B is for Baby, Blog, and Banal

Here's what's happening: I keep trying to write. Not blog, but write. Entries like the ones I used to post about Frankenstein and my grandmother. But those take an admittedly embarrassing amount of time, and I don't have that kind of time now, and consequently, I haven't been posting anything.

So if I want to keep this record of my thoughts going, I have no choice but to stop writing and start blogging. If you were following me because you were interested in what I have to say, that will continue (or resume, I should say). If, however, you were following me because of how I said it, ... sorry, but I can't finish that thought because there's a baby crying.

Stunted

This blog isn't developing the way I thought it would.

Over the past 2 months, I've started two posts that have yet to be completed: one about the effects of this pregnancy on my sex life (short answer: not good), and another on how I feel about being pregnant with a girl (short answer: not good).

Truth be told, I may still finish these posts and predate them for purposes of chronology. Yes, I realize that's cheating, but I'm a woman pregnant with a donor egg baby, so clearly I'm an ends-justifies-the-means kind of girl.

Aside from this blog, another thing that appears to be stunted is my baby's growth.

All was well at the anatomy scan 8 weeks ago. No cleft palate, no incomplete organs, and no structural issues. They couldn't confirm 10 fingers, though, and I was told that either she was making fists (more likely) or she that had no fingers (less likely). In any case, we needed a follow-up.

Six weeks later, my baby was indeed found to have 10 fingers, but she was also measuring 11 days behind. This puts her in the 10th percentile of fetal development. This isn't good.

They say it might be nothing. That it could be a blip. That she could catch-up over the coming months, and none of this will have been an issue. On the other hand, her small size could be the start of a pattern that will mean a very risky third trimester of pregnancy, premature delivery, and/or developmental delays. They just don't know yet.

And they're making me wait 4 weeks for a follow-up. Their rationale is that the baby needs time to have measurable growth, but I'm pretty sure they're just fucking with me.

So I'm two weeks post-shitty news, and the only thing keeping me afloat is that I think my baby might be growing. My belly has gotten bigger, and I've also been feeling more movements. Like, a lot more movements. Like, the kind of movements where you see limbs protruding from the surface of my abdomen like something out of Alien. It's gross, but I'll take it if it means that my baby's stunted growth will prove to be an inconsequential blip after all.

Either way, it puts the whole "I wish I were having more sex and also not having a girl" thing into perspective, doesn't it?

Battle of Wills

Here's a light-hearted query: who raises the kid if we both die?

Well, if we can hold off for a dozen or so years, then our friend JB would be perfect. I trust his values, his parenting skills, and his integrity, so he and his wife are the top pick. No problem.

But that's only if we don't die for a while -- if I get to raise the kid for a good chunk of time, and I leave behind a child who's old enough to have developed a longstanding consciousness about who I am. Under those circumstances, there'd be no problem.

On the other hand, if this death scenario goes down within the next couple years, then I do have a problem:

If we aren't genetically related, and I die shortly after giving birth, who would I be to this kid? If this baby originates from my donor and is parented by my friends, aren't I just the middle man? A carrier? A gestational surrogate? A biological host?

Short answer: yes.

If I die when the kid is a baby, and N isn't around either, then the child and I would have zero relationship. There'd be no fostered bond. There'd be no memories, no lasting love, and no connection that could be sustained. I'd have no more meaning to this kid than the donor would. Probably less.

And during those acne-ridden years of adolescent existentialism, staring back from that mirror would be the kid's father and donor. Not me.

And in going out into the world, there would be a life, a culture, and an environment constructed by new parents with stories and traditions that are entirely unrelated to me. Nothing of my heritage, my native language, or the flavors of my grandparents' foods. Nothing of my character, my personality, or my view of the world. Nothing of me.

In other words, both internally and externally, this kid would be built by Not Me. And by extension, I wouldn't be thought of by this kid as a parent.

Why would I be? Why should I be?

Out of love? Intention? Because it's what I would have wanted? That's not how kids' minds work. For children, those kinds of abstractions don't carry weight without a few years to cultivate a connection, and if I die when the kid is a tiny baby, ... seriously, ... I just won't have earned much value.

A conversational case in point:

The Kid: So, I have a genetic parent.

New Mom: The donor, yes.

The Kid: And you're the only mom I've ever known.

New Mom: I suppose.

The Kid: So why does it matter who carried me?

New Mom: Because she's the one who wanted you, who loved you before she ever knew you, and who did everything she could do finally have you and be your parent.

The Kid: But she doesn't know me. And she isn't my parent. And I wasn't around for any of that. And everyone in the world wants something, so why should I care about the wants of a dead person that I never knew?

New Mom: Good point, Kid. Want to go for ice cream?

The Kid: Sure, Mom.

See what I mean?

Which is why I'm gunning for the least rational custodial choice I can possibly make: if N and I orphan an infant, then I want the kid to go to my family.

Yes, my family of crazy people. Yes, the same family who - under normal circumstances - I wouldn't allow near my kid without a buffer. But given the choice between Real Mom and biological host, it's clear that those crazy people are the only way for me to edge my way into this kid's heart when I'm gone.

I want crazy people to raise my child because that's the only way to ensure that I'll be embedded in that kids life. Granted, there'll be sacrifices such as the absence of intellectualism, practicality, and true compassion. But no worries, because instead there'll be plenty of reactionary behavior, backward thinking, and emotional unsophistication.

But you know, that's how I was raised, and all I needed was a shitload of therapy, which brings me to the second stipulation in my will: besides naming crazy people as parents, I'll also require weekly therapy sessions. That way, the kid will be steeped in me; I'll surely be known no matter when I die, because fucked-up role-modeling and Gestalt therapy is as Me as it gets. Problem solved.

Except for that the problem isn't solved because my husband is never going to go for any of this, so a biological host I'll remain.

Fingers crossed that I don't croak too soon.

~~~

PS: I've disabled the comments section for this post because I'm entirely uninterested in
a lecture comments on this post.

Tiers of Joy

Admitting that I don't know what to write isn't the best way to up my readership, but what can I tell you? I have no fucking clue what to say.

No, I still don't trust that this is happening. No, I'm still not telling people. No, I'm still not excited. Nothing's going on, and no one wants to read about my continued reservedness, so what am I supposed to post?

I will tell you, however, that I'm not alone in this. Case in point: something a fellow PVED gal said over lunch last week.

I couldn't trust that I was pregnant until 20 weeks, and then I still couldn't get excited for several weeks more. Now I'm almost 34 weeks, and I'm still not at ease, but I am starting to believe that it might really happen.

I've heard other infertile women say similar things, so this timeline is the one I'm counting on. And since I'm 17 weeks today, I might be getting close.

But in the meantime, I got nothing, because you know what Bob Dylan says, ...

One

So, I was certain there'd be no one in there, but it turns out there is.

One heartbeat. We saw it flicker. It was awesome.

I'm not the kind of blogger that's going to post pregnancy play-by-plays, although I'll be adding updates to this page just for posterity (also linked in the header above under "Pregnancy Timeline").

PS: Seriously, though. There's a heartbeat. Can you believe it?

Prospective Perspective

I have a question.

I always swore that I'd never consider egg donation. My reasons were that it'd be creepy, it'd feel false, and it'd be socially confusing. But after years of failed in-vitro treatments, my doctor said that the only way to get me pregnant was to use a donor's egg, and now here I sit with fingers crossed, Viagra in my vag, and hoping against hope that tomorrow's transfer takes.

So, have I lost perspective, or have I gained perspective?

And once these last cycles prove a bust, I'll no doubt follow the same trend down the adoption path - again something I swore I could never get into because how do you raise another woman's child and pretend it's your own? But still. When the time comes, I'll do it.

Are these moves of desperation, or is my experience allowing me to open up to other options that I wasn't previously ready for?

I don't know why this question is an important one for me. Maybe it's because I don't like to be reactionary, and I want to know that I'm making decisions with grounded perspective, but either way, it's been nagging me for months. I've been pondering it and imagining that I'd one day blog about my brilliant answers, but I don't have any brilliant answers. Just more questions.

Questions like: what the hell kind of M. C. Escher shit is going on in my head?

So if you have an answer, let me know, would you?

Archetype Casting

For 2012, I had three new year's resolutions: to do more crosswords, to breathe, and to focus more on integrity than on goal-setting. I only succeeded insofar as I'm still breathing.

Because I tend to fail wildly at at these annual vows, you'd think I'd consider setting a lower bar, but that's not how I roll. Case in point: for 2013, I resolved to become a different person.

But unlike with crosswords, in this I have some experience. Back in the summer of 2009, when it became clear that I wasn't easily going to become a mother, I decided to become the opposite of a mother. I decided to become a whore.

It started with an anonymous twitter profile where I wrote clever little quips with sexual twists, and it developed into a WordPress blog for original erotic short stories. By the end of 9 months, I had 1500 followers and made regular appearances on Favstar's Tweets of the Day - the Twitterverse's gold medals. I was an e-slutty sensation.

The accolades didn't stop there, though. I also got several sexual propositions, a marriage proposal, and about a dozen nude photos of men who wanted me to know just how much they cared. Eventually I got tired of pretending to be a single 20-something who was always searching for the next big thing between my legs, so just as quickly as she was born, I tweeted one final RIP tweet and shut her down.

For that short time, however, I'd transformed myself into a different archetype of womanhood -- well, as much as was possible for someone who was married, monogamous, and nearing middle age. Through her, I was a sexually-liberated model of femininity, and even though the character was virtual, her personality influenced several aspects of my real life: my wardrobe choices were edgier, I lost those last 10 pounds, and my sex life became more lively. She was good for me.

The best part of the character, though, was that she allowed me to escape from living the life of a woman who only wanted to be a mom. I've seen it over and over again with infertile women, and it's a story I know too well: we put our lives on hold while making choices that revolve around what we think will be the quickest route to motherhood. In the meantime, all the rest of ourselves - all the other parts of our identity with potential to be fulfilled - just whither away within us. When the struggle takes years, it gets ugly.

So this year I resolve to be a different person once again, only now I'm choosing a whole new archetype: the female warrior. Or, in modern parlance, I plan to become a professionally successful woman.

Until recently, my career has been in non-profit program management, which is really just a professionalization of motherhood, and thus one of the reasons why I don't want to do it anymore -- the other reason being the non-profit part. Beginning last summer, though, I started working with a career counselor with whom I discovered what seems like a great new career direction for me: public relations.

So that's what I'm on my way to doing. I'm taking two PR courses at the local university, and this week I begin a volunteer job that will give me experience in government administration, communications, and public relations. I've also joined a local PR group through which I make it a point to meet with at least one person every week to explore ideas of what I want to do and what it'll take to get me there.

This isn't to say that I'm giving up on becoming a mother; I'm just giving up on needing motherhood to define me while the reality is that it just plain doesn't. I'm done putting my life on hold while I ride the pendulous swing that takes me back and forth between my doctors' optimism and confoundedness. That person no longer gets the lion-share of me.

It's 2013. I am Athena. Hear me roar.

Psychopathic Naturopathic Medicine

(Three posts in three days, I know. Shit's getting real.)

I've started seeing naturopaths. That's naturopaths plural. Meaning three of them.

My main naturopath says that the reason I can't carry a pregnancy is threefold: lack of circulation, elevated toxicity, and increased inflammation. To ameliorate those things, I am two weeks into abiding by the following protocol.

1. Acupuncture. For full-body circulation and not just infertility. (Once a week.)
2. Homeopathic Unda Numbered Compounds. If you're thinking "what the fuck," then we're on the same page. I'm not sure, but they seem to be magic medicine that's taken in a magical way. All I know for sure is that they taste like booze, which is the only good thing about them. That, and I like saying "unda." (Fifteen drops three time day, an hour away from food.)
3. Pregnancy Prep Enzyme Pills. I actually used to take these a few years ago because the cross-eyed chick with the tattoos at my health food store recommended them. They didn't work. (Two pills twice a day away from food.)
4. Curcumin Pills. I know what you're thinking. "Cumin," right? Well, you're wrong because they're made of turmeric. I'm taking them because turmeric apparently decreases inflammation. Doesn't seem to be working for folks in the Middle East, but what do I know? (Two pills twice a day away from food.)
5. Abdominal Castor Oil Heat Packs. I used to do this, actually. Not on myself, because it's disgusting, but back when I was a massage therapist, I would use them on clients. You put a gross amount of castor oil on your stomach, place a disposable cloth on top, and apply a heat pack wrapped in plastic on the belly. It draws out icky stuff and makes nice poops. (Daily for 20 minutes.)
6. Mayan Abdominal Massage. This is exactly what it sounds like: a Mayan Shaman created a massage that makes people pregnant. If you stopped reading after "Shaman," then you'll never know how badly I want to be your best friend. (Once or twice a month by the therapist. Daily on myself for 10 minutes.)
7. The Anti-Inflammatory Diet. This means:
   No gluten
   No soy
   No dairy
   No nightshades
   No sugar or sweeteners
   No caffeine
   No alcohol
   (Forever, or until I kill myself.)

Of these seven dos and don'ts, it's the diet that's most impacting because it means I can't eat out, and this is a HUGE problem because restaurants are my hobby, my sport, and my most favorite thing that N and I do together. And if you're about to say that I can find a way around it, then you haven't thought it through.

Think I can get away with Mexican food if I order rice, beans, and corn chips with guacamole? Not if the rice is cooked with tomato, the beans have chili powder, and the guac has sour cream. Perhaps some sushi? Sure, as long as I stick to sashimi and plain white rice, since I can't have soy sauce, miso soup, or sushi rice (which is seasoned with sugar). Or maybe some breakfast? It's easy to modify a cheese omelet with a side of potatoes, toast, and coffee with cream, because all I have to do is order plain eggs. Problem solved.

Truth be told, at 2 weeks in, I'm starting to get used to it. Or, at least I've stopped crying about it (yes, literally). And I do feel better after I eat, so I suppose something's working. I am not happy about it, though.

But I mentioned that I'm seeing three naturopaths, so here's the scoop on that: the first doctor is the one overseeing my whole treatment, giving me my herbal meds, and doing my acupuncture. The second naturopath is the one doing the Mayan abdominal massage. And the third naturopath warrants some storytelling.

The third naturopath likes every bit of this protocol, but she feels it's not quite as insane as it could be, so I need to add three more things:

1. Pregnancy Tea. Your basic raspberry leaf concoction. (Two or more cups a day.)
2. Utrophin PMG. The main ingredient in these pills is bovine uterus, which means that they're pills made from a bovine's uterus, which means that I'm taking bovine uterus pills that are made from a bovine's uterus. (Two pills twice a day with food even though the thought of consuming bovine uterus makes me want to vomit.)
3. Pelvic Floor Massage. How is a pelvic floor massage different from Mayan Abdominal Massage? Well, only one involves getting massaged inside my vagina. (Once a month.)

Allow me to elaborate on this last point, if you will. While others before me have paid good money to have their pussies rubbed, I never imagined that one of those people would be me. However, a friend of mine had it done after 2 years of trying to conceive on her own, and the month after her first treatment, she got pregnant. I don't think this will happen to me, but it also seems worth trying. Besides, it's something to blog about.

So, in conjunction with the adjustments that my doctor recommended, this is the Kitchen Sink Cycle. Although truth be told, it will probably more commonly be referred to as the Final Cycle, because it's official: after this, I'm done. And while I'm scared about what this might mean, it feels good to have made the decision. Infertility has taken up too much of my life and my body, and -- although I will continue to try and manifest a kid or two by other means -- I need to take my body out of the equation. Enough is enough.

In the meantime, I'm going to do everything the naturopaths tell me to do and hope that the pelvic floor massage will get me my happy ending.

Future Present Tense

I've always felt there was something eerie about the state of transition, and in trying to put my finger on it, I realized: it's not transition that I'm experiencing. It's suspension.

Suspension of time. Suspension of truth. Suspension of breath. All by a thread. Or perhaps something thicker.

I've set up permanent residence in this state of suspension, because here, a decidedly unBuddhist mindset allows me to hope for a future present with a different past.

Second hands don't tick here, and so yesterday and tomorrow are just parts of today. It hasn't been weeks since I've blogged. It hasn't been months since I've spoken to my pregnant and parenting friends. It hasn't been years since I started at my clinic. And it hasn't been nearly a decade since I bought my house with its fenced-in yard for the kids to play.

It hasn't.
(Yes, it has.)
It hasn't.
(Yes, it has.)
It hasn't.
(Yes, it has.)

This idiotic dance is what finally got me to discover the fabric of the noose: Nothing is happening in the third dimension, and therefore nothing can be happening in the fourth.

So there's the realization, and it's not eerie at all. It's just your basic, homespun denial wrapped in a Matrix film.

And with that a-ha, I have a choice: do I turn to face a new direction where purpose doesn't hinge on ifs, or do I wrap myself more tightly and take a nap?

Alpha Beta

This morning's result was 17.47. This is super low by beta standards since most providers consider anything below 50 to be negative, but when I urged my nurse to lay it out for me doomsday style, she wouldn't do it. She insisted that she sees these things go either way equally often. Dr. Google seems to agree.

I'll know more after my second beta on Saturday.

Also, I published this post privately yesterday, and I'm only sharing it with you now because yesterday I wasn't prepared to expose my grief to you as I wrote it (ugly, ugly grief). But since then I've eaten something, cried with friends, was held by N, and saw my therapist; and although my grief is still real and true, my reflecting on it has made it ebb back into a nook somewhere. But I know it'll be back. I can feel its fucking tentacles undulating at my tear ducts.

PS: How do you spell "karma?"

Year of the Uterus

I stole my avatar from another WordPress.

In browsing images online (I can't remember what the exact query was), there it was: a Zen sand garden of a uterus.



It's not a uterus, though. The artist made it to honor the Year of the Ox, which closed out the Year of the Rat. The Rat was my year. Or at least I was born in a Rat year.

I'm not sure that means anything.