAY, we knew the logical thing to do was wait just a little while, until traveling was more feasible. We had waited thirteen months, what was a few more weeks?
So, my doctor said six weeks of recovery …. And week seven, we flew our happy butts right back home.
The day of the finalization, our attorney told us it would be a quiet, private affair, taking place in the judge’s chambers. But we had so many family members attend with us, to celebrate, they had to move the finalization into a regular courtroom, just so they could fit everyone in. The attorney who had handled the initial court case, and the appeal for us, who had patiently and gently led us through the process, and gone to bat for us so Brayden and I could leave the state, stood with us before the judge to begin the proceedings. There was a witness on the other side of him, Blaine was holding Brayden, and I was next to Blaine.
Our attorney started the actions by saying, “We are here today to make a matter of legal record what is already a matter of heart” and I burst into tears and blubbered my way through the entire thing. In fact, I tear up to this day when I remember, and think about how special that moment was, and how long we had waited for it.
Brayden? Not so impressed.
She squirmed out of Blaine’s arms and ran straight to the back of the courtroom, where her Grandma and Grandpa were waiting.
Then she got sidetracked by the swinging doors and played with those, entertaining herself the entire time.
I didn’t scrapbook back then, so the pictures I got that day were less than stellar. What the anal, amateur photographer inside me today wouldn't give for a do-over.
Especially, what you can’t see in the photos, is the two hundred pound weight that had been lifted off our shoulders. You wouldn’t think worry and fear would be so heavy, but they are. So is the guilt you feel, when you are forced to acknowledge that your worry is affecting your day to day life in a negative way. And possibly even affecting the one little person you love most in the world. So it was beyond good when the worry and fear was finally gone. And the great big hole they left behind was filled up with even more thankfulness for M, and the amazing gift she had given our family.
At long last, fifteen months later, we were able to appreciate it the way it should be appreciated, with clear eyes, a clear heart, and clear spirit.
And we’ve never stopped.
Sing hallelujah, indeed.
Why yes, I bought her that “My Mom Rocks” t-shirt. You have a problem with that?
I realize an impromptu game of flag football isn’t that extra-ordinary for most families, but this was the first time in close to a year that Blaine had felt good enough to play outside with the kids, even for a few minutes. Their laughter and happiness at having him back, even if only for a short while, was infectious and I ran inside to get my camera. And kept telling them to pose, which apparently ruined the impromptu-ness and flow of the game, or so they kept telling me. Whatever. I have it on record -- they’re happy -- look at their faces. My job is done.
Saturday, March 24, 2007
A Day Late and a Dollar Short
Actually, this journal entry is more like two weeks late. I didn’t intend to go so long before updating, but since returning from my trip last weekend, I keep getting sidetracked by pesky chores like sleeping. And bathing. And feeding my children. So thanks to those of you who have waited patiently, checked in for updates, and didn’t abandon me entirely for the numerous other bloggers out there who are funnier, smarter, and update in a much more timely manner. I can only assume those other bloggers don’t get sidetracked as easily as I do --- as indicated by the fact I’ve sat down three times today to write this update, and wound up a) shopping at the mall for an Easter dress, b) wrapping presents, and c) watching an episode of The Naked Brothers Band with the kids.
I had to go back and read my own updates for the past two weeks, to remember just where I left off in the fertility/adoption chronicles. It was August of 1997, Brayden was six months old, I had just found out I was pregnant, and the adoption was still held up in the courts, but the judge in our case had agreed that I could take my “foster baby” across state lines and join Blaine. We were hoping the case would be settled and we could return to OK to finalize the adoption in just a few months. In the meantime, I was eager to get her to California and start our “real” life, as opposed to the first six months, when we were living out of a suitcase at my parents’ house.
So, that’s what I did. I loaded up my car with all the baby things and drove half-way cross country. Since making a 24-hour drive with a 6-month old in the car wasn’t my idea of fun ….. plus the car was so overloaded with all the crap we had accumulated I would have had to put her and her carseat on top of the car, a la the grandmother in Chevy Chase’s Vacation, AND considering I was only about six weeks pregnant, and had to stop every few hours to use the bathroom …. and nap ... we thought a smarter option might be for my sister to fly with Brayden to Los Angeles. Good thing, since it wound up taking me three days to make the drive. By the time I got there, my sister was already gone again. But at long last, Blaine, Brayden and I were living together as a family.
It was ………… mostly good. I mean, of course it was good-great-fabulous because we had waited so long for this day. But it was tainted a little, I have to admit, by the cloud of the court case hanging over our heads. There was a lot of adjusting to be done; Blaine and I had lived apart for over six months. Despite having bitched and moaned endlessly about being stuck with my parents that entire time, and never having any space or privacy, I missed them and felt homesick. It was perplexing … when I was in OKC, I was homesick for Blaine and California. Once I finally got to California, I was homesick for OKC. Seriously, I was a nut-job and had no idea what would make me happy.
Slowly but surely I was coming to terms with my VERY unplanned pregnancy. But I still hated all the ignorant comments I got from people who either knew about the adoption (“See? It always happens that way!”) or who had no idea about the adoption (“Heh-heh, haven’t you two figured out what causes that yet?”) It was incredibly ironic, to go from long-time fertility patient, to having a baby and one on the way, all in the space of six months. I felt very unsettled; as if I had finally found my identity, only for it to shift on me again and again. Simply put, Blaine and I had been knocked for a loop, and I was having trouble getting my legs back under me again. I would whine and complain about how “this wasn’t how I planned it” --- and then I would have an overwhelming desire to smack myself in the face with a blunt object because HOW DARE I complain? We finally, at long last, had the beautiful, perfect baby we always wanted, and I had the nerve to gripe because everything wasn’t perfect???? (I don’t know if Prozac was on the market yet, but perhaps I should have investigated that possibility.)
Within a month of me and Brayden moving back into our rental property, where Blaine had been living alone (or as alone as you can be with two dogs) we packed up and moved to historic base housing. Historic being code for “old and scabby”. This was in a skanky part of southern California. We lived next door to a drug rehab facility, were just a few miles from the harbor, and frequently heard gunshots at night. It was an ugly, scary neighborhood and I never felt comfortable there. I never felt comfortable in any part of Los Angeles, period. I was lonely. I didn’t know any of my neighbors. Just like in Oklahoma, I found myself filling up the days by taking Brayden to the mall and pushing her around in her stroller. And since I was pregnant, stopping almost daily at Auntie Anne’s pretzels and eating two jumbo garlic and parmesan cheese pretzels with a large Coke to wash them down with. No, I have no idea why I gained so much weight, do you?
Brayden and I moved to California in August. August turned into September, which turned into October. And we received word we had won the court case. Then received word there was an appeal. So we were still waiting, and still weren’t allowed to adopt the daughter that had been with us since birth.
Thank the Lord above that by then, I had made two friends in this town. One was a fellow military wife, and the other was a “local” I met at MOPS. Not that we did a lot together, but I’m pretty sure if I hadn’t had the two of them to at least fill up *some* of my days, I might have gone insane. I was really unhappy. I kept telling myself that I simply hated L.A. To be honest, it’s not my kind of town. Too big, too many people, too dirty. I am a suburbs kind of girl … preferably surrounded by farmland. I hated how crowded everything was; how much traffic; how everyone but me spoke another language. Blaine was unhappy, too. He’s not a city kind of guy, either. Hunting is his favorite hobby, and there, well, freeway road-rage shootings don’t count. He said he felt suffocated by all the people. How can you feel claustrophobic when on one side of you, as far as the eye can see, is the Pacific Ocean? Yet we did.
We told ourselves that our problem was L.A. itself. Our neighborhood was scary. Our yard had a eight-foot chain link fence with rolled barbed wire at the top, and we often found random items --shoes, batteries -- people from the drug rehab behind us had chucked into our backyard. I worried for the dogs and didn’t feel safe going outside with Brayden. So I hibernated in the house. A lot. And got pasty, in addition to fat. A few months after we moved out of our rental property, into the "historic" base housing, which we thought was scary, there was a home-invasion robbery and murder in our old neighborhood. I just never felt safe or comfortable. And did I mention I was lonely? Seriously, if it hadn’t been for my two friends Cathy and Annie, I might have never gone anywhere but the mall and the pretzel shop. It was hot. I was pregnant. There was no air conditioning in either of our houses.
Looking back, I was probably clinically depressed. The only saving grace, and I mean only, besides those two friends, was Brayden. She was the most wonderful, amazing baby. Ever. She was perfectly content to spend all day at home with me, going from bouncer-sizer to blanket on the floor to bouncy seat to swing to bathtub to a walk in her stroller. She slept well, she napped well, she ate well. And because I had nothing else going on in my life, I doted on her. I loved her more and more with every passing day. And with every passing day, I was more and more terrified of losing her.
And that was the crux of our problem. It wasn’t Los Angeles. It wasn’t the crime, or the car-jackings, or the gangs, or the graffiti, or the Santa Anna winds, or the pollution, or the disgusting fish taco stands on every corner. It was that our own heads weren’t clear, and instead of facing our fear, we blamed our surroundings. Los Angeles will go down in history as the suckiest place we ever lived, where I was a miserable human being, but I do at least acknowledge it was *partly* because of my attitude. (And partly because of all that other shit.)
Halloween came and went.
Thanksgiving came and went.
Christmas came and went.
I spent more time at the mall; ate more pretzels, and got bigger and bigger with my pregnancy.
Brayden’s first birthday came and went.
We were still waiting to hear final word on the court case.
And finally, my due date with Kellen came.
And went.
And went a little bit more.
That kid would STILL be in there, given the chance.
Nine years ago today, on March 24, 1998, my doctor gave up hope that my body would EVER go into spontaneous labor, and ordered me to the hospital for an all-night application of cervical softening agent, hoping that would do the trick and I would go into labor.
I was so nervous I didn’t sleep all night in the hospital. I hadn’t slept much, or well, the night before, either. The doctor said it came down to this: I was ten days past my due date. I hadn’t had a single contraction. I wasn’t dilated, or effaced. I was not in any kind of crises mode, but my placenta was the consistency of an old sponge, and it was time for the baby to come out. So if the cervical ripening gel didn’t work, we would induce labor the next morning.
It didn’t. And so we did.
I had to go back and read my own updates for the past two weeks, to remember just where I left off in the fertility/adoption chronicles. It was August of 1997, Brayden was six months old, I had just found out I was pregnant, and the adoption was still held up in the courts, but the judge in our case had agreed that I could take my “foster baby” across state lines and join Blaine. We were hoping the case would be settled and we could return to OK to finalize the adoption in just a few months. In the meantime, I was eager to get her to California and start our “real” life, as opposed to the first six months, when we were living out of a suitcase at my parents’ house.
So, that’s what I did. I loaded up my car with all the baby things and drove half-way cross country. Since making a 24-hour drive with a 6-month old in the car wasn’t my idea of fun ….. plus the car was so overloaded with all the crap we had accumulated I would have had to put her and her carseat on top of the car, a la the grandmother in Chevy Chase’s Vacation, AND considering I was only about six weeks pregnant, and had to stop every few hours to use the bathroom …. and nap ... we thought a smarter option might be for my sister to fly with Brayden to Los Angeles. Good thing, since it wound up taking me three days to make the drive. By the time I got there, my sister was already gone again. But at long last, Blaine, Brayden and I were living together as a family.
It was ………… mostly good. I mean, of course it was good-great-fabulous because we had waited so long for this day. But it was tainted a little, I have to admit, by the cloud of the court case hanging over our heads. There was a lot of adjusting to be done; Blaine and I had lived apart for over six months. Despite having bitched and moaned endlessly about being stuck with my parents that entire time, and never having any space or privacy, I missed them and felt homesick. It was perplexing … when I was in OKC, I was homesick for Blaine and California. Once I finally got to California, I was homesick for OKC. Seriously, I was a nut-job and had no idea what would make me happy.
Slowly but surely I was coming to terms with my VERY unplanned pregnancy. But I still hated all the ignorant comments I got from people who either knew about the adoption (“See? It always happens that way!”) or who had no idea about the adoption (“Heh-heh, haven’t you two figured out what causes that yet?”) It was incredibly ironic, to go from long-time fertility patient, to having a baby and one on the way, all in the space of six months. I felt very unsettled; as if I had finally found my identity, only for it to shift on me again and again. Simply put, Blaine and I had been knocked for a loop, and I was having trouble getting my legs back under me again. I would whine and complain about how “this wasn’t how I planned it” --- and then I would have an overwhelming desire to smack myself in the face with a blunt object because HOW DARE I complain? We finally, at long last, had the beautiful, perfect baby we always wanted, and I had the nerve to gripe because everything wasn’t perfect???? (I don’t know if Prozac was on the market yet, but perhaps I should have investigated that possibility.)
Within a month of me and Brayden moving back into our rental property, where Blaine had been living alone (or as alone as you can be with two dogs) we packed up and moved to historic base housing. Historic being code for “old and scabby”. This was in a skanky part of southern California. We lived next door to a drug rehab facility, were just a few miles from the harbor, and frequently heard gunshots at night. It was an ugly, scary neighborhood and I never felt comfortable there. I never felt comfortable in any part of Los Angeles, period. I was lonely. I didn’t know any of my neighbors. Just like in Oklahoma, I found myself filling up the days by taking Brayden to the mall and pushing her around in her stroller. And since I was pregnant, stopping almost daily at Auntie Anne’s pretzels and eating two jumbo garlic and parmesan cheese pretzels with a large Coke to wash them down with. No, I have no idea why I gained so much weight, do you?
Brayden and I moved to California in August. August turned into September, which turned into October. And we received word we had won the court case. Then received word there was an appeal. So we were still waiting, and still weren’t allowed to adopt the daughter that had been with us since birth.
Thank the Lord above that by then, I had made two friends in this town. One was a fellow military wife, and the other was a “local” I met at MOPS. Not that we did a lot together, but I’m pretty sure if I hadn’t had the two of them to at least fill up *some* of my days, I might have gone insane. I was really unhappy. I kept telling myself that I simply hated L.A. To be honest, it’s not my kind of town. Too big, too many people, too dirty. I am a suburbs kind of girl … preferably surrounded by farmland. I hated how crowded everything was; how much traffic; how everyone but me spoke another language. Blaine was unhappy, too. He’s not a city kind of guy, either. Hunting is his favorite hobby, and there, well, freeway road-rage shootings don’t count. He said he felt suffocated by all the people. How can you feel claustrophobic when on one side of you, as far as the eye can see, is the Pacific Ocean? Yet we did.
We told ourselves that our problem was L.A. itself. Our neighborhood was scary. Our yard had a eight-foot chain link fence with rolled barbed wire at the top, and we often found random items --shoes, batteries -- people from the drug rehab behind us had chucked into our backyard. I worried for the dogs and didn’t feel safe going outside with Brayden. So I hibernated in the house. A lot. And got pasty, in addition to fat. A few months after we moved out of our rental property, into the "historic" base housing, which we thought was scary, there was a home-invasion robbery and murder in our old neighborhood. I just never felt safe or comfortable. And did I mention I was lonely? Seriously, if it hadn’t been for my two friends Cathy and Annie, I might have never gone anywhere but the mall and the pretzel shop. It was hot. I was pregnant. There was no air conditioning in either of our houses.
Looking back, I was probably clinically depressed. The only saving grace, and I mean only, besides those two friends, was Brayden. She was the most wonderful, amazing baby. Ever. She was perfectly content to spend all day at home with me, going from bouncer-sizer to blanket on the floor to bouncy seat to swing to bathtub to a walk in her stroller. She slept well, she napped well, she ate well. And because I had nothing else going on in my life, I doted on her. I loved her more and more with every passing day. And with every passing day, I was more and more terrified of losing her.
And that was the crux of our problem. It wasn’t Los Angeles. It wasn’t the crime, or the car-jackings, or the gangs, or the graffiti, or the Santa Anna winds, or the pollution, or the disgusting fish taco stands on every corner. It was that our own heads weren’t clear, and instead of facing our fear, we blamed our surroundings. Los Angeles will go down in history as the suckiest place we ever lived, where I was a miserable human being, but I do at least acknowledge it was *partly* because of my attitude. (And partly because of all that other shit.)
Halloween came and went.
Thanksgiving came and went.
Christmas came and went.
I spent more time at the mall; ate more pretzels, and got bigger and bigger with my pregnancy.
Brayden’s first birthday came and went.
We were still waiting to hear final word on the court case.
And finally, my due date with Kellen came.
And went.
And went a little bit more.
That kid would STILL be in there, given the chance.
Nine years ago today, on March 24, 1998, my doctor gave up hope that my body would EVER go into spontaneous labor, and ordered me to the hospital for an all-night application of cervical softening agent, hoping that would do the trick and I would go into labor.
I was so nervous I didn’t sleep all night in the hospital. I hadn’t slept much, or well, the night before, either. The doctor said it came down to this: I was ten days past my due date. I hadn’t had a single contraction. I wasn’t dilated, or effaced. I was not in any kind of crises mode, but my placenta was the consistency of an old sponge, and it was time for the baby to come out. So if the cervical ripening gel didn’t work, we would induce labor the next morning.
It didn’t. And so we did.
Tuesday, March 13, 2007
I'm Totally Pulling a Justin Timberlake
You remember when Justin Timberlake took the liberty of flashing Janet Jackson’s boob at all of us during the Super Bowl Half Time Show a few years ago? And then, when the television network required him to publicly apologize for his actions, his exact words were, “I’m sorry if that offended you” --- Do you remember that? I made a big stink to Blaine, and anyone else who would listen, about how THAT was not an apology, THAT was a cop out. A *conditional* apology. A **real** apology is when you take responsibility for your actions, admit they were wrong, and say you are sorry. Hugh Grant, going on Jay Leno, after getting caught with that prostitute while he was still dating Elizabeth Hurley, and saying “Yeah, I screwed up” --- THAT is taking responsibility for your mistakes. Not making some lame-ass statement like Justin Timberlake that is the verbal equivalent to “I’m sorry YOU are so uptight that seeing her scary nipple ring made you uncomfortable.” (Although, it *was* scary … did you SEE it???) He didn’t say he was sorry he did it, he didn’t take responsibility for his actions, or even pretend it happened by accident. He basically said, “I’m sorry if YOU didn’t like it.” And he said it with a smirk on his face. What a weenie.
Now, guess what. Regarding my previous journal entry, I have something to say: “I’m sorry if that offended you.”
What, exactly? Well, my comment, that for every healthy white baby placed for adoption, there were {statistically} one hundred couples approved and waiting to adopt. I did actually pause while typing, and hesitated putting it out there, due to those two words … Healthy. And White. And sure enough, I got called on it. Privately, and with tact and kindness, but called on it nonetheless. So I feel compelled to explain myself just a little, in case there are other people I offended with that comment as well.
When Blaine and I applied with the adoption agency, we were asked what kinds of babies and/or children we would consider adopting. White, black, Hispanic, mixed, older, special-needs, medically-challenged, sibling groups, foster kids, etc. And he and I talked about it for a long time, and honestly examined our feelings and expectations, and came to the decision that we wanted to adopt the same kind of child we would have given birth to, if we’d been able to become pregnant. I am white; he is white. Therefore, we wanted to try and adopt a white baby.
The bottom line is that there aren’t as many white newborns placed for adoption as there are people waiting to adopt. That’s why I made the comment about one hundred couples --- just to point out that we were so blessed to be chosen by M, when she could have gone to other agencies and had her pick of dozens and dozens of other couples, all of them equally deserving, and equally hopeful, just like us.
Had we been willing to consider a child of a different race, or an older child, or a special needs child, I’m sure we could have adopted much more quickly. And we considered it. Very seriously considered it. Even then, I felt sure I could love any baby, whether it was black or purple or plaid. Now, of course, with the wisdom and experience of being a parent, I know that to be true.
But adopting a baby, or an older child, or a child of a different race, is something you should do because you WANT to do, and you feel LED to do; because you are one of those amazing people who have a special calling to do such a thing. It should NOT be seen as a shortcut, just so you can adopt more quickly. At least we didn’t think so.
Some people didn’t understand why we made that decision. They didn’t agree, and thought we were being too picky. I had one person say to me, “Beggars can’t be choosers.” And for a brief moment, I wondered if they were right; were my expectations unreasonable, or too high? Was I some kind of closet-racist, and didn’t even realize it, that I wanted a white baby? But I kept coming back to the same argument -- I wanted to adopt the same kind of baby I would have had myself. And that baby would be white, unless my fantasy involving Denzel Washington ever came true, but that discussion is probably not appropriate for right now.
So we waited, and waited, and finally gave up. And as you know, after that, eventually, M picked us.
One thing I find truly ironic: Just a month or two after being approved, the agency contacted us not once, but twice, about a baby that was being placed for adoption that was born with severe birth defects. Years and years of medical challenges and complications lay ahead for this baby, and it was imperative they get it placed in a good home that could handle this sort of medical situation. We talked about it, and considered it, and said no. We felt it wouldn’t be fair, to us or the baby, to take on that sort of responsibility as a military family that bounced around so much. How could we provide continuous medical care, at the level this child would need, when we move every few years? We came to the decision that if any child of ours ever became unhealthy, we would deal with it then. But to knowingly take on that challenge wouldn’t be the responsible thing to do. And as you know, a few years later, our youngest daughter Kendrie was diagnosed with leukemia. And we discovered that the decision we made not to adopt that baby all those years ago was without merit after all, because our family could indeed handle a medical challenge.
Of course, had we adopted that baby, we wouldn’t have Brayden. And God knew she belonged in our family, which is why we were led not to adopt the first baby, or any other baby. Which is why (I know this in hindsight now) I never got pregnant, no matter how long or how hard we tried. Had I been able to get pregnant, we wouldn’t have tried to adopt. We had to get Brayden into our life first. Then God “cleared" me to become pregnant. I believe that with all of my heart.
But back to my comment. I’m sorry if I offended anyone with the words “white” or “healthy”. I’m sorry if it seemed insensitive to anyone’s family or anyone’s children. I’m sorry if I made it sound like any other kind of child wasn’t just as special and wonderful and deserving. All children are beautiful and deserve to be be raised in loving, good homes. Every single child. And if my earlier comment made it sound like I feel any other way, then I’m sorry. And if that comment was insulting or insensitive to you personally, then I’m sorry I offended you.
Now, guess what. Regarding my previous journal entry, I have something to say: “I’m sorry if that offended you.”
What, exactly? Well, my comment, that for every healthy white baby placed for adoption, there were {statistically} one hundred couples approved and waiting to adopt. I did actually pause while typing, and hesitated putting it out there, due to those two words … Healthy. And White. And sure enough, I got called on it. Privately, and with tact and kindness, but called on it nonetheless. So I feel compelled to explain myself just a little, in case there are other people I offended with that comment as well.
When Blaine and I applied with the adoption agency, we were asked what kinds of babies and/or children we would consider adopting. White, black, Hispanic, mixed, older, special-needs, medically-challenged, sibling groups, foster kids, etc. And he and I talked about it for a long time, and honestly examined our feelings and expectations, and came to the decision that we wanted to adopt the same kind of child we would have given birth to, if we’d been able to become pregnant. I am white; he is white. Therefore, we wanted to try and adopt a white baby.
The bottom line is that there aren’t as many white newborns placed for adoption as there are people waiting to adopt. That’s why I made the comment about one hundred couples --- just to point out that we were so blessed to be chosen by M, when she could have gone to other agencies and had her pick of dozens and dozens of other couples, all of them equally deserving, and equally hopeful, just like us.
Had we been willing to consider a child of a different race, or an older child, or a special needs child, I’m sure we could have adopted much more quickly. And we considered it. Very seriously considered it. Even then, I felt sure I could love any baby, whether it was black or purple or plaid. Now, of course, with the wisdom and experience of being a parent, I know that to be true.
But adopting a baby, or an older child, or a child of a different race, is something you should do because you WANT to do, and you feel LED to do; because you are one of those amazing people who have a special calling to do such a thing. It should NOT be seen as a shortcut, just so you can adopt more quickly. At least we didn’t think so.
Some people didn’t understand why we made that decision. They didn’t agree, and thought we were being too picky. I had one person say to me, “Beggars can’t be choosers.” And for a brief moment, I wondered if they were right; were my expectations unreasonable, or too high? Was I some kind of closet-racist, and didn’t even realize it, that I wanted a white baby? But I kept coming back to the same argument -- I wanted to adopt the same kind of baby I would have had myself. And that baby would be white, unless my fantasy involving Denzel Washington ever came true, but that discussion is probably not appropriate for right now.
So we waited, and waited, and finally gave up. And as you know, after that, eventually, M picked us.
One thing I find truly ironic: Just a month or two after being approved, the agency contacted us not once, but twice, about a baby that was being placed for adoption that was born with severe birth defects. Years and years of medical challenges and complications lay ahead for this baby, and it was imperative they get it placed in a good home that could handle this sort of medical situation. We talked about it, and considered it, and said no. We felt it wouldn’t be fair, to us or the baby, to take on that sort of responsibility as a military family that bounced around so much. How could we provide continuous medical care, at the level this child would need, when we move every few years? We came to the decision that if any child of ours ever became unhealthy, we would deal with it then. But to knowingly take on that challenge wouldn’t be the responsible thing to do. And as you know, a few years later, our youngest daughter Kendrie was diagnosed with leukemia. And we discovered that the decision we made not to adopt that baby all those years ago was without merit after all, because our family could indeed handle a medical challenge.
Of course, had we adopted that baby, we wouldn’t have Brayden. And God knew she belonged in our family, which is why we were led not to adopt the first baby, or any other baby. Which is why (I know this in hindsight now) I never got pregnant, no matter how long or how hard we tried. Had I been able to get pregnant, we wouldn’t have tried to adopt. We had to get Brayden into our life first. Then God “cleared" me to become pregnant. I believe that with all of my heart.
But back to my comment. I’m sorry if I offended anyone with the words “white” or “healthy”. I’m sorry if it seemed insensitive to anyone’s family or anyone’s children. I’m sorry if I made it sound like any other kind of child wasn’t just as special and wonderful and deserving. All children are beautiful and deserve to be be raised in loving, good homes. Every single child. And if my earlier comment made it sound like I feel any other way, then I’m sorry. And if that comment was insulting or insensitive to you personally, then I’m sorry I offended you.
Saturday, March 10, 2007
Things Can Only Get Better
And we took Brayden home from the hospital, and she was the greatest baby ever, and we lived happily ever after. Forever and ever. Amen.
Um, yeah. You didn’t think it would be *that* easy, did you?
A few things first ……from your comments:
To all the adoptive parents, birth parents, prospective parents, and adoptees who wrote in, or e-mailed me privately, and shared a bit of your life with me, thank you so much. I am truly touched to hear from so many people who feel a connection, through their own experiences, with this exciting time in our life, and honored that you would share your own stories.
Jeff B, the new song is for you. I had trouble finding a song titled “Yippee, after all those years of infertility I’m finally a Mom!” so I chose this one, “Things Can Only Get Better” because that’s how we felt at this point. Thanks for reminding me, via Mel, that although “It’s All About Me” (and you KNOW that it is) that I’d been hammering it home a little too long. :)
Kim, yes, scalloped scissors. {hangs head shamefully}
D. Johnson, if you’d like, please e-mail me privately. There was no contact in your comment section so I can’t e-mail you, but I’d be happy to talk to you, if you feel comfortable.
So, ok, back to the story. You guys might have THOUGHT it was over, but no, we were just getting started. Remember we brought Brayden home to my parents’ house, in our role as fosters parents, for ten days, until M was able to relinquish her parental rights. Those were ten fun, happy, sleep-deprived, joyful, busy days. Friends threw us a baby shower, and prior co-workers threw us another. We were able to take Brayden to Blaine’s uncle’s church a few hours away and have her dedicated with all our family there to watch. It was a little stressful, sure, because we were staying at my mom and dad’s house and didn’t have all the “things” you normally need for a newborn. We had a fully stocked, fully furnished nursery back in California, but since we were only going to be in OK for ten days, we didn’t worry too much about what we would need there. We had a car seat, of course, for our rental car, and borrowed a bassinette and baby tub from my sister. Diapers, wipes, a diaper bag, a few outfits, a few bottles, some formula, and the gifts we got at the showers. That was pretty much all we had. And it was a little hectic, newborns always are, but mainly it was enjoyable to spend that time with family, and let them get to know Brayden, especially since we knew it would be a while before we would see them again.
After the ten days went by, M signed the papers. And the birthfather contested the adoption.
*** Here is that disclaimer again about how despite the song I normally play on this site, this story is not JUST about me, it’s about M, too. And at this point, it’s Brayden’s story as well, so even more, I feel I am not at liberty to give details. Especially legal details. Partly because quite frankly, they’re private, and partly because Brayden doesn’t even know the whole story yet. So I won’t get into things here, on the internet, like I might normally, and I won’t discuss the legal hoops through which we all had to jump, and the specific timeline during which these things happened. I’ll go over it from my point of view, because that's really all I have .... as thoroughly as I can without breaching any confidence, but suffice it to say, despite all the details I am leaving out, you'll just have to believe it was nerve-racking. ***
The gist of our situation is that a contested adoption is not something that can be handled in a week. Or two. Or a month. We had a great attorney, and trusted him very much. And understood why it was necessary that this situation be handled properly, and thoroughly, and correctly, so there could be no problems or ramifications down the road. But we had no idea what was going to happen.
After a few weeks, Blaine had to return to work. He only had so much time he could take off, even with FLMA, even with an understanding boss. So, he flew back to California and I stayed behind with Brayden. Because, here’s the kicker: I was *technically* the foster mother. And Brayden was *technically* in foster care. Which meant I was not allowed to cross the state line with her. So for as long as this situation was being handled legally, that meant I had to stay with Brayden in Oklahoma. Or put her in a real foster home and go to California to be with Blaine. Um, yep. You can pretty much guess that THAT wasn’t happening!
And thus began our odyssey of “Being a Parent Like THIS was Not Quite What I Had Planned” (See? See how I did that? Just tied right into the title of the blog? Because I’m clever like that and all…..)
And one month turned into two, and two turned into three. And I realized that with what I had already paid for the rental car, I could have just BOUGHT a used car. I had come to Oklahoma in mid-January with two weeks worth of winter clothes in a suitcase, and it was now almost May. And the novelty of the situation had worn off, and I was starting to get a little stressed out.
I love my parents dearly. I was so blessed that I could stay with them during this time, and not have to stay in a motel, or rent a furnished apartment. And it was nice to get to spend more time with M, and my sister and my nephew, and to show Brayden off to all our friends back home.
But I was definitely veering towards frazzled. Blaine would fly in once a month to visit us for three or four days; a long weekend. He was very unhappy, because Brayden was getting bigger and older and he was missing it. And although my parents were good about helping me, I was basically doing the single-parent thing, which was exhausting. So when Blaine would come home, I would hand him the baby and just mentally check out for two or three days. He did all the bottles and diaper changes and baths while he was there. It was good for all of us, but it still wasn’t what we wanted; it wasn’t being in our own home, with our own baby, as our own family.
I was starting to resent the living situation, as well. I had flown back to California by now, and driven my car back to Oklahoma (my parents watched Brayden for the four days it took me to do this---see what I mean by how lucky I was?) so at least I had some of our things. But still, learning to be a parent, and getting to know my baby, out of a suitcase in the spare bedroom at my folks house, was NOT what I had in mind. I had been daydreaming and fantasizing about being a mom for six years, and this was not what I had pictured, to say the least.
My dad was retired and disabled, so pretty much sat in the living room all day. Although he did nothing to make me feel this way, I still felt like I had an audience all the time. I just wanted to be alone with my baby, and there was no real way to make that happen. So I would put her in the car and drive around for hours, letting her nap in her carseat. I took her to the mall, two or three times a week, and pushed her around in her stroller. My mom and dad were great, but I knew having us there was an imposition on them, and they missed their quiet life, as well. Brayden and I had a standing Thursday night outing with a friend for dinner out, then back over to his house to watch the Must-See TV shows. I had another friend who had a baby six weeks after Brayden was born, and I hung out at her house a lot. Mainly, I just tried to find ways to fill up our days, and get Brayden and me out of the house.
What I wanted, was to be ALONE, with MY BABY, in MY HOUSE, with MY THINGS. That probably makes me sound like a spoiled brat, but I was very much accustomed to privacy, and having my own space, and doing my own thing. My parents were kind and loving and hospitable, but I was a guest in their home, and I felt like I was stuck on “pause” in a movie about my life. And as grateful as I was for my parents help, the bottom line was, THIS WASN’T HOW IT WAS SUPPOSED TO BE, and I started to get frustrated and resentful. My very favorite time of the day, or night, as it was, were Brayden’s middle-of-the-night feedings. That was the only time I was ever alone with her; just the two of us, peaceful and quiet. I would give her the bottle, and sing “You Are My Sunshine” to her over and over. And I would actually feel sad when she would go back to sleep, because our alone-time was over. And daylight would roll around and once again I would get upset because there was no privacy, no where I could go that was my own, no way to be with Brayden, just the two of us, that didn't involve hanging out at a park or driving in my car.
I’m sure anyone with half a semester of freshman psychology can guess that my anger and resentment was nothing more than fear. Fear that the adoption would fall through. Fear that despite what our attorney said about our iron-clad case, he would be wrong and I’d have to give her back. Fear that this baby, this wonderful baby, who I had waited so long to hold in my arms and love and cherish …… who I knew, beyond anything I had ever known before, was MY OWN DAUGHTER, would be taken from me.
I kept saying to Blaine, every month when he would fly from California to visit, “This is just crazy. We have a great relationship with M. Everything is perfect; everything went textbook. Good grief, as far as the three of us go, we could be the POSTER CHILDREN for open adoption!” Yet we were still mired down in the court system.
Three months turned into four.
Four months turned into five.
By the six month point, I was crazy. Our case hadn't even made it through court yet. I was sick and damn tired of living with my parents. I was frustrated and anxious all the time, and rude to my parents, who had done nothing but try and help. I was terrified the adoption wouldn’t work out. I was bitchy to everyone, and paranoid and defensive and felt like life was out to get me. I had waited six years to be a parent, and I couldn't even enjoy it. And I hated myself for being such a hag, when I had been given this beautiful, amazing gift. I was perturbed and discouraged, and all the other adjectives you can think of to describe someone who is pretty much on the edge. The very far edge. The edge where your tippy-toes can feel the open air underneath them and you start to think you should back up a little in case heaven forbid you lose your balance and something really bad happens.
And then? I'LL BE DAMNED if I didn’t find out I was pregnant.
Um, yeah. You didn’t think it would be *that* easy, did you?
A few things first ……from your comments:
To all the adoptive parents, birth parents, prospective parents, and adoptees who wrote in, or e-mailed me privately, and shared a bit of your life with me, thank you so much. I am truly touched to hear from so many people who feel a connection, through their own experiences, with this exciting time in our life, and honored that you would share your own stories.
Jeff B, the new song is for you. I had trouble finding a song titled “Yippee, after all those years of infertility I’m finally a Mom!” so I chose this one, “Things Can Only Get Better” because that’s how we felt at this point. Thanks for reminding me, via Mel, that although “It’s All About Me” (and you KNOW that it is) that I’d been hammering it home a little too long. :)
Kim, yes, scalloped scissors. {hangs head shamefully}
D. Johnson, if you’d like, please e-mail me privately. There was no contact in your comment section so I can’t e-mail you, but I’d be happy to talk to you, if you feel comfortable.
So, ok, back to the story. You guys might have THOUGHT it was over, but no, we were just getting started. Remember we brought Brayden home to my parents’ house, in our role as fosters parents, for ten days, until M was able to relinquish her parental rights. Those were ten fun, happy, sleep-deprived, joyful, busy days. Friends threw us a baby shower, and prior co-workers threw us another. We were able to take Brayden to Blaine’s uncle’s church a few hours away and have her dedicated with all our family there to watch. It was a little stressful, sure, because we were staying at my mom and dad’s house and didn’t have all the “things” you normally need for a newborn. We had a fully stocked, fully furnished nursery back in California, but since we were only going to be in OK for ten days, we didn’t worry too much about what we would need there. We had a car seat, of course, for our rental car, and borrowed a bassinette and baby tub from my sister. Diapers, wipes, a diaper bag, a few outfits, a few bottles, some formula, and the gifts we got at the showers. That was pretty much all we had. And it was a little hectic, newborns always are, but mainly it was enjoyable to spend that time with family, and let them get to know Brayden, especially since we knew it would be a while before we would see them again.
After the ten days went by, M signed the papers. And the birthfather contested the adoption.
*** Here is that disclaimer again about how despite the song I normally play on this site, this story is not JUST about me, it’s about M, too. And at this point, it’s Brayden’s story as well, so even more, I feel I am not at liberty to give details. Especially legal details. Partly because quite frankly, they’re private, and partly because Brayden doesn’t even know the whole story yet. So I won’t get into things here, on the internet, like I might normally, and I won’t discuss the legal hoops through which we all had to jump, and the specific timeline during which these things happened. I’ll go over it from my point of view, because that's really all I have .... as thoroughly as I can without breaching any confidence, but suffice it to say, despite all the details I am leaving out, you'll just have to believe it was nerve-racking. ***
The gist of our situation is that a contested adoption is not something that can be handled in a week. Or two. Or a month. We had a great attorney, and trusted him very much. And understood why it was necessary that this situation be handled properly, and thoroughly, and correctly, so there could be no problems or ramifications down the road. But we had no idea what was going to happen.
After a few weeks, Blaine had to return to work. He only had so much time he could take off, even with FLMA, even with an understanding boss. So, he flew back to California and I stayed behind with Brayden. Because, here’s the kicker: I was *technically* the foster mother. And Brayden was *technically* in foster care. Which meant I was not allowed to cross the state line with her. So for as long as this situation was being handled legally, that meant I had to stay with Brayden in Oklahoma. Or put her in a real foster home and go to California to be with Blaine. Um, yep. You can pretty much guess that THAT wasn’t happening!
And thus began our odyssey of “Being a Parent Like THIS was Not Quite What I Had Planned” (See? See how I did that? Just tied right into the title of the blog? Because I’m clever like that and all…..)
And one month turned into two, and two turned into three. And I realized that with what I had already paid for the rental car, I could have just BOUGHT a used car. I had come to Oklahoma in mid-January with two weeks worth of winter clothes in a suitcase, and it was now almost May. And the novelty of the situation had worn off, and I was starting to get a little stressed out.
I love my parents dearly. I was so blessed that I could stay with them during this time, and not have to stay in a motel, or rent a furnished apartment. And it was nice to get to spend more time with M, and my sister and my nephew, and to show Brayden off to all our friends back home.
But I was definitely veering towards frazzled. Blaine would fly in once a month to visit us for three or four days; a long weekend. He was very unhappy, because Brayden was getting bigger and older and he was missing it. And although my parents were good about helping me, I was basically doing the single-parent thing, which was exhausting. So when Blaine would come home, I would hand him the baby and just mentally check out for two or three days. He did all the bottles and diaper changes and baths while he was there. It was good for all of us, but it still wasn’t what we wanted; it wasn’t being in our own home, with our own baby, as our own family.
I was starting to resent the living situation, as well. I had flown back to California by now, and driven my car back to Oklahoma (my parents watched Brayden for the four days it took me to do this---see what I mean by how lucky I was?) so at least I had some of our things. But still, learning to be a parent, and getting to know my baby, out of a suitcase in the spare bedroom at my folks house, was NOT what I had in mind. I had been daydreaming and fantasizing about being a mom for six years, and this was not what I had pictured, to say the least.
My dad was retired and disabled, so pretty much sat in the living room all day. Although he did nothing to make me feel this way, I still felt like I had an audience all the time. I just wanted to be alone with my baby, and there was no real way to make that happen. So I would put her in the car and drive around for hours, letting her nap in her carseat. I took her to the mall, two or three times a week, and pushed her around in her stroller. My mom and dad were great, but I knew having us there was an imposition on them, and they missed their quiet life, as well. Brayden and I had a standing Thursday night outing with a friend for dinner out, then back over to his house to watch the Must-See TV shows. I had another friend who had a baby six weeks after Brayden was born, and I hung out at her house a lot. Mainly, I just tried to find ways to fill up our days, and get Brayden and me out of the house.
What I wanted, was to be ALONE, with MY BABY, in MY HOUSE, with MY THINGS. That probably makes me sound like a spoiled brat, but I was very much accustomed to privacy, and having my own space, and doing my own thing. My parents were kind and loving and hospitable, but I was a guest in their home, and I felt like I was stuck on “pause” in a movie about my life. And as grateful as I was for my parents help, the bottom line was, THIS WASN’T HOW IT WAS SUPPOSED TO BE, and I started to get frustrated and resentful. My very favorite time of the day, or night, as it was, were Brayden’s middle-of-the-night feedings. That was the only time I was ever alone with her; just the two of us, peaceful and quiet. I would give her the bottle, and sing “You Are My Sunshine” to her over and over. And I would actually feel sad when she would go back to sleep, because our alone-time was over. And daylight would roll around and once again I would get upset because there was no privacy, no where I could go that was my own, no way to be with Brayden, just the two of us, that didn't involve hanging out at a park or driving in my car.
I’m sure anyone with half a semester of freshman psychology can guess that my anger and resentment was nothing more than fear. Fear that the adoption would fall through. Fear that despite what our attorney said about our iron-clad case, he would be wrong and I’d have to give her back. Fear that this baby, this wonderful baby, who I had waited so long to hold in my arms and love and cherish …… who I knew, beyond anything I had ever known before, was MY OWN DAUGHTER, would be taken from me.
I kept saying to Blaine, every month when he would fly from California to visit, “This is just crazy. We have a great relationship with M. Everything is perfect; everything went textbook. Good grief, as far as the three of us go, we could be the POSTER CHILDREN for open adoption!” Yet we were still mired down in the court system.
Three months turned into four.
Four months turned into five.
By the six month point, I was crazy. Our case hadn't even made it through court yet. I was sick and damn tired of living with my parents. I was frustrated and anxious all the time, and rude to my parents, who had done nothing but try and help. I was terrified the adoption wouldn’t work out. I was bitchy to everyone, and paranoid and defensive and felt like life was out to get me. I had waited six years to be a parent, and I couldn't even enjoy it. And I hated myself for being such a hag, when I had been given this beautiful, amazing gift. I was perturbed and discouraged, and all the other adjectives you can think of to describe someone who is pretty much on the edge. The very far edge. The edge where your tippy-toes can feel the open air underneath them and you start to think you should back up a little in case heaven forbid you lose your balance and something really bad happens.
And then? I'LL BE DAMNED if I didn’t find out I was pregnant.
Thursday, March 08, 2007
Welcome to the World, Brayden
M had stated that she was willing to have us at the hospital the day Brayden was born, and we were more and more excited as that day drew closer. As a side note, M managed to keep the sex of the baby secret, like we asked, throughout the entire pregnancy, but just a few days before delivery, her aunt slipped with a comment that let us know, or at least suspect, that it was a girl, indeed. We had been guessing boy, so had to reverse our way of thinking, but we were still so excited, boy or girl, that we bordered on obnoxious, I'm sure. But M didn’t want us in the room while she was delivering. I can hardly blame her. Not only is there an awful lot of nekkid-ness that goes on, it was bound to be an emotional time for her as well. I can’t speak for her, and what she was thinking or feeling, but we certainly respected her need for privacy.
We drove to the hospital that morning, and being the dorks that we are, realized we didn’t really know where to go. I hung back, and was more hesitant, than Blaine. M’s family was in the labor & delivery waiting areas, but this was bound to be an emotional time for them as well. And it’s hard to explain …. As excited as Blaine and I were, and as thrilled as we were that this day was finally here, part of me felt like a vulture, swooping in to take what I wanted. It felt selfish and insensitive to sit in the same waiting area, brimming with happiness and joy and anticipation, when their experience, although waiting on the same delivery, was bound to be completely different.
So we waited in the downstairs lobby for a while, until I began to get paranoid that we might miss something, or they would think we didn’t care, or that worse, they would think we weren’t coming at all. And just like the night before, you would think every single detail of this day would be etched in my mind, but it’s really not.
I remember around 2pm, we got the exciting news that Brayden had been born. I remember going into M’s room with Blaine, and seeing her sitting on the bed holding the baby. I remember not knowing where to go or what to do. It seemed insensitive to rush over and start oohing and aahing over the baby straightaway; I was concerned with M and how she was doing, and yet the other half of me, insensitive or not, wanted to rush right over to Brayden and do exactly that.
I remember it was a day filled with emotion, and most of it was happy. I’m sure for M’s family it was bittersweet. We took tons of photos, and my favorite photo, and one that Brayden still has framed in her room, is a picture of M sitting in bed, holding her, and Blaine and me flanking either side of the bed, all of us looking at the camera and smiling. Brayden will never have to wonder about the circumstances of that day, and that picture is proof that everyone involved loves her so very, very much.
We did have one glitch at the hospital, and I only share it with you as further proof of M’s giving nature, in case it wasn’t already evident. The hospital where she delivered has its own adoption program, and the only way I can describe what happened to us, is that quite frankly, they were cranky we hadn’t gone through *their* program. My personal opinion is that they were annoyed we were using an independent agency, so they decided they didn’t need to do anything to facilitate our time there.
They informed Blaine and me that since we were not legally the parents, (remember, for the first ten days we would be Brayden’s foster parents, due to tribal law) that we were not allowed to check the baby out of the nursery, nor were we allowed to BE with the baby unless we had a chaperone. Sort of like “supervised visits only” in a divorce situation. And since we hadn’t used *their* adoption program, none of *their* social workers could/would serve as our chaperones. We would need our own social worker to be there if we wanted to see Brayden, or spend time with her.
“But that’s impossible,” I protested, “She works full-time in another hospital an hour away … she can’t possibly be here until 6 or 7 at night! What are we supposed to do all day? Just sit and look at her through the nursery window? That’s ridiculous!”
And the response we got in return was the grown up version of “Too bad, so sad.”
They even took Polaroid photos of Blaine and me to put in the nursery, as a visual reminder to the other nurses that we were NOT ALLOWED to have the baby. Seriously. Polaroid pictures of us, like mug shots. I’ve always wondered if they drew a big circle with a line through our faces. Bastards.
And this is when, if I had any doubt at all that M and I were cut from the same cloth, that doubt ended. She heard what was happening, and that Blaine and I wouldn’t be allowed to see Brayden all day, and her comment (exact comment, I believe) was “That’s bullshit.” So each day, until our social worker could get there in the evening, M would check the baby out of the nursery herself, then let Blaine and me hang out in her room with her so we could do the things like feed her (unskilled though we were) and change her diapers (even more unskilled … did we not listen to ANYTHING in our parenting classes?) and count her fingers and toes and rock her and talk to her and all those other things you do the first two days in the hospital.
Can you imagine how difficult that must have been, and how selfless her actions were? We tried very hard to be sensitive, and leave our flashing, neon “New Mommy!” and “New Daddy!” signs at home ….. and I am forever indebted to her for giving us that time with Brayden. But still, I couldn’t wait for those 48 hours to pass so we could go home and begin our time as a family, and so M could go home and begin her healing, as well.
We asked M to give her a middle name, and even though, for legal purposes, another name went on her birth certificate, at long last, six YEARS after we started trying to have a baby, we went home as parents, with Brayden Christine Grace. Well, not home-home. To my parents’ house. But still, finally, we were parents. Ok, technically, foster parents on paper, but parents in our minds and in our hearts. And we were thrilled. And she was beautiful and brilliant and bound to change the world. And it was even better than we hoped it would be. (Well, until that first bath, when she pooped all over my favorite sweatshirt. But I guess I can overlook that part.)
Aunt Kelly and Uncle Cliff meeting Brayden for the first time, the day we loaded up and left the hospital. And drove our little rental car like terrified 16 year olds who had just gotten their licenses and were transporting plutonium and a dead body in a stolen car. I'm surprised we didn't get a ticket for delaying traffic but we HAD to round the corners so slowly because otherwise her little bobble head might just fall off, FALL OFF I tell you and we suddenly realized that whoa, this whole parenting gig is a lot scarier than it looks on TV, and we are RESPONSIBLE for this little person and even though we only had a few miles to go I rode in the back seat the entire time to make sure she was still breathing and that her car seat didn't spontaneously come undone and continued to yell at Blaine to slow down because he was going to cause her permanent spinal cord injury or brain damage if he exceeded ten miles per hour and jostled her about in such a careless manner!!!!
We drove to the hospital that morning, and being the dorks that we are, realized we didn’t really know where to go. I hung back, and was more hesitant, than Blaine. M’s family was in the labor & delivery waiting areas, but this was bound to be an emotional time for them as well. And it’s hard to explain …. As excited as Blaine and I were, and as thrilled as we were that this day was finally here, part of me felt like a vulture, swooping in to take what I wanted. It felt selfish and insensitive to sit in the same waiting area, brimming with happiness and joy and anticipation, when their experience, although waiting on the same delivery, was bound to be completely different.
So we waited in the downstairs lobby for a while, until I began to get paranoid that we might miss something, or they would think we didn’t care, or that worse, they would think we weren’t coming at all. And just like the night before, you would think every single detail of this day would be etched in my mind, but it’s really not.
I remember around 2pm, we got the exciting news that Brayden had been born. I remember going into M’s room with Blaine, and seeing her sitting on the bed holding the baby. I remember not knowing where to go or what to do. It seemed insensitive to rush over and start oohing and aahing over the baby straightaway; I was concerned with M and how she was doing, and yet the other half of me, insensitive or not, wanted to rush right over to Brayden and do exactly that.
I remember it was a day filled with emotion, and most of it was happy. I’m sure for M’s family it was bittersweet. We took tons of photos, and my favorite photo, and one that Brayden still has framed in her room, is a picture of M sitting in bed, holding her, and Blaine and me flanking either side of the bed, all of us looking at the camera and smiling. Brayden will never have to wonder about the circumstances of that day, and that picture is proof that everyone involved loves her so very, very much.
We did have one glitch at the hospital, and I only share it with you as further proof of M’s giving nature, in case it wasn’t already evident. The hospital where she delivered has its own adoption program, and the only way I can describe what happened to us, is that quite frankly, they were cranky we hadn’t gone through *their* program. My personal opinion is that they were annoyed we were using an independent agency, so they decided they didn’t need to do anything to facilitate our time there.
They informed Blaine and me that since we were not legally the parents, (remember, for the first ten days we would be Brayden’s foster parents, due to tribal law) that we were not allowed to check the baby out of the nursery, nor were we allowed to BE with the baby unless we had a chaperone. Sort of like “supervised visits only” in a divorce situation. And since we hadn’t used *their* adoption program, none of *their* social workers could/would serve as our chaperones. We would need our own social worker to be there if we wanted to see Brayden, or spend time with her.
“But that’s impossible,” I protested, “She works full-time in another hospital an hour away … she can’t possibly be here until 6 or 7 at night! What are we supposed to do all day? Just sit and look at her through the nursery window? That’s ridiculous!”
And the response we got in return was the grown up version of “Too bad, so sad.”
They even took Polaroid photos of Blaine and me to put in the nursery, as a visual reminder to the other nurses that we were NOT ALLOWED to have the baby. Seriously. Polaroid pictures of us, like mug shots. I’ve always wondered if they drew a big circle with a line through our faces. Bastards.
And this is when, if I had any doubt at all that M and I were cut from the same cloth, that doubt ended. She heard what was happening, and that Blaine and I wouldn’t be allowed to see Brayden all day, and her comment (exact comment, I believe) was “That’s bullshit.” So each day, until our social worker could get there in the evening, M would check the baby out of the nursery herself, then let Blaine and me hang out in her room with her so we could do the things like feed her (unskilled though we were) and change her diapers (even more unskilled … did we not listen to ANYTHING in our parenting classes?) and count her fingers and toes and rock her and talk to her and all those other things you do the first two days in the hospital.
Can you imagine how difficult that must have been, and how selfless her actions were? We tried very hard to be sensitive, and leave our flashing, neon “New Mommy!” and “New Daddy!” signs at home ….. and I am forever indebted to her for giving us that time with Brayden. But still, I couldn’t wait for those 48 hours to pass so we could go home and begin our time as a family, and so M could go home and begin her healing, as well.
We asked M to give her a middle name, and even though, for legal purposes, another name went on her birth certificate, at long last, six YEARS after we started trying to have a baby, we went home as parents, with Brayden Christine Grace. Well, not home-home. To my parents’ house. But still, finally, we were parents. Ok, technically, foster parents on paper, but parents in our minds and in our hearts. And we were thrilled. And she was beautiful and brilliant and bound to change the world. And it was even better than we hoped it would be. (Well, until that first bath, when she pooped all over my favorite sweatshirt. But I guess I can overlook that part.)
Aunt Kelly and Uncle Cliff meeting Brayden for the first time, the day we loaded up and left the hospital. And drove our little rental car like terrified 16 year olds who had just gotten their licenses and were transporting plutonium and a dead body in a stolen car. I'm surprised we didn't get a ticket for delaying traffic but we HAD to round the corners so slowly because otherwise her little bobble head might just fall off, FALL OFF I tell you and we suddenly realized that whoa, this whole parenting gig is a lot scarier than it looks on TV, and we are RESPONSIBLE for this little person and even though we only had a few miles to go I rode in the back seat the entire time to make sure she was still breathing and that her car seat didn't spontaneously come undone and continued to yell at Blaine to slow down because he was going to cause her permanent spinal cord injury or brain damage if he exceeded ten miles per hour and jostled her about in such a careless manner!!!!
Monday, March 05, 2007
Anticipation ....
Just like the ketchup song. The next five months went by both unbelievably quickly, and agonizingly slowly. When Blaine and I got settled in Los Angeles, we had a 1-800 line installed in the house so M could call us whenever she wanted. Sounds a little silly now, but back then, e-mail was a brand-new thing and none of us had cell phones or text-message capabilities, so an 800-line in the house was considered pretty high-tech, believe it or not. We talked regularly, and got better acquainted. I flew back to Oklahoma several times to spend time with her.
On the one hand, I can understand why adoption agencies normally encourage birthmoms to be in their third trimester before meeting the prospective family. Nine months is a long time to wait, for everyone involved, and obviously she had lots of time to consider her decision, and worst case scenario (for us) change her mind. Blaine and I were friends with a couple (the couple who wound up successfully suing this agency for their money back) who had gone through five birthmoms. FIVE. Five times they had met a birthmom, five times they thought they were getting a baby, five times it fell through. Once, they were standing at the hospital, camcorder and car seat in hand, when they got the news she had changed her mind. I was realistic enough to know that could be us, too.
But hopeful enough to think it wouldn’t be. M never wavered. Not once did she indicate to us that she had reconsidered, or was having second thoughts. I felt confident that she would go through with her decision to place her baby with us. On the flip side, you don’t ever, ever, EVER want a birth-mom to feel pressured or obligated to go through with a decision that she’ll regret later. It’s a fine line to walk. Being supportive, without being pushy.
The more we got to know her, the more we liked her. The more we discovered we had in common. I worried sometimes, when I would call her, that she would think I was checking up because I only cared about the baby. That wasn’t the case at all. I felt like we had become friends, and I cared about her and what was going on in her life besides the pregnancy. Of course, I couldn’t *not* ask about the pregnancy, because then what if she thought I didn’t care about the baby? As it was, we had a great, healthy, respectful relationship with a birthmom we liked and trusted … and I was still stressed out half the time. If ever I needed a crystal ball, so I could peer in the future and just relax, this was it.
About a month before her due date, we had friends back home getting married. Blaine and I flew home for the wedding, and then I stayed, while Blaine returned to LA to work a few more weeks. It gave me more time to spend with M, and I also got to spend time with her family, which was a wonderful opportunity. They were kind, and gracious, and welcomed me into their home. But there was a part of me, I must confess, that felt guilty. Here I was, excited and hopeful and thinking about what a wonderful day the birth was going to be for us, and how our whole life was about to change in such a fabulous way, yet remembering that this entire situation had come about because M had the courage to make the hardest, gut-wrenching, most selfless decision ever. For her and her family, it was going to be a day of loss. I felt very conflicted, because I had grown to care about her so much and I hated to think about the hurt she would go through, which would result in my happiness. I felt happy, I felt sad, I felt frightened, I felt hopeful … seriously. It’s a miracle I wasn’t on Prozac.
Then, a few weeks before the birth, we got a call from the social worker again. There was a problem.
In the state of Oklahoma, a birthmom can relinquish her rights at the time of birth, and the baby can go home with her adoptive parents. But if the birthmom is part Native American, which M was (technically, of course, she still is, although it just cracks me up to realize it because she is a fair-skinned blonde if ever there was one) then by state law, she is not allowed to relinquish her birth rights for ten days. “The Tribe” wants to maintain its integrity by ensuring babies are not placed for adoption “outside the tribe” without the birth-mom having plenty of time to make sure her decision is the right one. In theory, I understand it, but as it pertained to our case, it just seemed silly. We wanted the baby to go home with us … M wanted the baby to go home with us. We had discussed it, involved the social worker, made our plans …. And now, the baby was going to have to go into foster care for those ten days.***
Uh, no. Not MY baby!
***Let me just say, this is how things were for us, when *we* went through it. Laws might have changed since then, things are done differently in different states, and invoking the name of James Frey, I admit some of the details might have gone fuzzy in the past ten years. But this is how I remember it happening.
The adoption agency pushed through some paperwork which allowed Blaine and I to quickly become foster parents for their agency, which meant the baby could be placed with us. Technically, we weren’t the “adoptive” parents. We were only the foster parents, and we did this with the complete understanding that if at any time during those ten days, M were to change her mind, we would have to give the baby back.
We never hesitated. She never gave us a reason to.
The due date was getting close. Blaine flew back to Oklahoma. We were starting to get really excited. We were starting to get really nervous. And anxious. And a million other things. We planned to stay with my mom and dad for those ten days until we could file the paperwork to legally adopt the baby, (which we didn’t know yet if it was a boy or a girl), complete with the Inter-State Compact Agreement, since we no longer lived in Oklahoma, and then we planned to fly back to California and begin our new life together, the three of us. We rented a car so we could get around in the meantime, and waited.
Finally, her doctor set a date for induction: February 13th.
The night before, Blaine and I stayed in a hotel across the street from the hospital. Not because we needed to be close, but because it was such a momentous night … our last night JUST THE TWO OF US, that we wanted to be alone, and not stay in the spare room at my parent’s house. I don’t remember what we did that night. You’d think I would remember … did we go out to eat? To a movie? Go to bed early since it would be the last night of decent rest we would get for awhile??? The final night before we became parents, and yet, I don’t have a clue what we did.
But I do remember getting up the next morning, and thinking, “Today is the day! Today is the day I finally become a Mom!”
On the one hand, I can understand why adoption agencies normally encourage birthmoms to be in their third trimester before meeting the prospective family. Nine months is a long time to wait, for everyone involved, and obviously she had lots of time to consider her decision, and worst case scenario (for us) change her mind. Blaine and I were friends with a couple (the couple who wound up successfully suing this agency for their money back) who had gone through five birthmoms. FIVE. Five times they had met a birthmom, five times they thought they were getting a baby, five times it fell through. Once, they were standing at the hospital, camcorder and car seat in hand, when they got the news she had changed her mind. I was realistic enough to know that could be us, too.
But hopeful enough to think it wouldn’t be. M never wavered. Not once did she indicate to us that she had reconsidered, or was having second thoughts. I felt confident that she would go through with her decision to place her baby with us. On the flip side, you don’t ever, ever, EVER want a birth-mom to feel pressured or obligated to go through with a decision that she’ll regret later. It’s a fine line to walk. Being supportive, without being pushy.
The more we got to know her, the more we liked her. The more we discovered we had in common. I worried sometimes, when I would call her, that she would think I was checking up because I only cared about the baby. That wasn’t the case at all. I felt like we had become friends, and I cared about her and what was going on in her life besides the pregnancy. Of course, I couldn’t *not* ask about the pregnancy, because then what if she thought I didn’t care about the baby? As it was, we had a great, healthy, respectful relationship with a birthmom we liked and trusted … and I was still stressed out half the time. If ever I needed a crystal ball, so I could peer in the future and just relax, this was it.
About a month before her due date, we had friends back home getting married. Blaine and I flew home for the wedding, and then I stayed, while Blaine returned to LA to work a few more weeks. It gave me more time to spend with M, and I also got to spend time with her family, which was a wonderful opportunity. They were kind, and gracious, and welcomed me into their home. But there was a part of me, I must confess, that felt guilty. Here I was, excited and hopeful and thinking about what a wonderful day the birth was going to be for us, and how our whole life was about to change in such a fabulous way, yet remembering that this entire situation had come about because M had the courage to make the hardest, gut-wrenching, most selfless decision ever. For her and her family, it was going to be a day of loss. I felt very conflicted, because I had grown to care about her so much and I hated to think about the hurt she would go through, which would result in my happiness. I felt happy, I felt sad, I felt frightened, I felt hopeful … seriously. It’s a miracle I wasn’t on Prozac.
Then, a few weeks before the birth, we got a call from the social worker again. There was a problem.
In the state of Oklahoma, a birthmom can relinquish her rights at the time of birth, and the baby can go home with her adoptive parents. But if the birthmom is part Native American, which M was (technically, of course, she still is, although it just cracks me up to realize it because she is a fair-skinned blonde if ever there was one) then by state law, she is not allowed to relinquish her birth rights for ten days. “The Tribe” wants to maintain its integrity by ensuring babies are not placed for adoption “outside the tribe” without the birth-mom having plenty of time to make sure her decision is the right one. In theory, I understand it, but as it pertained to our case, it just seemed silly. We wanted the baby to go home with us … M wanted the baby to go home with us. We had discussed it, involved the social worker, made our plans …. And now, the baby was going to have to go into foster care for those ten days.***
Uh, no. Not MY baby!
***Let me just say, this is how things were for us, when *we* went through it. Laws might have changed since then, things are done differently in different states, and invoking the name of James Frey, I admit some of the details might have gone fuzzy in the past ten years. But this is how I remember it happening.
The adoption agency pushed through some paperwork which allowed Blaine and I to quickly become foster parents for their agency, which meant the baby could be placed with us. Technically, we weren’t the “adoptive” parents. We were only the foster parents, and we did this with the complete understanding that if at any time during those ten days, M were to change her mind, we would have to give the baby back.
We never hesitated. She never gave us a reason to.
The due date was getting close. Blaine flew back to Oklahoma. We were starting to get really excited. We were starting to get really nervous. And anxious. And a million other things. We planned to stay with my mom and dad for those ten days until we could file the paperwork to legally adopt the baby, (which we didn’t know yet if it was a boy or a girl), complete with the Inter-State Compact Agreement, since we no longer lived in Oklahoma, and then we planned to fly back to California and begin our new life together, the three of us. We rented a car so we could get around in the meantime, and waited.
Finally, her doctor set a date for induction: February 13th.
The night before, Blaine and I stayed in a hotel across the street from the hospital. Not because we needed to be close, but because it was such a momentous night … our last night JUST THE TWO OF US, that we wanted to be alone, and not stay in the spare room at my parent’s house. I don’t remember what we did that night. You’d think I would remember … did we go out to eat? To a movie? Go to bed early since it would be the last night of decent rest we would get for awhile??? The final night before we became parents, and yet, I don’t have a clue what we did.
But I do remember getting up the next morning, and thinking, “Today is the day! Today is the day I finally become a Mom!”
Sunday, March 04, 2007
The Call
I gave notice at my job, to the employer who had been so very understanding and supportive of the eight thousand medical appointments, the days and days of doctor-ordered bedrest after each IVF, and the birth parent classes and requirements from the adoption agency, that I had to take off work to attend over the course of the past three years. Blaine started gathering our records, we made a house-hunting trip to Los Angeles, we sold our house, we were in the middle of the “Pre-move how much junk have we accumulated over the past three years and what can we get rid of and what should we take with us to California” survey process, when the phone rang.
It was the social worker.
From the adoption agency.
The one that had not placed a baby with a family in the two+ years since we had been approved.
They had a birth mother who wanted to meet us.
All the feeling went out of my legs and I had to sit down for a minute.
Although Blaine and I were still very excited about the possibility of adopting, and sure, if you want to be honest, nursing a teeny, tiny flame of hope in the very dark, very back corners of our minds that it would happen, the practical parts of us had written this adoption attempt, with this particular adoption agency, off as a lost cause. We had written it off over a year ago, when we quit hearing from anyone there. So to suddenly get a phone call, out of the blue, as we were packing up to move thirteen hundred miles away, telling us there was a birthmom who wanted to meet us, was a shock indeed.
~~~~Now is when I have to be completely honest with you guys. I am so proud of Brayden, and so proud of our getting the opportunity to be her parents, that I would pretty much take out a billboard and advertise the entire story without a moment’s hesitation. But at this point, the story is no longer just about me. I can sit here and talk, unabashedly, about having a strange man between my legs gathering semen half an hour after having sex, and not blink an eye. But at the point where Brayden’s birthmom enters the story, I feel I need to draw some boundaries, to respect and protect her privacy.
Not because I’m embarrassed or awkward or self-conscious about the process or about her. Just the opposite. Blaine and I ADORE her. We would build a shrine to her, if that sort of thing were allowed. And not kind of creepy. She is a cherished part of our family, and she even reads this site.
And specifically because we owe her so much, and think so highly of her, I’m going to leave out any part of the story that I think might be encroaching on her personal space. I’ll still give you every detail as it relates to us (rest assured, you know I’ll manage to babble on for days, just as I always do) but if I have to skip over a few things, or leave out a few details, you’ll just have to trust that I’m not being lazy ….. simply protective. I’ll call her “M”.~~~~
She had seen our profile at the agency, and wanted to meet us, the social worker said. We made plans to have lunch at our local TGIFridays. I cannot tell you how nervous we were. Imagine the single most terrifying, thrilling, and anxiety-provoking-but-in-a-good-way feeling you can have. A blind date, with the perfect guy, multiplied times a bazillion. THAT’S how I felt. To this day, when I see the red and white stripes of a TGIFridays restaurant, I still get a little tingle in my gut.
Would she like us? What if she didn’t like us? Oh God, what if she hated us? What if we walked into the restaurant, she took one look at us, and she said never mind? What should I wear? What should Blaine wear? The social worker told us to bring more recent pictures of ourselves, our lives, our interests, etc. What pictures should we take? What if we came across as desperate and pathetic? What should I order to eat that will make me look like a responsible adult, yet still approachable and relaxed and fun? What will we talk about? What if I cuss by accident? What if I laugh at something completely inappropriate? What if I’m so nervous I forget the English language? What, what, what????
I remember washing the car before we went, so if she saw us drive up she would know we were responsible adults. I remember Blaine parking the car in the TGIF parking lot and us walking to the front door. I remember he reached over and held my hand, as a show of support. I remember thinking, “What if she’s looking out the window and sees us and thinks we’re dorks for holding hands? Should I jerk my hand away? But then she’ll think we’re not a loving couple. Oh GOD, WHAT SHOULD I DO!?!?!?!” You know, when you’re nervous enough, you can over-analyze the way you breathe.
But we walked in, and met her and the social worker, and had lunch, and talked and laughed and got acquainted and looked at pictures and told stories and you know what?
We adored her right from the beginning.
Sure, it was nerve-wracking and anxiety-inducing and I probably tried a little too hard. And she was kind enough to overlook it. And she even told me later that she was nervous about whether or not *we* would like *her*, a thought that just cracks me up because hello? Who could NOT like her?
There were fluky things, and similarities, and we discovered our lives had intersected in ways that were too coincidental to overlook. Again, I’m not at ease sharing these specific details, but believe me when I say some of them were amazing. We felt very comfortable with her, and I think she felt the same way. Best of all, we actually, honestly, truly LIKED HER. I told Blaine later, “Not just because of the baby, but if I met her at work, or some other way, I could totally see us being friends.” Despite the social worker telling us all contact needed to go through the agency, we exchanged phone numbers before leaving the restaurant.
M. was the first birthmom to contact the adoption agency in over three years, or at least, the first birthmom not in crisis mode.** She told me, just recently, that the only reason she chose that particular agency was because she gets lost easily and she thought the address of their psuedo-office was one she could find easily. They told her to look at their book of prospective-adoptive-parent profiles and pick three to interview. She picked one; ours. She told the social worker she didn’t want to talk to anybody else, that we were the only couple she wanted to meet. She was only in her first trimester, and they told her when she reached the third trimester, she could meet us. She *insisted* on meeting us now. What if she hadn’t insisted? We would have been in California.
All these things led us to believe our meeting was meant to be, and that God had a hand in how things were happening.
**I should probably clarify that during this time, I believe the adoption agency had placed a few emergency-situation babies …. High-risk, drug-addicted, special-needs, emergency foster care situations. But this was the first “non-crisis” potential adoption since we had been approved.
So, with promises to keep in touch, we moved to California. And started praying that this would actually work out the way we so desperately hoped it would.
It was the social worker.
From the adoption agency.
The one that had not placed a baby with a family in the two+ years since we had been approved.
They had a birth mother who wanted to meet us.
All the feeling went out of my legs and I had to sit down for a minute.
Although Blaine and I were still very excited about the possibility of adopting, and sure, if you want to be honest, nursing a teeny, tiny flame of hope in the very dark, very back corners of our minds that it would happen, the practical parts of us had written this adoption attempt, with this particular adoption agency, off as a lost cause. We had written it off over a year ago, when we quit hearing from anyone there. So to suddenly get a phone call, out of the blue, as we were packing up to move thirteen hundred miles away, telling us there was a birthmom who wanted to meet us, was a shock indeed.
~~~~Now is when I have to be completely honest with you guys. I am so proud of Brayden, and so proud of our getting the opportunity to be her parents, that I would pretty much take out a billboard and advertise the entire story without a moment’s hesitation. But at this point, the story is no longer just about me. I can sit here and talk, unabashedly, about having a strange man between my legs gathering semen half an hour after having sex, and not blink an eye. But at the point where Brayden’s birthmom enters the story, I feel I need to draw some boundaries, to respect and protect her privacy.
Not because I’m embarrassed or awkward or self-conscious about the process or about her. Just the opposite. Blaine and I ADORE her. We would build a shrine to her, if that sort of thing were allowed. And not kind of creepy. She is a cherished part of our family, and she even reads this site.
And specifically because we owe her so much, and think so highly of her, I’m going to leave out any part of the story that I think might be encroaching on her personal space. I’ll still give you every detail as it relates to us (rest assured, you know I’ll manage to babble on for days, just as I always do) but if I have to skip over a few things, or leave out a few details, you’ll just have to trust that I’m not being lazy ….. simply protective. I’ll call her “M”.~~~~
She had seen our profile at the agency, and wanted to meet us, the social worker said. We made plans to have lunch at our local TGIFridays. I cannot tell you how nervous we were. Imagine the single most terrifying, thrilling, and anxiety-provoking-but-in-a-good-way feeling you can have. A blind date, with the perfect guy, multiplied times a bazillion. THAT’S how I felt. To this day, when I see the red and white stripes of a TGIFridays restaurant, I still get a little tingle in my gut.
Would she like us? What if she didn’t like us? Oh God, what if she hated us? What if we walked into the restaurant, she took one look at us, and she said never mind? What should I wear? What should Blaine wear? The social worker told us to bring more recent pictures of ourselves, our lives, our interests, etc. What pictures should we take? What if we came across as desperate and pathetic? What should I order to eat that will make me look like a responsible adult, yet still approachable and relaxed and fun? What will we talk about? What if I cuss by accident? What if I laugh at something completely inappropriate? What if I’m so nervous I forget the English language? What, what, what????
I remember washing the car before we went, so if she saw us drive up she would know we were responsible adults. I remember Blaine parking the car in the TGIF parking lot and us walking to the front door. I remember he reached over and held my hand, as a show of support. I remember thinking, “What if she’s looking out the window and sees us and thinks we’re dorks for holding hands? Should I jerk my hand away? But then she’ll think we’re not a loving couple. Oh GOD, WHAT SHOULD I DO!?!?!?!” You know, when you’re nervous enough, you can over-analyze the way you breathe.
But we walked in, and met her and the social worker, and had lunch, and talked and laughed and got acquainted and looked at pictures and told stories and you know what?
We adored her right from the beginning.
Sure, it was nerve-wracking and anxiety-inducing and I probably tried a little too hard. And she was kind enough to overlook it. And she even told me later that she was nervous about whether or not *we* would like *her*, a thought that just cracks me up because hello? Who could NOT like her?
There were fluky things, and similarities, and we discovered our lives had intersected in ways that were too coincidental to overlook. Again, I’m not at ease sharing these specific details, but believe me when I say some of them were amazing. We felt very comfortable with her, and I think she felt the same way. Best of all, we actually, honestly, truly LIKED HER. I told Blaine later, “Not just because of the baby, but if I met her at work, or some other way, I could totally see us being friends.” Despite the social worker telling us all contact needed to go through the agency, we exchanged phone numbers before leaving the restaurant.
M. was the first birthmom to contact the adoption agency in over three years, or at least, the first birthmom not in crisis mode.** She told me, just recently, that the only reason she chose that particular agency was because she gets lost easily and she thought the address of their psuedo-office was one she could find easily. They told her to look at their book of prospective-adoptive-parent profiles and pick three to interview. She picked one; ours. She told the social worker she didn’t want to talk to anybody else, that we were the only couple she wanted to meet. She was only in her first trimester, and they told her when she reached the third trimester, she could meet us. She *insisted* on meeting us now. What if she hadn’t insisted? We would have been in California.
All these things led us to believe our meeting was meant to be, and that God had a hand in how things were happening.
**I should probably clarify that during this time, I believe the adoption agency had placed a few emergency-situation babies …. High-risk, drug-addicted, special-needs, emergency foster care situations. But this was the first “non-crisis” potential adoption since we had been approved.
So, with promises to keep in touch, we moved to California. And started praying that this would actually work out the way we so desperately hoped it would.
Friday, March 02, 2007
Well-Meaning Friends
Like I mentioned earlier, I had kept pretty close wraps on our efforts to conceive the first two years, but once we moved to the base in our hometown, it was more difficult to keep quiet. At first, I was excited because I was Soooooooo confident that the fertility treatments would be successful, and I’d be pregnant soon, that I didn’t mind sharing the news of how things were going. It’s thrilling to imagine yourself as a first-time parent, and talk about the steps you are taking to bring that about. And it was encouraging to hear stories of others who had also struggled, and undergone the same thing, but had successful outcomes. Those made me feel better, at the beginning, when things were still shiny and fresh and new.
Later, however, the narratives about “my cousin’s sister’s daughter’s boss’s niece’s best friend’s 5th grade history teacher did THIS, and it worked for her!” began to bug the crap out of me. I started hating it whenever I would hear those words … “I know someone who had trouble getting pregnant ….” because their successful outcomes were a reminder that our outcome had been anything but successful. After awhile, I just wanted everyone to keep their stories and opinions to themselves. (I tend to get a little touchy when I get upset, have you guessed that yet?)
And every time someone asked, every time I had to respond with a “No, nothing yet” it would make me more discouraged. And even more than the well-intentioned comments, which usually managed just to depress me, I was bothered by the insanely asinine remarks and suggestions that were made to us on a regular basis. It’s not like you can be mad at people for caring, and being curious, when YOU’RE the one who put it out there. But there is definitely a missing chapter in the book of social etiquette when it comes to the subject of fertility.
So, to help everyone out, I will share with you some of the comments that inflamed me the most, even though I was usually toomuch of a tight-ass polite to whip out the response I *really* wanted to give. Bear in mind, though, that I was a hateful, vile, odious grump of a person during this phase of my life, so I might have been a teensy bit sensitive and defensive. (ahem)
1. “You just need to relax, and then you’ll get pregnant.”
{All comments usually followed closely by, “That’s what happened to my aunt/sister/cousin/whoever.”}
Hands down, in my opinion, it’s the second most insulting remark made to couples undergoing fertility treatment. Also? It seems to be the remark that is made most often. It’s so patronizing that I can’t believe anyone who doesn’t smoke a pipe and have elbow patches on their jacket is ever allowed to utter the words. And yet, I cannot begin to estimate how many times that phrase, or a variation of that phrase, was said to me and Blaine.
Obviously, I can’t speak for infertile women everywhere (although if you give me a big-enough megaphone I’d sure give it a go), but the implication that I took from it, was the fact that, if I was not pregnant, it was ALL. MY. FAULT. If *I* could just relax, I could get pregnant. Never mind that I had doctors who had been to thirty-seven hundred years of medical school specializing in this very field, and that their recommendations and treatments and high tech equipment and drugs and procedures couldn’t get the job done ….. …. It must be MY FAULT because I CAN’T RELAX.
I would hear this phrase and the heat would begin to travel up my body until smoke came out my ears. I’m not even exaggerating. I think actual SMOKE came out of my ears once or twice. I could feel the blood coursing through my veins and hear it whooshing in my head, and my vision would sort of go red and fuzzy as my brain processed the fact that “Oh my fuck, they did NOT just tell me to relax!” I was so busy mentally preparing the snappy, sharp retort that would cut them off at the knees that I didn’t even hear the rest of what they were saying. It was like the teacher in Charlie Brown, all “Mwah, mwah, mwah” while I tried to get my blood pressure back under control. Then, because I am the worlds’ biggest weenie when it comes to confrontation, I would just smile and say, “Well, thanks for the advice.”
2. “Take a vacation, you’ll come home pregnant.” (Normal variation about how this happened to someone’s aunt/neighbor/boss/niece/whoever.)
Um, we took a LOT of vacations during those four years. Vacations with family, vacations to see friends, vacations just the two of us. Vacationing is what childless people DO. It never worked, and that’s usually what I would say, “Oh, tried that route, didn’t work .. but thanks for the advice.” Then go home and rant and rave to Blaine about how there is this stupid group of people out there who seem to think your reproductive organs become more efficient once you leave the state or cross the border. Morons.
3. “You need to just give up on treatments and let it happen naturally. You’re trying too hard. Once my sister/college roommate/co-worker quit trying, and told their doctor no more, it just happened.”
I actually had a comeback for this. At the time, statistics showed that 5% of all couples who discontinued fertility treatments would spontaneously get pregnant, without medical intervention, within the next year. You know why everybody and their dog knows someone, or has heard of someone, to whom this has happened? BECAUSE IT IS RARE AND NOTEWORTHY, that is why. If you attended a Resolve meeting, you would know that 95% of the couples in that room will NOT become pregnant if they discontinue treatment, which is why we keep going and going and going like a freaking deranged Energizer bunny, despite the negative fertility tests and crushing disappointment and continued onslaught of stupid, un-helpful comments.
4. “It’s hard for me to imagine. My husband pokes FUN at me and I get pregnant.”
Um, yeah. How is that supposed to make me feel better, exactly?
5. “Here, borrow one of my kids for awhile, then you’ll change your mind about having any!” usually said with a smug parental smirk by someone who thinks their child is perfect, perfect, perfect, and that they’re being funny.
What I wanted to say more than anything was, “Um, you’re right. That kid is a walking ad for tubal ligation, but thanks anyway.” But I never had the nerve. Then, years later, my brother- and sister-in-law told us about some childless friends of theirs who watched their 2 yr old son for a long weekend, than scheduled a vasectomy the next week. Although my nephew seems to be a pretty great kid from what I can tell, and I’m certainly not poking fun, I sure wish I had had that story to zing someone with at the time. Bottom line: I don’t want to borrow YOUR kid. I don’t want to babysit, I don’t want to volunteer in the church nursery, I’m not going to “get my fill” by working in a day care or being a teacher. I want my OWN baby. Not yours, mine. Who will be much cuter than yours, anyway.
6. “Forget the doctors and their fancy-schmancy ways. Go home, use a turkey baster, prop your butt up on pillows, and that’ll do the trick.”
I don’t even know what I should have responded to this, but that comment left me with a very unsettled feeling. And fear. Quite a bit of fear about what some of these people did in their spare time.
7. “I know exactly how you feel. It took me six months to get pregnant.”
Ok, um, no. Big fat no. Unless you can repeat the above sentence, and replace the number SIX with any number above 12, or 24, or 36, or whatever, you do NOT know how I feel. Chances are you’ve struggled more than me to get pregnant, or less than me, I don’t really know. But please be sensitive to the fact if your fertility struggles involved nothing more than three months of temperature charts, that does NOT equal what couples who have reached the point of IVF have gone through. If you DID struggle with infertility and want to say something supportive, this is what I suggest: “We struggled with infertility also, and I remember how frustrating it was.” Period. Then drop it. If I want to compare stories, I’ll ask. While you might think you are portraying yourself as a sensitive, empathetic friend, you are actually just pissing me off and making me jealous that yours worked after only six months and I’m STILL NOT PREGNANT, DAMNIT!!!
8. And (drum roll please) the single most offensive comment made to couples trying to conceive:
“Just adopt, then you’ll get pregnant.”
I … You ….. It … {splutter, splutter}….. Seriously. My spine stiffens and my jaw clenches and it’s like I’ve just chugged a glass of ice shards and nails when I hear this phrase.
Because to me, it implies adoption is something that is completely disposable … a means to an end. Like someone should suffer through *adopting* a baby, so they can get on to the important business of getting pregnant and having their *real* baby, the one that really matters.
Perhaps because Blaine and I *HAD* applied with an adoption agency, this comment was especially insulting to me. I always wanted to reply with, “And so then what? Once I get pregnant, I just give back the first baby because I accomplished what I set out to do?”
I mean, what is that comment even ABOUT????
{Could someone please pass the dip, to go with the giant bag of Ruffle chips I have on my shoulder?}
And let me reiterate the statistic from above …. Just like spontaneous conception after quitting infertility treatments, the number for couples who adopt, and then get pregnant on their own, is around 5%. Which means, if it happens to someone, IT IS FABULOUS AND RARE AND EVERYONE HEARS ABOUT IT. Which is why *everyone* knows *someone* or knows someone who knows someone, who “adopted, and then they got pregnant!”
I’m not talking about fertile couples who adopt, and then go on to have their own baby, either on purpose, or by “surprise!” I’m talking about this myth that an adoption will somehow magically solve the problem of infertility. Five percent. And the implication that someone should adopt a baby, just as a way to accomplish a pregnancy, is so insulting, so offensive, that I can’t even describe it. Not even if I used every word in the English language. Even every swear word.
And I used to say to Blaine, “Oh my Lord, I can’t wait until we adopt a baby and then I don’t get pregnant, so I can show all these stupid people that it doesn’t happen like that!”
But since the adoption agency we were using hadn’t placed any babies in the past TWO years, by this point, we knew the fertility clinic in California was going to be our best bet. So we started packing up for our move, and looking forward.
Later, however, the narratives about “my cousin’s sister’s daughter’s boss’s niece’s best friend’s 5th grade history teacher did THIS, and it worked for her!” began to bug the crap out of me. I started hating it whenever I would hear those words … “I know someone who had trouble getting pregnant ….” because their successful outcomes were a reminder that our outcome had been anything but successful. After awhile, I just wanted everyone to keep their stories and opinions to themselves. (I tend to get a little touchy when I get upset, have you guessed that yet?)
And every time someone asked, every time I had to respond with a “No, nothing yet” it would make me more discouraged. And even more than the well-intentioned comments, which usually managed just to depress me, I was bothered by the insanely asinine remarks and suggestions that were made to us on a regular basis. It’s not like you can be mad at people for caring, and being curious, when YOU’RE the one who put it out there. But there is definitely a missing chapter in the book of social etiquette when it comes to the subject of fertility.
So, to help everyone out, I will share with you some of the comments that inflamed me the most, even though I was usually too
1. “You just need to relax, and then you’ll get pregnant.”
{All comments usually followed closely by, “That’s what happened to my aunt/sister/cousin/whoever.”}
Hands down, in my opinion, it’s the second most insulting remark made to couples undergoing fertility treatment. Also? It seems to be the remark that is made most often. It’s so patronizing that I can’t believe anyone who doesn’t smoke a pipe and have elbow patches on their jacket is ever allowed to utter the words. And yet, I cannot begin to estimate how many times that phrase, or a variation of that phrase, was said to me and Blaine.
Obviously, I can’t speak for infertile women everywhere (although if you give me a big-enough megaphone I’d sure give it a go), but the implication that I took from it, was the fact that, if I was not pregnant, it was ALL. MY. FAULT. If *I* could just relax, I could get pregnant. Never mind that I had doctors who had been to thirty-seven hundred years of medical school specializing in this very field, and that their recommendations and treatments and high tech equipment and drugs and procedures couldn’t get the job done ….. …. It must be MY FAULT because I CAN’T RELAX.
I would hear this phrase and the heat would begin to travel up my body until smoke came out my ears. I’m not even exaggerating. I think actual SMOKE came out of my ears once or twice. I could feel the blood coursing through my veins and hear it whooshing in my head, and my vision would sort of go red and fuzzy as my brain processed the fact that “Oh my fuck, they did NOT just tell me to relax!” I was so busy mentally preparing the snappy, sharp retort that would cut them off at the knees that I didn’t even hear the rest of what they were saying. It was like the teacher in Charlie Brown, all “Mwah, mwah, mwah” while I tried to get my blood pressure back under control. Then, because I am the worlds’ biggest weenie when it comes to confrontation, I would just smile and say, “Well, thanks for the advice.”
2. “Take a vacation, you’ll come home pregnant.” (Normal variation about how this happened to someone’s aunt/neighbor/boss/niece/whoever.)
Um, we took a LOT of vacations during those four years. Vacations with family, vacations to see friends, vacations just the two of us. Vacationing is what childless people DO. It never worked, and that’s usually what I would say, “Oh, tried that route, didn’t work .. but thanks for the advice.” Then go home and rant and rave to Blaine about how there is this stupid group of people out there who seem to think your reproductive organs become more efficient once you leave the state or cross the border. Morons.
3. “You need to just give up on treatments and let it happen naturally. You’re trying too hard. Once my sister/college roommate/co-worker quit trying, and told their doctor no more, it just happened.”
I actually had a comeback for this. At the time, statistics showed that 5% of all couples who discontinued fertility treatments would spontaneously get pregnant, without medical intervention, within the next year. You know why everybody and their dog knows someone, or has heard of someone, to whom this has happened? BECAUSE IT IS RARE AND NOTEWORTHY, that is why. If you attended a Resolve meeting, you would know that 95% of the couples in that room will NOT become pregnant if they discontinue treatment, which is why we keep going and going and going like a freaking deranged Energizer bunny, despite the negative fertility tests and crushing disappointment and continued onslaught of stupid, un-helpful comments.
4. “It’s hard for me to imagine. My husband pokes FUN at me and I get pregnant.”
Um, yeah. How is that supposed to make me feel better, exactly?
5. “Here, borrow one of my kids for awhile, then you’ll change your mind about having any!” usually said with a smug parental smirk by someone who thinks their child is perfect, perfect, perfect, and that they’re being funny.
What I wanted to say more than anything was, “Um, you’re right. That kid is a walking ad for tubal ligation, but thanks anyway.” But I never had the nerve. Then, years later, my brother- and sister-in-law told us about some childless friends of theirs who watched their 2 yr old son for a long weekend, than scheduled a vasectomy the next week. Although my nephew seems to be a pretty great kid from what I can tell, and I’m certainly not poking fun, I sure wish I had had that story to zing someone with at the time. Bottom line: I don’t want to borrow YOUR kid. I don’t want to babysit, I don’t want to volunteer in the church nursery, I’m not going to “get my fill” by working in a day care or being a teacher. I want my OWN baby. Not yours, mine. Who will be much cuter than yours, anyway.
6. “Forget the doctors and their fancy-schmancy ways. Go home, use a turkey baster, prop your butt up on pillows, and that’ll do the trick.”
I don’t even know what I should have responded to this, but that comment left me with a very unsettled feeling. And fear. Quite a bit of fear about what some of these people did in their spare time.
7. “I know exactly how you feel. It took me six months to get pregnant.”
Ok, um, no. Big fat no. Unless you can repeat the above sentence, and replace the number SIX with any number above 12, or 24, or 36, or whatever, you do NOT know how I feel. Chances are you’ve struggled more than me to get pregnant, or less than me, I don’t really know. But please be sensitive to the fact if your fertility struggles involved nothing more than three months of temperature charts, that does NOT equal what couples who have reached the point of IVF have gone through. If you DID struggle with infertility and want to say something supportive, this is what I suggest: “We struggled with infertility also, and I remember how frustrating it was.” Period. Then drop it. If I want to compare stories, I’ll ask. While you might think you are portraying yourself as a sensitive, empathetic friend, you are actually just pissing me off and making me jealous that yours worked after only six months and I’m STILL NOT PREGNANT, DAMNIT!!!
8. And (drum roll please) the single most offensive comment made to couples trying to conceive:
“Just adopt, then you’ll get pregnant.”
I … You ….. It … {splutter, splutter}….. Seriously. My spine stiffens and my jaw clenches and it’s like I’ve just chugged a glass of ice shards and nails when I hear this phrase.
Because to me, it implies adoption is something that is completely disposable … a means to an end. Like someone should suffer through *adopting* a baby, so they can get on to the important business of getting pregnant and having their *real* baby, the one that really matters.
Perhaps because Blaine and I *HAD* applied with an adoption agency, this comment was especially insulting to me. I always wanted to reply with, “And so then what? Once I get pregnant, I just give back the first baby because I accomplished what I set out to do?”
I mean, what is that comment even ABOUT????
{Could someone please pass the dip, to go with the giant bag of Ruffle chips I have on my shoulder?}
And let me reiterate the statistic from above …. Just like spontaneous conception after quitting infertility treatments, the number for couples who adopt, and then get pregnant on their own, is around 5%. Which means, if it happens to someone, IT IS FABULOUS AND RARE AND EVERYONE HEARS ABOUT IT. Which is why *everyone* knows *someone* or knows someone who knows someone, who “adopted, and then they got pregnant!”
I’m not talking about fertile couples who adopt, and then go on to have their own baby, either on purpose, or by “surprise!” I’m talking about this myth that an adoption will somehow magically solve the problem of infertility. Five percent. And the implication that someone should adopt a baby, just as a way to accomplish a pregnancy, is so insulting, so offensive, that I can’t even describe it. Not even if I used every word in the English language. Even every swear word.
And I used to say to Blaine, “Oh my Lord, I can’t wait until we adopt a baby and then I don’t get pregnant, so I can show all these stupid people that it doesn’t happen like that!”
But since the adoption agency we were using hadn’t placed any babies in the past TWO years, by this point, we knew the fertility clinic in California was going to be our best bet. So we started packing up for our move, and looking forward.
Tuesday, February 27, 2007
Giving Up. But Not Really.
(You guys crack me up with how many of you are just as uptight about the spelling as I am. Of course, no-one is going to believe that I take my spelling very, very seriously, when I continue to have as many typos in these posts! Viola? What the heck?? I didn’t catch it, and my spell-check didn’t catch it, since technically, it is a correctly-spelled word. Just not the one I wanted. Thanks for keeping me honest!
Thanks, also, for humoring me through these gargantuan length entries lately. I feel like I’ve been going on for days and days, and well, technically I guess I have. Believe it or not, I’m keeping each journal entry as short as possible. It’s just difficult for someone as long-winded as me to condense years and years' worth of fertility and adoption struggles into a few paragraphs. But I promise … the end is in sight!)
OK, we started trying to get pregnant in spring of 1991. We applied to the adoption agency in February of 1994. My nephew was born the day after our first IVF attempt failed, in November of 1995. So, by my calculations (which good Lord, let’s hope they’re more accurate than my spelling!) we’d been trying for four and a half years. Although putting all our eggs in one basket (excuse the pun) with IVF hadn’t proved successful, we figured we owed it to ourselves to try again, if there was any way possible.
That’s the thing about fertility treatments. Just like “a journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step”, that journey ENDS with a single step as well. One successful step, and you’ll have placed yourself right across the finish line. And despite getting negative pregnancy tests month after month, year after year, you want so much to believe that if you give it just ONE MORE TRY, it will work. I mean, what if fate decreed that the **next** fertility treatment is the one that would have worked, and you had quit? How can you just give up, when the next one could very well be the one that was meant to be successful? You don’t want to spend the rest of your life regretting that you gave up too early, and always wondering "what if?". I’ve never been addicted to alcohol or drugs, so I’m not sure that’s a good comparison, but like an addict, I found myself scrambling for ways to justify another procedure. Just one, just one, that’s all we’ll need. And really, who were we hurting? It’s not like anyone was suffering due to our obsession with getting a baby.
Well, yes, our savings account had been wiped out several times. I mean, we started this process when we were in our mid-twenties, so it's not like our life savings was that big to begin with. My faith in the system was shaken. I no longer believed in the concept of fairness. My self-esteem had taken quite a beating. And sure, if you want to get technical, my outlook on life had deteriorated to the point I was a soul-sucking miserable hag who couldn’t find happiness in anything, and whenever friends and family saw me, they ran shrieking the other direction for fear I would release my wrath upon them …. But whatever! Let’s just keep trying! Because we’re not hurting anybody!
So we scraped every spare penny we had ---AGAIN --- and tried for a second time three months later. This time, we went with ZIFT: Zygote Intrafallopian Transfer. ZIFT is an assisted reproductive procedure similar to in vitro fertilization and embryo transfer with the difference being that the fertilized embryos are transferred into the fallopian tube instead of the uterus. So basically, I was stimulated and monitored just the same …. And the eggs were harvested just the same …. And Blaine did his part just the same ….. and a few days later I went back for the second half of the procedure just the same ….. and I continued with my progesterone injections just the same ….. and took a blood test just the same ....
And two weeks later we got a call from the IVF nurse that it was unsuccessful …. Just the same.
And can you believe that we still weren’t ready to give up? One more time, one more time … that’s all we need. You really, truly, seriously convince yourself that it’s true. So, we continued putting every spare cent away to save for another attempt. Who cared that we were nearing our 30’s and didn’t have a dime in savings? Who cared that I worked full-time, just so my entire paycheck could go into our baby fund each week? Who cared that if we ever DID get a baby, there wouldn’t be any money to send him or her to college?
Besides the fertility stuff, though, other things were happening in our life. We’d been at Tinker almost three years, and heaven forbid Uncle Sam let you stay anywhere that long. Orders came through for us to move that summer to Los Angeles. And being theoptimist information-freak that I am, I had already started researching fertility clinics out there. And can you believe that I found one that offered a money-back guarantee?
I know, I know, I’m harping an awful lot about money. I’ve always considered it rude to talk about money, and crass, and normally I avoid those types of discussions at all cost … {hee hee, “cost” … get it?} But the financial strain for a couple undergoing fertility treatment can be high. Unless you’re lucky enough to have insurance coverage that considers infertility a medical disease, you’re most likely not going to get a lot of help from your provider. Fertility treatments are usually considered “elective”, like cosmetic surgery. So if you want ‘em, you pay for ‘em. And by our estimation, we had spent approximately $25,000 in the past two years. And, did I mention, just in case it wasn't clear, that we didn’t have a baby???
Then I discovered the fertility clinic in Los Angeles that offered a money-back guarantee. They charged a lot more for their services, but if you did IVF three times and none of them worked, you got 75% of your money back. Their reasoning was that the couples, for whom it DID work, by paying more, would make up the difference for the couples it DIDN’T work for. It’s actually very logical, and compassionate, and fair. It gave me hope.
So we decided to try one more time in Oklahoma, and then if it didn’t work, consider starting up again in California. Although as much as I wanted kids, I dreaded the thought of starting over, from scratch, with another clinic. Another part of me, to be honest, was starting to consider the possibility that maybe we weren’t going to have kids. And I started talking to myself about the fact that although being childless wouldn’t be my first choice, if it happened, you know what? It wouldn’t be the end of the world. In fact, there might even be some positives. Not having to replenish the college fund. Not having to consider school districts anytime we moved. Not having to plan vacations around school schedules. The ability to pick up and go, whenever and wherever we wanted.
In fact, the more I thought about it, the better it sounded. Don’t get me wrong, I still wanted kids. More than anything in the world. But the fight had just gone out of me. I was pooped.
So one night, preparing to write yet *another* check to our fertility clinic, to try yet **another** round of IVF, I looked at Blaine ---- He looked at me ---- “Fuck it” we both said. "We’ll start again in California. "
For now??
We took that money and went to England.
In front of the British Museum. *Really* cool stuff in there. Please overlook the unfortunate leather jacket with lots of belts and zippers. It was the mid-90's and I still thought the biker look was cool. Hence the ankle boots as well.
In front of 13th-century Salisbury Cathedral; the tallest spire in England. The letterman's jacket? Almost as unfortunate a choice as the biker jacket. But it was freezing-ass cold in that country!!
Took a bus trip to Scotland. Here, at the beginning of the Royal Mile in Edinburgh. My only comment about Blaine's jacket is that sadly, he was still wearing it up until last year. Partly I blame the fact he wears a military uniform, complete with military jacket, to work every day, so there's no real need to buy new clothes on a regular basis. Party I blame the fact that he and I are socially-fashionably-inept.
Well-meaning friends said, “You are SO going to come back from your trip pregnant! Giving up …. relaxing … resting …. taking a break …. taking a vacation ….. works every time!”
They were right about a few things. It was a great vacation. We relaxed. We rested. We saw some amazing things, and some breathtaking country ... Stonehenge, anyone? We returned home refreshed and rejuvanated.
But not pregnant.
And now it was time to move to California. And start over at Square One with a new doctor.
Blaine: “Oh good grief, I am putting my foot down about the cup this time!”
Thanks, also, for humoring me through these gargantuan length entries lately. I feel like I’ve been going on for days and days, and well, technically I guess I have. Believe it or not, I’m keeping each journal entry as short as possible. It’s just difficult for someone as long-winded as me to condense years and years' worth of fertility and adoption struggles into a few paragraphs. But I promise … the end is in sight!)
OK, we started trying to get pregnant in spring of 1991. We applied to the adoption agency in February of 1994. My nephew was born the day after our first IVF attempt failed, in November of 1995. So, by my calculations (which good Lord, let’s hope they’re more accurate than my spelling!) we’d been trying for four and a half years. Although putting all our eggs in one basket (excuse the pun) with IVF hadn’t proved successful, we figured we owed it to ourselves to try again, if there was any way possible.
That’s the thing about fertility treatments. Just like “a journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step”, that journey ENDS with a single step as well. One successful step, and you’ll have placed yourself right across the finish line. And despite getting negative pregnancy tests month after month, year after year, you want so much to believe that if you give it just ONE MORE TRY, it will work. I mean, what if fate decreed that the **next** fertility treatment is the one that would have worked, and you had quit? How can you just give up, when the next one could very well be the one that was meant to be successful? You don’t want to spend the rest of your life regretting that you gave up too early, and always wondering "what if?". I’ve never been addicted to alcohol or drugs, so I’m not sure that’s a good comparison, but like an addict, I found myself scrambling for ways to justify another procedure. Just one, just one, that’s all we’ll need. And really, who were we hurting? It’s not like anyone was suffering due to our obsession with getting a baby.
Well, yes, our savings account had been wiped out several times. I mean, we started this process when we were in our mid-twenties, so it's not like our life savings was that big to begin with. My faith in the system was shaken. I no longer believed in the concept of fairness. My self-esteem had taken quite a beating. And sure, if you want to get technical, my outlook on life had deteriorated to the point I was a soul-sucking miserable hag who couldn’t find happiness in anything, and whenever friends and family saw me, they ran shrieking the other direction for fear I would release my wrath upon them …. But whatever! Let’s just keep trying! Because we’re not hurting anybody!
So we scraped every spare penny we had ---AGAIN --- and tried for a second time three months later. This time, we went with ZIFT: Zygote Intrafallopian Transfer. ZIFT is an assisted reproductive procedure similar to in vitro fertilization and embryo transfer with the difference being that the fertilized embryos are transferred into the fallopian tube instead of the uterus. So basically, I was stimulated and monitored just the same …. And the eggs were harvested just the same …. And Blaine did his part just the same ….. and a few days later I went back for the second half of the procedure just the same ….. and I continued with my progesterone injections just the same ….. and took a blood test just the same ....
And two weeks later we got a call from the IVF nurse that it was unsuccessful …. Just the same.
And can you believe that we still weren’t ready to give up? One more time, one more time … that’s all we need. You really, truly, seriously convince yourself that it’s true. So, we continued putting every spare cent away to save for another attempt. Who cared that we were nearing our 30’s and didn’t have a dime in savings? Who cared that I worked full-time, just so my entire paycheck could go into our baby fund each week? Who cared that if we ever DID get a baby, there wouldn’t be any money to send him or her to college?
Besides the fertility stuff, though, other things were happening in our life. We’d been at Tinker almost three years, and heaven forbid Uncle Sam let you stay anywhere that long. Orders came through for us to move that summer to Los Angeles. And being the
I know, I know, I’m harping an awful lot about money. I’ve always considered it rude to talk about money, and crass, and normally I avoid those types of discussions at all cost … {hee hee, “cost” … get it?} But the financial strain for a couple undergoing fertility treatment can be high. Unless you’re lucky enough to have insurance coverage that considers infertility a medical disease, you’re most likely not going to get a lot of help from your provider. Fertility treatments are usually considered “elective”, like cosmetic surgery. So if you want ‘em, you pay for ‘em. And by our estimation, we had spent approximately $25,000 in the past two years. And, did I mention, just in case it wasn't clear, that we didn’t have a baby???
Then I discovered the fertility clinic in Los Angeles that offered a money-back guarantee. They charged a lot more for their services, but if you did IVF three times and none of them worked, you got 75% of your money back. Their reasoning was that the couples, for whom it DID work, by paying more, would make up the difference for the couples it DIDN’T work for. It’s actually very logical, and compassionate, and fair. It gave me hope.
So we decided to try one more time in Oklahoma, and then if it didn’t work, consider starting up again in California. Although as much as I wanted kids, I dreaded the thought of starting over, from scratch, with another clinic. Another part of me, to be honest, was starting to consider the possibility that maybe we weren’t going to have kids. And I started talking to myself about the fact that although being childless wouldn’t be my first choice, if it happened, you know what? It wouldn’t be the end of the world. In fact, there might even be some positives. Not having to replenish the college fund. Not having to consider school districts anytime we moved. Not having to plan vacations around school schedules. The ability to pick up and go, whenever and wherever we wanted.
In fact, the more I thought about it, the better it sounded. Don’t get me wrong, I still wanted kids. More than anything in the world. But the fight had just gone out of me. I was pooped.
So one night, preparing to write yet *another* check to our fertility clinic, to try yet **another** round of IVF, I looked at Blaine ---- He looked at me ---- “Fuck it” we both said. "We’ll start again in California. "
For now??
We took that money and went to England.
In front of the British Museum. *Really* cool stuff in there. Please overlook the unfortunate leather jacket with lots of belts and zippers. It was the mid-90's and I still thought the biker look was cool. Hence the ankle boots as well.
In front of 13th-century Salisbury Cathedral; the tallest spire in England. The letterman's jacket? Almost as unfortunate a choice as the biker jacket. But it was freezing-ass cold in that country!!
Took a bus trip to Scotland. Here, at the beginning of the Royal Mile in Edinburgh. My only comment about Blaine's jacket is that sadly, he was still wearing it up until last year. Partly I blame the fact he wears a military uniform, complete with military jacket, to work every day, so there's no real need to buy new clothes on a regular basis. Party I blame the fact that he and I are socially-fashionably-inept.
Well-meaning friends said, “You are SO going to come back from your trip pregnant! Giving up …. relaxing … resting …. taking a break …. taking a vacation ….. works every time!”
They were right about a few things. It was a great vacation. We relaxed. We rested. We saw some amazing things, and some breathtaking country ... Stonehenge, anyone? We returned home refreshed and rejuvanated.
But not pregnant.
And now it was time to move to California. And start over at Square One with a new doctor.
Blaine: “Oh good grief, I am putting my foot down about the cup this time!”
Monday, February 26, 2007
The Never-Ending Saga
And by "never ending saga", I'm not sure if I mean our fertility and adoption struggles, or this journal entry!!! (This is the part where you all jump in and reassure me that your eyeballs are not rolling back in your head from boredom, what with all this talk of mood swings and fertility drugs and cervical {spelled correctly} mucous.)
We had gone from “Wow, we’re going to get a baby from our fertility treatments, AND we’re going to get a baby from the adoption agency, and the fun part will be seeing which way happens FIRST!!! We’re going to have babies coming out our ears!!” to, “You know, it’s looking like we won’t be getting a baby. At all. In any way. Ever. Houseplants don't count.”
The adoption agency, which had pretty much closed down, wasn’t as clueless as it appeared, because they had the good sense to put a TOTALLY-NEVER-IN-A-MILLION-YEARS-WILL-YOU-GET-YOUR-MONEY-BACK-FOR-ANY-REASON non-refundable clause in the contract we signed with them. Period. End of discussion. Actually, we knew one couple who took them to court and sued and successfully got a portion of their fees back, but to be honest, I was so dis-heartened at this point I didn’t have it in me. I figured we’d thrown away so much money in fertility treatments, what did it really matter if we threw away a bunch more with a defunct adoption agency? I was tired of being pro-active. Tired of working so hard. Tired of getting nowhere. Sitting around pouting was the best way for me to deal with it. And eating chocolate. Lots and lots of chocolate.
But our reproductive doctor wasn’t ready to give up yet. Yes, yes, it’s true, none of the “basic” or even “extended basic” treatments had worked for us. But that didn’t mean we should quit! There were still things to try! Options to explore! Money to spend!!!
So, according to him, it was time for the big guns, and he suggested IVF. In-vitro fertilization. What was so maddening about the whole thing is that there wasn’t anything really WRONG with me. Ovulatory dysfunction? Clomid should have taken care of that. Crappy mucous? The decongestant should have worked, at the very least, and the inseminations certainly should have bypassed that problem. None of my doctors could figure out why nothing was working, and yet month after month, year after year, we still weren’t pregnant.
IVF was a logical step, but huge for us to consider. Our insurance didn’t pay for any fertility treatments and the military base where we lived didn’t offer any. We had already spent thousands, and now they were asking us to consider IVF, at eight to ten thousand a pop. And what’s so depressing is that if it doesn’t work --- You sure as heck don’t get your money back.
The entire thing was discouraging and maddening and frustrating. I had never been in a situation like this before, where I had a total lack of control over the outcome. I couldn’t MAKE this happen, no matter how hard I tried.
When I was in school, if I wanted a good grade, I studied. Viola, a good grade. If Blaine and I wanted to buy something, we simply needed to save up the money and buy it. If we wanted to travel somewhere, we researched it, then went. My entire life, my experience had been that if you want something {within reason} badly enough, you just need to work for it and you can get it. And, if you buy something, and it doesn’t work the way it’s supposed to, you return it and get your money back, or exchange it. Can you imagine a store where you pay ten thousand dollars for a TV, and you bring it home, and it doesn’t work? There’s no picture at all? And you call the store to complain and they say, “Too bad, so sad …. But if you want to spend another ten thousand, we can sell you another TV and try again! Of course, there’s no guarantee that TV will work, either.” While having a baby is a normal sort of adventure for most people, we just couldn’t make it happen; we were going broke, and it was making me crazy. Crazy with a capital K.
Women all around me were getting pregnant at the drop of a hat. Many of my co-workers were pregnant and after awhile, it was extremely difficult to feel happy for them without feeling sorry for myself. And angry. And bitter. And did I mention angry? Why did they deserve babies and I didn’t? It didn’t help matters any that I worked at a family practice clinic and the doctor also delivered babies. Not a lot, but enough. Every time an unwed teenager came in and got a positive pregnancy test, it was all I could do not to stand up in my chair and shout ---- HOW IS THIS FAIR????? One young girl got her positive results, said out loud, “Good, now I can get on welfare!” and I swear, I had to turn around and walk out of the room. There I was, married, stable, in my late-20s, and couldn’t get pregnant to save my life, but we had one patient who was on her sixth (welfare) kid and refused birth control of any kind. I was really having a hard time seeing the justice in the situation. Empathy for those people, who truly needed empathy, was long-gone.
I never lay around and moaned and cried about not being pregnant; it’s not like I went days and days with the bed covers pulled up over my head … but boy, was I angry with all the pregnant women of the world. I pouted and I sulked and I quickly became the person you NEVER wanted to see at a party because I pretty much sucked all the positive energy from a room. And as much as I was angry and jealous, I hated myself for being that way. It takes a lot of energy to walk around in a persistent bad mood, but I managed it most of the time.
The constant up and down from the drugs, the hope each month that it worked, the disappointment when the pregnancy test was negative … even the adolescent hope that the pregnancy test was wrong, only to be crushed again when I would start my period. The knowledge that we had gone through ALL THAT with the adoption agency, only for it to be a dead end. It became incredibly overwhelming and I started resenting every pregnant person I knew. And their husbands. And even their friends and their neighbors and their pets and anyone who *knew* anyone who was pregnant and even pregnant people on TV. They were all stupid, stupid, stupid, and none of them deserved those babies.
You can imagine that it was a very serene and positive time in my life, and people all around me were clamoring to be my friend. Um, yeah. Maybe not.
But when you want a baby, and your doctor says Jump, you pretty much say ”How high?” So off we went on an IVF adventure. Back then, IVF was a top of the line fertility treatment. Nowadays, they’ve added things like sperm injection and assisted hatching and pre-genetic testing, but even now, IVF is pretty much the end of the road for fertility treatments. If IVF doesn’t work, you really don’t have a lot of options left. There’s a lot to be said for desperation, when you realize you’re running out of chances and opportunities.
I was stimulated for optimal egg production, both quality and quantity, and monitored extremely closely via blood work and ultrasound. After the trigger shot, the eggs would be harvested/aspirated with a needle/catheter, via another laparoscopy, and placed in a petri dish with Blaine’s sperm. And as much as I made fun of the guy for being on the Olympic Masturbating Team, he was a damn good sport about going through all this.
Hopefully, dozens and dozens of the eggs would fertilize and three or five days later, depending on their quality, they would transfer the best looking two or three embryos back into my uterus. Ideally one of them would implant, and I continued to give myself injections to make sure my uterine lining remained a perfect environment.
We had high hopes …. Pretty much everything was riding on this. You hear about the rare couple who can afford to do IVF dozens of time, but that wasn’t us. We had decided one shot, and if it didn’t work, it didn’t work
The procedure went smoothly, although they didn’t get as many embryos as they wanted. Ideally we would have had some left over for freezing for later attempts, but we only wound up with four total, so we put them all back in. Well-meaning friends made comments like “Four?? Are you crazy?” and “You’ll wind up with quadruplets!” When the truth was, we were simply hoping and praying for ANY of them to stick around.
You can’t take an early urine pregnancy test with IVF because the trigger shot has HCG (human chorionic gonadotripin) in it, which mimics the hormone that indicates pregnancy. And as long as you’re on the injections to keep your uterine lining fluffy, you won’t get a period. So there’s no way to “know” if an IVF worked ahead of time. You just wait for two weeks, until you can take a blood test. Then you wait that day, for the nurse to call you. Every time the phone rings, you jump. You’re so excited for her to call, because you know, you just KNOW that it worked … this time, this time, it worked.
IVF nurse. That’s got to be the best/worst job in the world. The people you get to call with good news are so overjoyed to hear from you -- can you imagine what a great feeling it is to deliver thrilling reports like that? Of course, then there are the people you have to call and give the disappointing news that it didn’t work; sorry, you’re not pregnant.
We were two of those people. Not pregnant. Again. You’d think as some point it would quit being such a crushing blow to hear those words, but nope. Pretty much like having your heart ripped out all over again. The fact that my very first nephew was born the next day, with me filming it all in the delivery room, was a bittersweet reminder of what had just failed.
And despite the fact we had promised ourselves we would only go through that once, we immediately started saving our pennies to do it again, being theoptimists, idealists, dreamers, gluttons for punishment that we were.
We had gone from “Wow, we’re going to get a baby from our fertility treatments, AND we’re going to get a baby from the adoption agency, and the fun part will be seeing which way happens FIRST!!! We’re going to have babies coming out our ears!!” to, “You know, it’s looking like we won’t be getting a baby. At all. In any way. Ever. Houseplants don't count.”
The adoption agency, which had pretty much closed down, wasn’t as clueless as it appeared, because they had the good sense to put a TOTALLY-NEVER-IN-A-MILLION-YEARS-WILL-YOU-GET-YOUR-MONEY-BACK-FOR-ANY-REASON non-refundable clause in the contract we signed with them. Period. End of discussion. Actually, we knew one couple who took them to court and sued and successfully got a portion of their fees back, but to be honest, I was so dis-heartened at this point I didn’t have it in me. I figured we’d thrown away so much money in fertility treatments, what did it really matter if we threw away a bunch more with a defunct adoption agency? I was tired of being pro-active. Tired of working so hard. Tired of getting nowhere. Sitting around pouting was the best way for me to deal with it. And eating chocolate. Lots and lots of chocolate.
But our reproductive doctor wasn’t ready to give up yet. Yes, yes, it’s true, none of the “basic” or even “extended basic” treatments had worked for us. But that didn’t mean we should quit! There were still things to try! Options to explore! Money to spend!!!
So, according to him, it was time for the big guns, and he suggested IVF. In-vitro fertilization. What was so maddening about the whole thing is that there wasn’t anything really WRONG with me. Ovulatory dysfunction? Clomid should have taken care of that. Crappy mucous? The decongestant should have worked, at the very least, and the inseminations certainly should have bypassed that problem. None of my doctors could figure out why nothing was working, and yet month after month, year after year, we still weren’t pregnant.
IVF was a logical step, but huge for us to consider. Our insurance didn’t pay for any fertility treatments and the military base where we lived didn’t offer any. We had already spent thousands, and now they were asking us to consider IVF, at eight to ten thousand a pop. And what’s so depressing is that if it doesn’t work --- You sure as heck don’t get your money back.
The entire thing was discouraging and maddening and frustrating. I had never been in a situation like this before, where I had a total lack of control over the outcome. I couldn’t MAKE this happen, no matter how hard I tried.
When I was in school, if I wanted a good grade, I studied. Viola, a good grade. If Blaine and I wanted to buy something, we simply needed to save up the money and buy it. If we wanted to travel somewhere, we researched it, then went. My entire life, my experience had been that if you want something {within reason} badly enough, you just need to work for it and you can get it. And, if you buy something, and it doesn’t work the way it’s supposed to, you return it and get your money back, or exchange it. Can you imagine a store where you pay ten thousand dollars for a TV, and you bring it home, and it doesn’t work? There’s no picture at all? And you call the store to complain and they say, “Too bad, so sad …. But if you want to spend another ten thousand, we can sell you another TV and try again! Of course, there’s no guarantee that TV will work, either.” While having a baby is a normal sort of adventure for most people, we just couldn’t make it happen; we were going broke, and it was making me crazy. Crazy with a capital K.
Women all around me were getting pregnant at the drop of a hat. Many of my co-workers were pregnant and after awhile, it was extremely difficult to feel happy for them without feeling sorry for myself. And angry. And bitter. And did I mention angry? Why did they deserve babies and I didn’t? It didn’t help matters any that I worked at a family practice clinic and the doctor also delivered babies. Not a lot, but enough. Every time an unwed teenager came in and got a positive pregnancy test, it was all I could do not to stand up in my chair and shout ---- HOW IS THIS FAIR????? One young girl got her positive results, said out loud, “Good, now I can get on welfare!” and I swear, I had to turn around and walk out of the room. There I was, married, stable, in my late-20s, and couldn’t get pregnant to save my life, but we had one patient who was on her sixth (welfare) kid and refused birth control of any kind. I was really having a hard time seeing the justice in the situation. Empathy for those people, who truly needed empathy, was long-gone.
I never lay around and moaned and cried about not being pregnant; it’s not like I went days and days with the bed covers pulled up over my head … but boy, was I angry with all the pregnant women of the world. I pouted and I sulked and I quickly became the person you NEVER wanted to see at a party because I pretty much sucked all the positive energy from a room. And as much as I was angry and jealous, I hated myself for being that way. It takes a lot of energy to walk around in a persistent bad mood, but I managed it most of the time.
The constant up and down from the drugs, the hope each month that it worked, the disappointment when the pregnancy test was negative … even the adolescent hope that the pregnancy test was wrong, only to be crushed again when I would start my period. The knowledge that we had gone through ALL THAT with the adoption agency, only for it to be a dead end. It became incredibly overwhelming and I started resenting every pregnant person I knew. And their husbands. And even their friends and their neighbors and their pets and anyone who *knew* anyone who was pregnant and even pregnant people on TV. They were all stupid, stupid, stupid, and none of them deserved those babies.
You can imagine that it was a very serene and positive time in my life, and people all around me were clamoring to be my friend. Um, yeah. Maybe not.
But when you want a baby, and your doctor says Jump, you pretty much say ”How high?” So off we went on an IVF adventure. Back then, IVF was a top of the line fertility treatment. Nowadays, they’ve added things like sperm injection and assisted hatching and pre-genetic testing, but even now, IVF is pretty much the end of the road for fertility treatments. If IVF doesn’t work, you really don’t have a lot of options left. There’s a lot to be said for desperation, when you realize you’re running out of chances and opportunities.
I was stimulated for optimal egg production, both quality and quantity, and monitored extremely closely via blood work and ultrasound. After the trigger shot, the eggs would be harvested/aspirated with a needle/catheter, via another laparoscopy, and placed in a petri dish with Blaine’s sperm. And as much as I made fun of the guy for being on the Olympic Masturbating Team, he was a damn good sport about going through all this.
Hopefully, dozens and dozens of the eggs would fertilize and three or five days later, depending on their quality, they would transfer the best looking two or three embryos back into my uterus. Ideally one of them would implant, and I continued to give myself injections to make sure my uterine lining remained a perfect environment.
We had high hopes …. Pretty much everything was riding on this. You hear about the rare couple who can afford to do IVF dozens of time, but that wasn’t us. We had decided one shot, and if it didn’t work, it didn’t work
The procedure went smoothly, although they didn’t get as many embryos as they wanted. Ideally we would have had some left over for freezing for later attempts, but we only wound up with four total, so we put them all back in. Well-meaning friends made comments like “Four?? Are you crazy?” and “You’ll wind up with quadruplets!” When the truth was, we were simply hoping and praying for ANY of them to stick around.
You can’t take an early urine pregnancy test with IVF because the trigger shot has HCG (human chorionic gonadotripin) in it, which mimics the hormone that indicates pregnancy. And as long as you’re on the injections to keep your uterine lining fluffy, you won’t get a period. So there’s no way to “know” if an IVF worked ahead of time. You just wait for two weeks, until you can take a blood test. Then you wait that day, for the nurse to call you. Every time the phone rings, you jump. You’re so excited for her to call, because you know, you just KNOW that it worked … this time, this time, it worked.
IVF nurse. That’s got to be the best/worst job in the world. The people you get to call with good news are so overjoyed to hear from you -- can you imagine what a great feeling it is to deliver thrilling reports like that? Of course, then there are the people you have to call and give the disappointing news that it didn’t work; sorry, you’re not pregnant.
We were two of those people. Not pregnant. Again. You’d think as some point it would quit being such a crushing blow to hear those words, but nope. Pretty much like having your heart ripped out all over again. The fact that my very first nephew was born the next day, with me filming it all in the delivery room, was a bittersweet reminder of what had just failed.
And despite the fact we had promised ourselves we would only go through that once, we immediately started saving our pennies to do it again, being the
Sunday, February 25, 2007
Ongoing Baby Quest
I guess at this point in the story I should back up and fill in a few blanks, although the blanks won’t be apparent until later. And hopefully they won’t be apparent at all, if I just fill them in now. You know what I mean. I’m babbling already, aren’t I?
When Blaine got orders to Tinker, the Air Force Base in our hometown, we began our third year of TTC. As those of you who know me know, and those of you who don’t know me can probably guess, I am a control freak with a serious Need-To-Know character defect. Ignorance is not bliss, as far as I'm concerned. At this point the internet wasn’t a household item, and I had already read every book our local library had to offer. We knew if we wanted help in a social or emotional or informational capacity, from other couples going through the same thing, we were going to have to look for it in a live, face-to-face situation. So we searched out the local branch of Resolve, the National Fertility Association support group, and began attending meetings.
A couple of good things came out of this. First, we made friends with a great couple (if you’re reading this, S., “hey chickie!” :) who made walking that infertility path a lot easier, and a lot more fun. Not that it’s ever “fun”, but it was great to have another couple who had experienced the same struggles as us, and who could go out at the drop of a hat without having to hire a baby sitter, and without sitting around all night talking about their kids, and without sitting in front of us, breast feeding her child-yes-someone-actually-did-that-way-before-Blaine-and-I-were-enlightened-about-breastfeeding-and-we-freaked-out-and-totally-didn’t-know-where-to-look-and-oh-my-gosh-her-boob-is-RIGHT-THERE-so-we-just-pretended-like-it-wasn’t-happening-in-our-living-room-three-feet-from-our-shocked-faces. Seriously. Trust me, NO childless couple ever needs to see that. Ever. Second, we realized that while it was frustrating for us not to know WHY we weren’t getting pregnant, a lot of couples attending Resolve were facing the finality of knowing they would NEVER get pregnant, so maybe we should just quit our big fat whining and get over ourselves. Third, while Blaine and I had always been open to alternative ways of building our family, I think it helped us explore, and come to terms, with those ideas more quickly. I had cousins who had been adopted, and Blaine himself had been adopted by his step-dad when he was young. So we certainly weren’t hung up on the idea that children absolutely, positively, biologically, MUST spring from our own loins. But the other members attending Resolve at that time gave us a safe forum to explore and vent and learn, and I was grateful.
So, around the beginning of Infertility Year Four, after Blaine and I had our first negative IUI (insemination), we decided to apply with an adoption agency. Everyone said to us, “Oh, once you apply with an adoption agency, you’ll get pregnant. It always happens that way.” And we thought, “Wouldn’t that be great? Two babies! We should be so lucky”. Then, a few months later, we were down two negative IUI’s, and it was time to pay our adoption agency fee. And everyone said to us, “Oh, once you write that check, you’ll get pregnant. It always happens that way.” And we thought, “Oooh, yippee, two babies! We should be so lucky”. And then a month or two later, and yet another negative IUI under our belts, we received word that we had been approved by the adoption agency and our profile was available for viewing by birthmothers. And everyone said to us, “Oh, just wait. Now that you’re approved, you’ll get pregnant. It always happens that way.” And we would talk about how if that happened, we would be the luckiest people in the world. Surely, surely, one of these inseminations was going to work … and if we adopted a baby near the same time, it would be like having twins! We would be the luckiest people in the world … twice!
And by the end of that year? Six artificial inseminations, no pregnancy, and the adoption agency had gone out of business, taking our money and our hopes with them.
This is probably a pretty accurate estimation of when I entered my very unattractive “pissed at the world” phase.
OK, ok, so the adoption agency didn’t really, **technically** go out of business. But it might as well have. For the six months it took from the time we applied until we were approved, they were a fully-staffed, smooth-running operation, who, on average, prior to us applying, had placed approximately ten babies a year with waiting families. It was a smaller agency, nothing like Gladney out of Texas, but we liked that. Although there were certainly no guarantees, Blaine and I were led to believe it would take no more than year for us to get a baby, as well. We were guided through the process of filling out our applications, having our background and criminal histories run, getting friends to write us letters of reference, submitting photos of us, posed oh-so-perfectly in front of our fireplace with our pets, to submit along with a Dear Birthmother Letter that we agonized over writing. “Please, please, please, pick us to raise your baby, we don’t want to seem desperate and groveling, even though we are …..” We had our home study done, where a social worker comes to your home and interviews you to see if, in his or her opinion, the home life you would provide for a child is safe and loving.
And with every item we accomplished, with every checkmark we made on our Very Long List Of Adoption Stuff We Have to Complete, I got more and more bitter.
I’m not sure I can find the words to explain how deeply {probably irrationally} irritated I was that I had to submit myself to this sort of scrutiny … this judgment, this begging for approval, from total strangers, about whether or not Blaine and I would be deemed qualified to adopt and raise a baby. Certainly I understand the need for these sorts of criterion … DUH. But when everyone is looking at you, and the home you live in, and critiquing your job and your marriage and your education and your decisions and your LIFE, and passing judgment about whether or not you are ALLOWED to get a baby …. It was infuriating to me. Infuriating. No-one who is able to get pregnant the “normal” way has to ask anyone’s permission. None of the pregnant patients where I worked had to take time off from their jobs to sit through a three-day parenting seminar, attendance required. None of the pregnant girls I went to high school with had to pass a home study, inviting a total stranger into their home, and clean like a crazy, obsessed person for a week before, and bake fresh cookies to offer as refreshment which the woman DIDN’T EVEN EAT and sit back and answer her questions about how you would raise the baby, and what your plans are, and what your expectations are, and oh my God what do I say about spanking? What if I say no, we would never spank a child, and this woman assumes I am too lenient to be a qualified parent? But what if I say yes, I do believe in spanking, and she thinks that makes me a child abuser? The decisions we all make as parents are part of an ongoing learning process, and I wasn’t a parent, yet I was already being judged on how I would do it. None of my pregnant co-workers, or friends, or relatives, had to sit through an interview process, whereby someone who doesn’t even know you has the power to stamp “approved” or “NOT!” on your request to be a parent.
It. Made. Me. Crazy.
I abhorred it. And at the same time, as it became more and more obvious that the fertility route wasn’t working, adoption was quite possibly going to be our only avenue to becoming parents. Do you know how hard it is to despise a system, and resent everything you are required to do, and at the same time hold it up as the possible answer to your hopes and dreams?
Then, it pretty much became a moot point. This adoption agency that we applied with basically shut down after we were approved. They went from a fully-staffed agency, working out of a nice office suite, to a part-time social worker in a one-room office with an answering machine that she stopped in once a week to check. For the first year after we were approved, you know how many babies they placed with families?
Zero.
Three years of temperature charts and bloodwork and ultrasounds and putting pillows under my butt after sex and fertility drugs and hot flashes and mood swings. Nothing to show for it.
A year of artificial reproductive technology. Big Fat Nothing to show for it.
A year of jumping through hoops to get approved for adoption, and waiting on their approved list. Bigger Fatter Nothing to show for it.
Yeah, my “pissed at the world” phase had officially begun. Really, really, unattractive. Almost as unattractive as ………. Oh, who am I kidding? It was the most unattractive phase yet. And can you believe it’s not the lowest point we would reach?
When Blaine got orders to Tinker, the Air Force Base in our hometown, we began our third year of TTC. As those of you who know me know, and those of you who don’t know me can probably guess, I am a control freak with a serious Need-To-Know character defect. Ignorance is not bliss, as far as I'm concerned. At this point the internet wasn’t a household item, and I had already read every book our local library had to offer. We knew if we wanted help in a social or emotional or informational capacity, from other couples going through the same thing, we were going to have to look for it in a live, face-to-face situation. So we searched out the local branch of Resolve, the National Fertility Association support group, and began attending meetings.
A couple of good things came out of this. First, we made friends with a great couple (if you’re reading this, S., “hey chickie!” :) who made walking that infertility path a lot easier, and a lot more fun. Not that it’s ever “fun”, but it was great to have another couple who had experienced the same struggles as us, and who could go out at the drop of a hat without having to hire a baby sitter, and without sitting around all night talking about their kids, and without sitting in front of us, breast feeding her child-yes-someone-actually-did-that-way-before-Blaine-and-I-were-enlightened-about-breastfeeding-and-we-freaked-out-and-totally-didn’t-know-where-to-look-and-oh-my-gosh-her-boob-is-RIGHT-THERE-so-we-just-pretended-like-it-wasn’t-happening-in-our-living-room-three-feet-from-our-shocked-faces. Seriously. Trust me, NO childless couple ever needs to see that. Ever. Second, we realized that while it was frustrating for us not to know WHY we weren’t getting pregnant, a lot of couples attending Resolve were facing the finality of knowing they would NEVER get pregnant, so maybe we should just quit our big fat whining and get over ourselves. Third, while Blaine and I had always been open to alternative ways of building our family, I think it helped us explore, and come to terms, with those ideas more quickly. I had cousins who had been adopted, and Blaine himself had been adopted by his step-dad when he was young. So we certainly weren’t hung up on the idea that children absolutely, positively, biologically, MUST spring from our own loins. But the other members attending Resolve at that time gave us a safe forum to explore and vent and learn, and I was grateful.
So, around the beginning of Infertility Year Four, after Blaine and I had our first negative IUI (insemination), we decided to apply with an adoption agency. Everyone said to us, “Oh, once you apply with an adoption agency, you’ll get pregnant. It always happens that way.” And we thought, “Wouldn’t that be great? Two babies! We should be so lucky”. Then, a few months later, we were down two negative IUI’s, and it was time to pay our adoption agency fee. And everyone said to us, “Oh, once you write that check, you’ll get pregnant. It always happens that way.” And we thought, “Oooh, yippee, two babies! We should be so lucky”. And then a month or two later, and yet another negative IUI under our belts, we received word that we had been approved by the adoption agency and our profile was available for viewing by birthmothers. And everyone said to us, “Oh, just wait. Now that you’re approved, you’ll get pregnant. It always happens that way.” And we would talk about how if that happened, we would be the luckiest people in the world. Surely, surely, one of these inseminations was going to work … and if we adopted a baby near the same time, it would be like having twins! We would be the luckiest people in the world … twice!
And by the end of that year? Six artificial inseminations, no pregnancy, and the adoption agency had gone out of business, taking our money and our hopes with them.
This is probably a pretty accurate estimation of when I entered my very unattractive “pissed at the world” phase.
OK, ok, so the adoption agency didn’t really, **technically** go out of business. But it might as well have. For the six months it took from the time we applied until we were approved, they were a fully-staffed, smooth-running operation, who, on average, prior to us applying, had placed approximately ten babies a year with waiting families. It was a smaller agency, nothing like Gladney out of Texas, but we liked that. Although there were certainly no guarantees, Blaine and I were led to believe it would take no more than year for us to get a baby, as well. We were guided through the process of filling out our applications, having our background and criminal histories run, getting friends to write us letters of reference, submitting photos of us, posed oh-so-perfectly in front of our fireplace with our pets, to submit along with a Dear Birthmother Letter that we agonized over writing. “Please, please, please, pick us to raise your baby, we don’t want to seem desperate and groveling, even though we are …..” We had our home study done, where a social worker comes to your home and interviews you to see if, in his or her opinion, the home life you would provide for a child is safe and loving.
And with every item we accomplished, with every checkmark we made on our Very Long List Of Adoption Stuff We Have to Complete, I got more and more bitter.
I’m not sure I can find the words to explain how deeply {probably irrationally} irritated I was that I had to submit myself to this sort of scrutiny … this judgment, this begging for approval, from total strangers, about whether or not Blaine and I would be deemed qualified to adopt and raise a baby. Certainly I understand the need for these sorts of criterion … DUH. But when everyone is looking at you, and the home you live in, and critiquing your job and your marriage and your education and your decisions and your LIFE, and passing judgment about whether or not you are ALLOWED to get a baby …. It was infuriating to me. Infuriating. No-one who is able to get pregnant the “normal” way has to ask anyone’s permission. None of the pregnant patients where I worked had to take time off from their jobs to sit through a three-day parenting seminar, attendance required. None of the pregnant girls I went to high school with had to pass a home study, inviting a total stranger into their home, and clean like a crazy, obsessed person for a week before, and bake fresh cookies to offer as refreshment which the woman DIDN’T EVEN EAT and sit back and answer her questions about how you would raise the baby, and what your plans are, and what your expectations are, and oh my God what do I say about spanking? What if I say no, we would never spank a child, and this woman assumes I am too lenient to be a qualified parent? But what if I say yes, I do believe in spanking, and she thinks that makes me a child abuser? The decisions we all make as parents are part of an ongoing learning process, and I wasn’t a parent, yet I was already being judged on how I would do it. None of my pregnant co-workers, or friends, or relatives, had to sit through an interview process, whereby someone who doesn’t even know you has the power to stamp “approved” or “NOT!” on your request to be a parent.
It. Made. Me. Crazy.
I abhorred it. And at the same time, as it became more and more obvious that the fertility route wasn’t working, adoption was quite possibly going to be our only avenue to becoming parents. Do you know how hard it is to despise a system, and resent everything you are required to do, and at the same time hold it up as the possible answer to your hopes and dreams?
Then, it pretty much became a moot point. This adoption agency that we applied with basically shut down after we were approved. They went from a fully-staffed agency, working out of a nice office suite, to a part-time social worker in a one-room office with an answering machine that she stopped in once a week to check. For the first year after we were approved, you know how many babies they placed with families?
Zero.
Three years of temperature charts and bloodwork and ultrasounds and putting pillows under my butt after sex and fertility drugs and hot flashes and mood swings. Nothing to show for it.
A year of artificial reproductive technology. Big Fat Nothing to show for it.
A year of jumping through hoops to get approved for adoption, and waiting on their approved list. Bigger Fatter Nothing to show for it.
Yeah, my “pissed at the world” phase had officially begun. Really, really, unattractive. Almost as unattractive as ………. Oh, who am I kidding? It was the most unattractive phase yet. And can you believe it’s not the lowest point we would reach?
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