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As the truck was rolling over, I remember the sound of breaking glass and crushing metal…that sort of moan that metal can sometimes make when it is crumpling. I felt like I was being tossed around the cab like a rag doll. Neither of us were wearing a seat belt. I was propelled out the passenger side window and came to rest several yards from the truck on top of the spare tire. I am not sure how long I was unconscious, but it was long enough that as I came to, the dust and debris were starting to settle. I had glass and dirt in my mouth. I could not move at first and my left leg was bent back in the middle of my thigh. The pain from that was immediate and searing, not to mention the sight of it. I was desperately calling for my brother, screaming a sort of guttural cry, over and over and then silencing myself in the hopes that I would hear his response.
I was wearing a navy blue t-shirt with a pocket on the chest. I began to pat myself down, looking for bleeding. And there was bleeding, from my elbow, from my leg, and from my head. Even though I knew my leg was in bad shape (it was not a compound fracture), the blood from my head scared me more. I ripped off the pocket of my t-shirt and held it to my head applying as much pressure as I could muster. There were shards of glass in my elbow. I heard what I thought was moaning and thought my brother must have been thrown, too, on the other side of the truck, obstructed from my view. Then I heard what sounded like pounding as if maybe he was trying to kick the door out instead or was pounding on the roof of the cab. I made a move to get off the tire and crawl to the wreckage but the pain from my leg was so intense it sent me into shock.
It was nearing 100 degrees in the August heat and it was beating down on me. There was only dirt and gravel around me; not one bush or tree for shade. I was parched beyond belief. One of the Dr. Pepper cans was a few feet away, but try as I might to reach it it was just beyond my grasp. The creaking metal and the pounding stopped. My mind could not grasp what had happened to my brother but I wanted to believe he was on the other side of that truck.
I began to panic. I was eleven years old. I was alone in the middle of nowhere in the summer heat, in shock, with nothing to drink. I was badly broken and bleeding. I worried about rattle snakes but I worried more that no one would come. Other than us, no one frequented that road. There would be no need for anyone to be traveling along it. And since we had the truck and were several miles from the ranch, it would take some time for my great uncle or grandma to come looking for us. And, how long would they give us, anyway, before they started to worry? And, how would they find us? I had to will myself not to become hysterical. But I had to summon help or I was afraid I was going to die.
I could see the heat emanating from the asphalt highway in the distance. The few cars that were traveling it looked like toys they were so far away. I looked around again and saw a fly swatter that must have been in the back of the truck. I knew I had to get it and was willing to risk the pain to do so. I reached and clawed for it until finally I was able to grab it. I took off my t-shirt and tied it to the swatter and began waving it like crazy in a vain attempt to flag someone down. I was hysterical now, crying and screaming and willing someone to see me.
I had no concept of time and I am not sure I was always conscious. Minutes ticked by. Fifteen, then thirty. Forty five? If someone didn’t find me, I thought I would bleed to death, right there, on that tire in the dirt. And then something caught my eye. It looked like a dust cloud from a car traveling on the dirt road. I squinted in the sunlight not sure if I was seeing things. I was so dizzy from the heat and shock that I thought I might be hallucinating. But yes, there it was, a car coming toward us. Oh my God! Would they see me? We were sort of in a ditch to the side of the road. What if they drove past? The thought of that happening scared me into action. I propped myself up as high as I could on that tire, I grabbed the swatter with my t-shirt still attached and I waved it while screaming for help.
I heard the car slow down as it approached the scene. I could no longer see it because it was behind an embankment but I heard gasps and cries and doors opening and footsteps quickening. There were four or five people descending on me. I don’t remember anyone speaking to me but I remember saying, “My brother, my brother, please help my brother!”. Someone stayed with me while the others approached the truck. There was a jack from the back of the truck and they used it to jack up the truck. When they started to do that, I knew that meant my brother must still be inside. That meant that the moaning and pounding I once heard must have been him. Someone moved to blocked my view and another said, “Don’t let her see”, but not before I saw the man with the jack shake his head. And I knew. I knew right then that my brother was gone. And I knew in that moment that my life would never be the same.
Author’s note: I have relived the events that unfolded this fateful day thousands of times in the three decades since it occurred. I have shared the story with countless friends along the way. I have written about it only one other time, in high school, when the essay assignment was to write about a life changing event. However, in sitting to write this entry, I have had two panic attacks and have stopped and started a number of times. There is much more to come, but these are the actual events as I recall them.
My last visit to Colorado was when I was eleven. My brother was 15 and had just gotten his driver’s permit. My mother and younger sister were due to join us that summer as my sister was old enough to come out. I remember talking to my mom from my great uncle’s black rotary telephone in the kitchen. It seems that we’d check in with home about once a week. I imagine it was expensive to place those long distance calls. So, instead of calling, we’d often write letters home. This particular summer I remember that my brother and I wrote letters to my mom and sister expressing our excitement that they were coming and letting them know all we’d been up to since we’d last seen them. Because the ranch was so remote, there wasn’t direct mail service. Instead, we would drive out the dirt driveway from the ranch to where it connected with a long, sometimes winding dirt road, seemingly in the middle of nowhere, that took us to the paved highway. Down the highway a bit was a store where we could mail our letters and pick up a soda.
It was always hot and dry at the ranch in August. My great uncle had a big silver, 1970′s pick-up truck. I remember it was always dirty and dusty and the truck bed had stray straws of hay, dirt clods, some tools, and the spare tire. There was a bench seat in the cab of the truck. If there were seat belts, they were tucked away in the seam where the bench met the cushioned back. The speedometer was broken. The truck lacked suspension and I remember always bouncing along whenever we went on an outing.
My brother was allowed to practice his driving on the long dirt driveway that stretched from the ranch house to the connector road and back. He was always supervised by my uncle or grandma who joined him in the cab. None of that ever stopped him from pleading with them to take the truck out alone but his request was always denied.
And so it was, on August 9, 1977, that we were ready to mail our letters home. My brother and I were ready to go, but my grandmother had a headache and wanted to take a nap. My brother asked if he could just take the truck and go the post office with me. “We’ll go and come right back”, he said. My grandmother said no and went to lie down. My uncle was taking a bath so my brother knocked and asked through the door if it was ok for us to run down to the post office in his truck. I am unsure if my uncle gave his permission, said no, or simply didn’t answer, but before I knew it my brother and I were bounding out the front door, keys & letters in hand, and hopping into the truck.
The drive to the store was uneventful. It was hot and dry outside and the dirt road kicked up quite a bit of dust. We made it to the paved highway and down to the store. We didn’t pass a soul on our way there. We gave the clerk our letters to mail and bought Dr. Peppers for the drive back to the ranch. We drove back up the paved highway and turned onto the dirt road for the long and winding stretch back. My brother, and avid Star Trek fan, decided to scare me by speeding up. I remember him saying, “Warp One! Warp Two!” as the truck sped down the road. I begged him to slow down; I told him he was scaring me. “Warp Three! Warp Four!” and I made the sign of the cross, began to recite the Hail Mary, and started to cry hoping he would see how scared I was and slow down. “Warp Five!” and we came upon a sharp left hand curve in the road by an area used as a landfill. The truck began skidding out of control and my brother tried to compensate by turning the wheel hard to the right. I remember the sound of gravel being kicked up by the spinning tires and into the wheel wells. Our speed, the dirt and gravel road, and the hard turn to the right caused us to lose traction and the truck hurled off the road, became airborn, and began to roll over. One revolution, two revolutions, three revolutions and the truck came to rest upside down on the roof of the cab.
It feels like the decision to adopt has been 44 years in the making. And for sure it has been on my mind the last three years as I lumbered my way through umpteen additional own egg IVF cycles and a donor cycle in the hopes of having a sibling and getting a pregnancy “do again” (I hesitate to use the term “do over” because as fraught with peril as my pregnancy was, I would not trade one day of it as it brought me to our son).
Even though I seemed so resolute in my prior posts, I’ll admit to not printing off the adoption agency retainer or new client info sheet when I said I was going to (truth be told, it was about 20 pages which meant I needed to add paper to our printer and that step tripped me up because I didn’t want to get the paper down nor did I want to clear off the printer so I could load it. Avoidance? Maybe.)
I got an email from my RE last Saturday that basically said (after what, seven weeks?) that he had no additional info on the proposed donated embryos but he hoped to have something to me this week. So it comes as no surprise to me that as I type this almost a week has gone by since that email with nary a word from him. Regardless, I guess I was holding out hope. Until.
Until I had this brief but path-revealing conversation with my husband. It happened around the time we submitted the offer on the house (which we didn’t get, but the way). I said something to him along the lines of, “Are you sure you think you’ll be able to love and bond with a child that isn’t even 1/2 genetically linked to us?” To which he replied, “Honey, I am 100% sure that I will love and bond with any child that you don’t have to be pregnant with*.”. And, just like that, it was settled. We were 100% committed to the domestic adoption route I’ve been laboring (hmmm, pun intended) over. I knew it would ultimately come down to having my husband’s abiding support. We had to be in this together, united as we have been for all the major decisions we’ve made in our decade together.
I did print the documents from the agency, I did fill them out, we did sign them, I did email with the agency to get several questions answered, I did write what I’m sure will be the first of many big checks to them, I did pop it all in the mail today, and I was assigned to and had my first conversation with our caseworker.
Oh yeah. You read that right. I had my introductory conversation with our caseworker (someone I’ve had the pleasure of meeting at both of the adoption seminars I attended in the past). She answered all my questions in a way that not only made me comfortable because of her answers but made me feel like she is someone that I will be able to work with.
Three things that came out of that conversation were that she is sending our introductory packet with a more detailed questionnaire to fill out along with some sample profiles; profiles have really evolved in the last year (because she attached one for me to preview); and she sent me links to some graphic designer referrals (can you say $600 for someone to put together our profile for us!). Further, to her knowledge, we will be the first prospective couple where both husband and wife are adopted. Moreover, both of us were adopted into families with at least one biological child, making us even more unique in that we have one of our own, too.
It just feels like a full circle moment; one of many I am sure. My earliest memories of my own adoption story were when I was four, in the bathroom with my mom, asking her something about why I looked the way I did and her explaining that she and my dad wanted me very much but were unable to have another baby and so a lovely woman gave me to them (or something along those lines) and that they loved me the moment they saw me. I think that notion, that my parents wanted me enough to go to great lengths to get me, has stuck with me all my life. And to meet, fall in love with, and marry a man who was also adopted makes it even more cosmically ordained that we would follow through with this dream that we used to discuss in an almost whimsical way as in, “Gosh, wouldn’t it be nice to possibly adopt in the future?”
I posted to a couple adoption groups that I’m a member of looking for recommendations for books. The author of Unveiling the Adoption Process responded to me and allowed me to buy an early release copy from her. And, I asked her to sign it which she graciously agreed to do. It arrived in the mail the other day (with a lovely cover and inscription) and I can’t wait to read it. If anyone has any other suggestions about domestic adoption related books (or blogs) please let me know.
And, just like that, we are 100% on our way.
*He was far more worried about me being pregnant, enduring a cerclage and the possibility of bed rest again, having another c-section, and what that would do to me, our son, and us, than I thought.
For a relatively new stay at home mom, I have a lot going on. So much so that I comment that I don’t know how I’d get any of it done if I had a full time job. I know that water seeks its level, so it stands to reason that I’ve filled my available time up, but it is true, I have A LOT going on. So, in no particular order of importance, here’s the 411:
1. Completed the Phase I domestic adoption paperwork (which, might I add, is MUCH more straight forward than, say, filling out forms to make an offer on a home or even filling out new home loan paperwork). Which brings me to…
2. We made an offer on a house last night. Finally! In October, we will have been looking at homes for one year. I have been to over 100 open houses or walk-throughs. Without getting in to all the details, we loved this house when it first came on the market 6 weeks ago but passed on it given the floor plan (it just wasn’t conducive to a family with small children). However, after two offers fell through it was back on and we decided we could minimally re-configure the space to suit our needs. It is 3 bed/2 bath and sits on a 22,000 SF lot (which allows a lot of options for future expansion). The home is traditional, hardwood floors throughout, with two fireplaces. It is nestled in the foothills (literally, the San Gabriel mountains are just beyond the backyard) with ample room to add a pool should we desire down the road. We are one of two offers, so, we’ll see.
3. On the weight loss front, I was only down 1 lb in four weeks. However, in that period, I was also down another 3 1/4 inches bringing my total inches lost to 7 1/4. In the last two weeks alone I’m down 3 lbs after finally deciding that the WW points I was allotted equaled too many calories for my metabolism, so dropping my calories by about 200/day seems to have done the trick. We shall see. This all requires a lot of planning, diligence, and working out near daily. It is daunting and laborious but must be done and is thankfully coming along.
4. Plans for our anniversary party are fully underway and invitations will go out at the beginning of September. It will be GREAT to celebrate with friends and loved ones. And, who knows, we might also be celebrating other additions to our lives.
5. We are going on a long over due trip to San Francisco to visit a good friend. I cannot wait! However, if our offer is accepted, the timing is going to be bad, so we’ll have to see.
6. I am cheering on two friends (one pregnant with b/g twins and due in two weeks and one pregnant with b/b twins) as well as another friend traveling out of the country for a donor egg cycle, and a handful of other friends that are either newly pregnant, cycling now, or in the 2ww. May the universe bless them all.
7. I spent 2 1/2 months working to renovate a Craftsman home and have just listed it for rent. I’ve shown it to about 6 couples, and fielded a lot of interest, but so far, no real bites. Must get it rented soon!
For today, I am weathering the 104 degree heat and am about to continue reading Suzanne Collins Mockingjay. I will be very glad to finish The Hunger Games trilogy and return to my regularly scheduled reading. It has been stressful reading the three books in such a short time frame and I really will be relieved when this one is over.
When I reflect upon my life, I see it in four parts: before the accident, after the accident, my struggle with infertility, and my life as a wife and mother.
Most of my pre-accident childhood memories surround our yearly summer trips to my great uncle’s ranch in Colorado. My grandmother’s brother was a real American cowboy. He was tall and lean with a long face and a hang dog expression. His voice was booming and there was always a twinkle in his eye at seeing us. My older brother and I would join my grandmother in visiting the ranch every summer since I was very young. My mom and dad stayed home with my then baby sister who was too young to make the trip.
It was a sprawling working ranch, hundreds of acres or more, in the middle of nowhere but exactly where it should be. There was a rambling creek that ran through the property to the back of the ranch house, river beds that would swell with rain during the winter but evaporate and crackle under the hot summer sun, hills and crevices for children to run up, roll down, and get lost in. He had thousands of head of cattle, a dozen horses (my favorite was a thoroughbred named Charlie though I often rode a quarter horse named Moonshine), chickens, goats, sheep, and pigs. In a lot of ways, I felt the most like myself while on the ranch riding a horse. It was an idyllic way to spend a summer.
We did all the things you would think one would do on a ranch in the middle of nowhere: we drove the cattle across acres of land to graze, we learned to shoot (rattle snakes, prairie dogs, bottles, cans), we branded the new cows, castrated some bulls to keep the population in check, went to auctions to buy horses and steer, went horseback riding until we thought our legs would fall off, went to the rodeo, visited with the other cowboys whose ranches butted up to my great uncles, visited the Indians who lived up the road a piece in a geodesic dome, and had cook-outs. We stayed up late and rose early. We had chores and were expected to contribute.
It was another world, really, far away from our confined life in the city with its rules and hidden dangers. It was like being part of a different family with my great uncle and grandma standing in as parents and my brother and I free from our toddler sister back home. We had cowboys and Indians as playmates and guardians.
Given that both my parents worked full-time and that my grandparents, particularly my grandmother, cared for us during the day, it was totally ordinary that we’d spend most of the summer with her. No one thought anything of it. Life was simpler back then. There was no cable or Internet or hand held video games. Our toys were made of wood and had rubber wheels. I don’t think any of them took a single battery. There were no play dates or extra curricular classes. We spent a lot of our time with our extended family. We entertained ourselves, mostly outside. I don’t remember ever being bored.
And there was no such thing as boredom on the ranch. I can’t recall now if my great uncle even had a TV but it seems to me that he didn’t. I remember the ranch house being long with the living room being the first room we entered, the kitchen to the left, a bathroom off the kitchen, and two bedrooms and another bathroom to the right. There was a long front porch with a rocking chair and a bench. And the screen door. I remember the slap of that door even now. The springs creaked as they were stretched and then they’d pull the door back to the frame with a slap that reverberated through the house and out to the yard.
The ranch house had wood floors. In fact, everything seemed to be made of wood. And, it was dusty from the constant in and out of folks with boots on. The kitchen table had wood benches. Oh, the meals we had from those benches. I remember my grandma cooking up Rocky Mountain Oysters. I tried them exactly once.
To the right of the ranch house was a big barn where we kept hay, and feed, and saddles, and bridles, and all manner of tools. On the days that we went riding we’d call the horses in and saddle them up in the barn.
I remember we’d first get the bit in their mouth and fastened the bridle around their head. I loved being that close to those big brown eyes. And, there is nothing softer, save a baby’s bottom, than the muzzle of a horse. Once the bridle was secure, we’d pick out the saddle blanket and lay it over the horse’s back. Then, because the saddle was so heavy, my great uncle would hoist it up, over and into place. I remember him teaching me where and how to cinch it. The position of the saddle on the horses back was so important both for the comfort of the horse and for the stability of the rider. Once the saddle was cinched, we’d adjust the stir-ups. Then with one foot squarely in the stir-up I’d place my other foot in my great uncle’s interlocking fingers and he’d propel me up and onto the horses back. Oh how I loved being on the back of a horse!
And, off we’d go. Depending on the day, we’d be driving cattle, or checking the fence line for downed posts or boards, or riding for fun. It really didn’t matter to me as long as I got to ride. The feeling, as a child, to be on the back of a horse on the wide open plain, is empowering and freeing. I loved the feeling of the reins in my hand, or my hand around the smooth leather of the saddle horn, or the horse’s mane and tail flicking about. Even though I rarely have the opportunity or occasion to ride these days, just being in the presence of a horse has the most calming affect on me. They are the gentlest of gentle giants.
I still cannot believe what a laborious process processing information is. I mean, how long can it really take to make a decision and move along that path, one thing at a time? Well, clearly it takes years, and in my case, three to be exact. And, I worried all along that the longer it took the longer it would take and that is turning out to be exactly the case.
First things first: my clinic sucks when it comes to organization and having well designed programs to offer their clients. And, they are the second largest clinic in the country when it comes to the volume of IVF cycles they complete each year. So, even though I had a phone consult with my RE regarding the clinic’s available donated embryos over a month ago, we are still really no further along. Without a dedicated resource there to manage the donated embryo “program” it is nearly impossible to move things along. My RE can’t even tell me the hair color of the maternal and paternal donors much less their ethnicity.
But, that’s ok (well, it’s really not OK but I’m ok with it) because the longer this has taken and the closer to the edge of possibly cycling to become pregnant again I am, the less I find myself wanting to pursue this path. There are many times during my day when I am reminded how happy I am not to be saddled with the worry of being pregnant. And there are many more times I’m grateful that I can do all the things I am currently doing without the ever constant worry. Don’t get me wrong, if we were blessed to get pregnant the old fashioned way with a full biological sibling to our son, I would do the most exuberant happy dance imaginable. But beyond that, I really don’t think I want to go through any more scientific hoops to become pregnant. There, I said it.
While I was pregnant with my son and during my 5 months of bed rest, my inner intuitive voice was ever vigilant in willing me to do what my doctors remanded me to because this is your one chance at a live birth, the voice would whisper. And, I really believed it. Even though we tried in vain to have another child over 5 additional OE IVFs and 1 DE cycle, I was haunted by the memories of that voice. And I am still haunted now. It’s not cynicism or even pessimism. It’s reality. As much as I would like to think otherwise, and as much as I sometimes delude myself, I do not think I am destined to be pregnant again. Universe, I hear you!
In the meantime, I received an email with the adoption agency’s retainer agreement and client info sheet. I am printing it now and am going to complete it and send it back with the first half of the Phase I payment. The next thing to do is work on our profile. Once that is complete and submitted with the second half of the Phase I payment, our profile will be shown to prospective birth mothers. Then we wait for a match that is right for us. It all sounds so straight forward. Only, it’s not, believe me I know that it’s not. But it is the one path we have that will lead us to a long desired second child and sibling for our son. It is the one path that will lead us to finally being complete. It is the one path that will lead us from the state of “family building” to the state of “family being”. I am ready to get on with it.
On our way out of school today as another parent was loading up their infant, I asked my son if he’d like us to have a baby. It’s something I’ve asked him from time to time. Today he said that yes, he would like for us to have a baby. He would like for me to get him a girl baby. He loves my god-daughter and often asks that I get a baby just like her. Today he asked that she be just like Dora (the Explorer). Out of the mouths of babes.
We have but this one life. I wish I could stand in the place that I’m in and declare “I’m done”. But, it would be a lie. I want to mother a newborn again. I want another child. I want our son to have the sibling experience. I want to be a family of four and have that dynamic. I WANT! I WANT! I WANT! It is what it is.
I love my husband. That is neither shocking nor a revelation. However, given our tentative beginnings and now decade together, I am still sometimes surprised by just how much I love him. I won’t write a sappy, muzak-y post pontificating on his many virtues or the virtues of our marriage. But I want to share a few tidbits that will shed light on why he’s the one for me.
As I’ve written before, both my husband and I are adopted. That alone creates a bond that is very unique to us. And, our adoptions were both closed (as most were forty years ago). We both had varying desires to know about our birth parents but both eventually found our peace with knowing nothing or very little about them or our starts in the world. It’s almost as if in finding each other the wound created by the feelings of abandonment that often come with being adopted healed over. Settled is the word. I feel settled with him.
My husband is a huge help and unlikely partner (unlikely in the sense that while in his early 30s when we met he was living with his mother again after returning from the first Gulf War and was a bit of a mama’s boy). It was his willingness to help with whatever needed doing at a big party I hosted when we first met that attracted me to him. He wanted to help for my sake. This trait made the rigors of cycling easier on me as through seven (that’s 7 people!) own egg IVFs, 1 FET, 1 DE cycle and 1 DEFET he gave me every.single.injection. (He also nursed me through four major surgeries, but that’s besides the point).
Beyond that, though, he was literally by my side throughout my protracted bed rest during my pregnancy with our son. Day in and day out, it was really only him. I did have friends visit from time to time and my mom made meals occasionally. But it was my husband who got up earlier than necessary for work each day just to make sure I had everything I needed within arms reach before he left. It was my husband who came home for lunch every.single.day for 5 months + 1 week to give me lunch. It was my husband who took me to every.single.appointment with my OB or Peri. I had weekly appointments from week 6 through week 28 of my pregnancy and sometimes there were two appointments in one week. It was my husband who shaved my legs in bed because I was only allowed one 6 minute shower every other day and that was never enough time to wash myself and my hair let alone shave my legs. It was my husband that I shared my deepest fears about losing the pregnancy and it was my husband who would cuddle up with me at night to listen to our growing son’s heartbeat on the fetal Doppler. All this to say that I can count on him.
And, now it’s my husband who is the absolute best father to our son. There is nothing like watching your husband play Legos or Lincoln Logs or trains or “I’m going to get you” with his son to make the heart burst to overflowing. It is a gift the universe gives to mothers blessed with an involved co-parent…to see their joy and wonder and humility.
So, it’s not surprising that it’s now my husband who is supporting us through this desire to have another child. Even though he was gung-ho in the beginning as we tried and tried, his desire really waned as our son entered the terrible twos at 15 months. And he stayed with his head stuck in the sand saying “la-la-la-la, I can’t hear you” for about a year. But, when he comes around, he really comes around. And, by coming around, it actually gives me the freedom to consider NOT having another one, because it’s no longer about convincing him. He is on board and I have no doubt that he will love a future child as much as he loves our son no matter how that child comes to us.
People often say it but it is really true for me that not a day goes by when I am not grateful and humble for the life I have, the relationship I have with my husband, and the family we are building. I am so fortunate that my life, riddled with tragedy as it was, has unfolded in exactly the way that it has. It’s likely because of what I’ve endured and overcome that I am able to have this deep appreciation, an almost hyper vigilance to NOT take things for granted.
So, while my husband is enjoying a night out doing something he loves, and our son is soundly asleep in his bed, and the dog is snoring peacefully at my feet as I type this, my world is right and as we say to each other, “Honey, my love for you is big.”
I am going down two paths, embryo donation and domestic adoption, simultaneously, but I am finding myself leaning ever so slightly in the direction of adoption.
When we started trying again when our son was 5 months old, I very much wanted to be pregnant again and to have children close in age. The thought of “two under two” appealed to me. And, truth be told, I wanted a “do again”; my shot at a more “normal” pregnancy with a cerclage but possibly without the resultant bed rest. And, I liked the “one fell swoop” aspect of getting through toddlerhood and out of diapers in relatively short order and having the closest thing to twins that we could have had. Little did I know the strong-willed temperament our son would have and how daunting and taxing the terrible twos were going to be (and how long given than he entered them at 15 months and is just now emerging from them at almost 3 1/2).
I believe in a universal life force; a metaphysical guiding hand so to speak. And, I believe now, looking back, that we were not meant to have a second child at that time. And, as IVF #1 for a sibling turned into IVFs #2, #3, #4, and #5 I really did believe that the universe was trying to tell me something, but I just didn’t know what. Then, when our donor egg cycle was negative and the donor FET was canceled, I really began to worry that the universe was trying to tell me that I was not supposed to be the mother of two. Alternately, I erroneously thought that perhaps some devastating illness or accident was going to befall me or us and that it would be all I could do to manage one child. It’s not lost on me that the early and tragic death of my brother causes a lot of my cataclysmic thinking.
I have friends who are pregnant for the first time in their forties and it is not an easy road. I am so blessed to be able to support them and I’m grateful to the universe that they are pregnant and will soon be able to experience the same joys of motherhood that I do. It is hard, though, being pregnant in one’s forties. There are so many increased risks: gestational diabetes, edema, pre-eclampsia, high blood pressure, pre-term labor, which says nothing of the run of the mill pregnancy problems like insomnia, sleeplessness, night sweats, sciatica, stretch marks, previa, subchorionic hematoma.
And, let’s talk about the worry that especially comes when one has struggled with infertility and finally and gloriously achieved pregnancy through ART: the 2ww (which about does me in with the “am I?” “no, I’m not” endless loop); the initial beta (is it on target or low?); the worry about doubling (and what if it doesn’t quite); the waiting for first ultrasound and worry about whether there will be a heart beat (and is it fast enough?); the spotting or bleeding that is common in IVF pregnancies; the desperattion to make it out of the first trimester; the nuchal translucency test between 10 – 13 weeks (and what if it’s thick or risk factors come back high?); in my case a cerclage between 12 – 14 weeks (and the worry in the first week of infection and for the next 6 months of it holding); the genetic ultrasound at 18 weeks (is everything measuring as it should, is baby ok?); the prayer to get to 24 weeks and the edge of viability; the gestational diabetes test at 24 weeks, to name but a few.
And then I think of a woman, likely in her early twenties, discovering that she is pregnant at the most inopportune time in her life and making the selfless and often heart-breaking decision to place her baby for adoption. By the time we are matched she is in the late 2nd or early 3rd trimester. She is young, vital, and naive to the perils of pregnancy. Our desires intersect: hers to place her child with a loving couple who can give the child all the things she dreams of and ours to have another child to share our abundance with. And, as daunting as the prospect of navigating these un-chartered waters seems, it feels right. It is what we said we’d do if we couldn’t conceive on our own. It is full circle for us having both been adopted ourselves. There is a rightness to it even if it scares the fuck out of me.
I do have faith that the second child we are meant to have will find us and for now I am trying to stay receptive to the path that might lead us to him or her.
I’ve posted before about the unfortunate loss of friendships over the course of my struggle with infertility and even before. I am a bit of a lightening rod and folks either tend to love me or not (hate is too strong a word, but you get the idea). What can I say, I’m Italian and a Taurus. ‘Nuff said. And, while from time to time I am melancholy with memories of a friendship lost, I have made peace with and believe that things happen for a reason and some friendships aren’t meant to last a lifetime but, rather, for a particular chapter in one’s life.
However, I do have a close knit inner circle of close friends…some lifelong, others relatively new who have been a tremendous support to me as I navigate the decision making process of whether to proceed with a donated embryo cycle (should we find suitable embryos) or with domestic adoption.
I can’t quite put in to words, although I will try, just what having each of them as a sounding board means to me. Whether it is my friend, half-way across the country, and a mother to two boys and contemplating having another who just wants me to go for it and is excited no matter which path I chose; or my male friend on the east coast who always helps me sift and sort through the various permutations to get to the core issue with no bias of his own; or my new friend, a mother of three who is fascinated by my story and my options and genuinely interested when I lay each out for her; or my oldest friend, from elementary school, who just wants me to be happy but who happens to be a lawyer so plays devil’s advocate with me; or one of my younger friends (15 years younger!) who has one child and gets the desire to not want to upset the apple cart of our little family of three but reminds me that all she’s ever heard me talk about was the desire to have two children; they each are willing to listen, are genuinely interested, are supportive without judgment, and who, at their core, want to see me get to the other side of this long process to bring another child into our family.
I am so grateful to have nurtured these friendships so that I can count on their advice and counsel now because they know me, know us, in ways that an acquaintance or even my family members do not. I feel uplifted and joyful and humble and appreciative that they care enough to help usher me through this process without pushing me, or getting frustrated that it’s taking so long, or rolling their eyes when it seems I’m indecisive, or judging me. And, while I know that is what real friends are for, it’s still nice to acknowledge that they choose to be in my life and on this journey with me. With that, I send gratitude and love out to T and J and A and B and A.
I am in the due diligence phase of bringing a sibling into our family. I feel like I have been in this phase for the better part of three years, although I finally feel like we are making some progress, moving in two directions at once.
I signed up with and posted a profile to a donated embryo matching site that has no religious affiliation (those couples that believe that life begins at conception place their embryos for “adoption” and much like in traditional adoption, a home study, etc is required, which is not the case with this site). Signing up gives me the option to review donor profiles (couples who have embryos to donate) as well as allow donors who may not have posted a profile to view ours. So far, no matches.
I belong to a group that is specifically for those attempting pregnancy through donor egg and the founder of the group posted our profile and often comes across couples who are finished building their families that have embryos to donate. She emailed me this week that she may have 12 Caucasian blasts but had no other information. Like the matching site, she would put the donating couple and us in touch and we would both decide if we’re a match for each other or not.
I had a follow up with my RE regarding my clinic’s donated embryo program. Essentially, couples who have built their families through IVF or DE donate their embryos to the clinic with the expressed desire that they be anonymously donated to a couple who is trying to build their family. There are 14 female blasts that we are investigating (10 from one couple (they were trying for a boy so these were from two fresh cycles) and four more from two other couples (one of which transferred two girls to a surrogate who got pregnant with twins). We will have another conversation next week. Their “program” is not very well developed so I had more questions than he had answers. I am not sure how I feel about the anonymity of it (which is funny because on the opposite spectrum I am concerned about the openness of adoption), but we’ll cross that bridge if any of these embryos are viable.
And, I emailed the founder of the adoption firm indicating that we are ready to move forward. He was, naturally, very excited for us. We’ve been dancing around this option for almost three years and I know he feels that we would make an attractive recipient couple to a prospective birth mother. I’ve not acted yet to get us in process but I know what we need to do when we are really ready.
I am still unsure exactly which direction we’ll head or whether we’ll pursue both simultaneously. At this moment I’m feeling that, as unsure as I am, I need to keep putting one foot in front of the other, and that the path will reveal itself. I am staying focused on the end result which is to have another child while not getting too wrapped up in the means to that end. And I’m trying to have faith that the child we are meant to have will find us; I just need to be open to the process. This is so much easier said than done.
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