On the Eve

My husband and I had been trying to conceive for several years. It has been a lot of trying, waiting, whining, crying, and weirding out. You get to a point where all the normal things aren’t working for you, so you start to venture into territories you never would have guessed. We decided to try medical intervention. We started slow, with Clomid, a drug that stimulates ovaries in the hopes that your only problem with getting pregnant is that you aren’t dropping an egg. I suggest before anyone tries this treatment, to do so under the care of a qualified professional. I did not, and not only did my ovaries drop an egg, they unloaded a few months worth and caused my ovaries to swell up and nearly explode. Not a great first start. We then decided to take our case to the professionals, a Reproductive Endocrinologist. We began various testing, and more testing and it was suggested I have a procedure that I can describe as awkward, intriguing, and painful. I was getting my reproductive system flushed with fluid and it is just as uncomfortable as it sounds. It’s hard to remember how to describe the experience, but at one point, with various long pointy instruments and Dr. Old’s head in my crotch, I tried to make small talk as I noted a heavily aged and faded picture of Clint Black pinned to the ceiling. I mentioned to the doctor that I was certain he was the Doctor who delivered my husband back in the 70’s and that I was pretty sure my Aunt by marriage had worked for him, “but she was a nun at the time, so you might not remember”. I should have mentioned that I popped a Xanax or two before the procedure. “I can’t see her cervix,” was his only response. Dr. Old wasn’t much of a conversationalist. Maybe he had seen a lot of unremarkable vaginas, mine included. Maybe he was burnt out on the whole vagina business after 20 plus years in practice. Or maybe it was because I was talking in loud whispers throughout the whole procedure. In my defense, Dr. Old turned the lights so low, it felt like I was supposed to respect the space. Either way, I passed the test. Fast-forward two weeks. All my imaging looked clear and my blood work came back normal. According to my doctor, there was no obvious reason I had not conceived so it was time for shots. Every night….for 10 days. I learned how to administer the shots. I even learned how to administer the shots without shouting “keep going, don’t pass out” as the syringe dangled by the needle tip from my leg, only halfway under the skin, as I covered my mouth with my hands, hyperventilating. I even learned how not to obsess over visible air bubbles in the syringe, and that I didn’t need to shoot half the contents of the syringe across the room while trying to remove a single air bubble from the dose. Once a week of shooting up had passed, I was called and told that it was go time. I had progressed quickly and was ready for insemination. So Carl and I packed up and headed towards the most romantic of destinations, our Doctor’s office, to hopefully conceive. Carl went back and did his thing without any trouble. I was worried because he was back there so long, but apparently Carl felt there was no need to rush as he had found himself at the El Dorado of Porn. They prepared Carl’s contribution and helped me get ready for the procedure. My doctor, George Stephanopoulos, entered the room. He used a tire-jack to open the “area” and used a series of forks to perform the procedure. As soon as it started, it was over and I lay there for a few minutes. Dr. Stephanopoulos high fived us and congratulated us on our first I.U.I. Before we left, our nurse peeked in the room and handed me a pill bottle of little pink pills. “Every night, take one of these….in your vagina. Good Luck!” Right. For 6 months, we repeated this routine. Shots for my lady bits, ultrasounds up my lady bits, procedures in my lady bits, and then various pills getting jammed in my lady bits. My urine was blue, my hair was falling out, my breasts were on fire, I had hair growing in places that made me cry, and I was so tired that I sounded like I was mid-stroke when I talked to people. I spent half my day with my leg hiked up on the counter putting things in, and the second half of the day on the toilet checking that nothing was coming out. In my spare time between obsessively checking for early pregnancy symptoms and taking multiple pregnancy tests in the middle of the night, I decided to try something new. I first heard about acupuncture from a friend. I had heard that it could be helpful when dealing with infertility. It worked for her, why couldn’t it work for me? Considering I had also heard that doing handstands after sex can help to conceive, and had only mildly injured myself in doing so, I thought I would give this a try. Keep in mind; I have a deep fear of needles. The kind of fear that gets somebody committed type fear. Actually it’s not so much the needles, but specific areas of needle penetration that send me into hysterics. Due to past experiences, I don’t want needles in my spine, eyeballs, or nipples. I walked into J’s office and it smelled of pine and flowers, and dirty hippie. We inspected my tongue. “Too much liver,” she says. We then talk about my bowels. “Too much fat.” Shocker. Then we get to the constitution evaluation. In Chinese Medicine there are 5 constitutions: Earth, Metal, Wind, Water, and Wood. I learn all about the different constitutions and realize, yet again, that I want what someone else has. Other constitutions are charming, fierce, smart, and even sexy. Mine? I’m what the Chinese call “damp heat”. Described as hot and humid. Essentially the description of hell. I’m an “Earth”, and apparently everything about my body is out of balance. I have too many emotions, am chronically constipated, most likely sweat profusely, and that my “roundness” comes from being like the Earth. Thanks China. That’s the nicest explanation of being fat I’ve ever heard. The good news is that my Chi is strong, as is my heart, and my uterus is warm. Bad news is that the rest of my body is an inferno for my organs, and was told I should start planning for a post-menopausal life plagued by chronic yeast infections. Once the consultation was done, it was time to get to the needles. After I was assured that absolutely no needles would go into my spine, eyes, or nipples, I laid back and gave myself over. I was told to focus on the meditative music and begin mental imagery of growth and life and fertility as she began needle placement. I was to repeat in my head, “What is infertile today is fertile tomorrow.” I first imagined a hill on the horizon, predawn, topped by the outline of a black, branchy tree. I saw neon blues and pinks begin to pulse at the trunk of the tree, growing and overtaking the branches, vasculating the tree with life. As the sun began to rise over the hill in pinks and oranges, the tree burst forth with life and leaves and fruit. I stopped visualizing when I realized I was ripping off my tree image from Avatar. Lets start again. I imagined a pool of dark stagnant mud. In a filmed time lapse like quality, the sun broke through the clouds and moved over the water, turning it clear and fresh. Bright green algae begin to cover the rocks, as the water became deeper and cooler. Intensely colored fish and frogs begin to leap and swim through the water as birds descended from the blue sky to pluck from the abundant pools. I saw a turtle swim into a rocky cave, and a plump beaver swim the other direction through forests of lime green seaweed that parted as he passed. Just as I thought I saw a dolphin swimming towards me, ready to play…I screamed. Not a mild protest, but an “I’m washing my face in the shower and have my eyes closed, and I know I’m home alone, but I think someone just touched me” kind of scream. My acupuncturist, once she herself recovered, explained that a needle that she just placed in my lower abdomen had hit an area over my stagnant uterus. My barren, cold, cobwebbed uterus and that we would “work on that”. I’ve since had several less traumatic visits and have finally allowed J to use needles again. My nether regions had never felt so invigorated. So much so, my feeling of “aliveness” frightened me. After about the 5th I.U.I with the protocol that had shown the best results, two types of shots a night and a shot to trigger ovulation, we were optimistic. We were certain THIS was our time…then we got the numbers. I had only made one follicle and the sperm count was pretty lame. We were devastated. We decided to take a break and go to Austin for the weekend. I spent the next 48 hours, eating, drinking, dancing, attempting to eat and chase lasers on the dance floor, leaving two full rum and cokes in a dance club restroom after I realized I had taken a power nap on the toilet, danced with a fabulous young, gay Frenchman, and then telling my husband things were getting weird that we needed to go home. I ate two pieces of street pizza that I know saved me from what would have been a game-ender hangover. I drunk cried to my very patient friends that entire weekend, and then pulled over after work the next week, and cried the next day on the phone to my Grandmother. I cried for several hours each day that week. It seemed like I was doing a lot of crying…like way more than usual. Hmmm? It was Halloween day when a friend asked if I had taken a pregnancy test. I had promised myself that entire week that I wasn’t going to test because the disappointment and sadness were crippling, and I managed to avoid testing that entire week. I finally had the will power to just let things be. I was so proud of myself and felt in control for the first time in the entire process. Later that night, I met my husband at the door. “Trick or Treat,” I whispered with a smile. He was distracted and I could tell he was still in work mode and was not impressed with my holiday ridiculousness. “Trick or Treat!” I said with a little more insistence. He was not playing along, and my husband continued to sort through the mail as I followed him around the house with my stupid plastic pumpkin. “God Damn it Carl! Trick or Treat! Eat some candy!” I screamed as I practically shoved the candy bucket through his rib cage. He finally gave in and fished out a piece of candy. “Um, thanks. Do I have to eat this now?” was his response. “Pick again!” I insisted. My husband was dangerously close to losing his patience when he stuck his hand in the pumpkin and pulled out a few weird pieces of plastic. He stared at what was in his hand and then looked at me, his eyes starting to water. He had in his hand three positive pregnancy tests I had taken just an hour before he had gotten home. I had broken down and decided to just test one more time, if for no other reason than to get the test out of my bathroom drawer. Earlier that night, when I read the results, I didn’t cry, I didn’t yell, I didn’t break it in half and throw it away. I laughed. I sat on the bed with my dogs, and laughed until I cried. And I waited with the most amazing and joyful sense of urgency for Carl to come home. Since then, I have spent the last 9 months behaving like an 11 year old without a proper sex education. I’m afraid to sneeze too hard or push too hard when I use the restroom because the baby might come out. I don’t sit on the floor to long because I don’t want to dent his head. I don’t raise my hands above my head for fear of tangling him in the cord. I have consumed little to no amount of caffeine and therefore have become so sensitive to it, that last week, after giving into an iced tea craving, I spent two hours in the Labor and Delivery Emergency Room with what I was sure was a heart attack. There are ultrasound technicians who turn and walk the other way when I walk down the hallway at my doctor’s office. I asked my nurse last week if she thought my baby was developmentally delayed because his heart rate has been so steady at all of his appointments and I repeatedly ask my husband if our baby looks “downs-ish” from the 3-D ultrasounds. I have completely lost control of all reason and logic, and I have a feeling it won’t stop after his birth. Sorry kid. To add to the beautiful experience of pregnancy, this baby has decided not to turn to the correct position for birth, meaning he is breech. Not only have I been obsessing that something is wrong with him that is not allowing him to turn, but I also have this gut feeling that he is just being stubborn. As a result, I have had a sore back for the last 3 months. Not because of his position, but because I have been doing handstands, in a public pool, trying to encourage him to turn. I’m not forcing him to turn, just gently encouraging him by flailing my body around 4 hours out of the day. I have a feeling I would get a lot less staring if I wasn’t wearing a swim cap and sunglasses throughout the process. I have put ice packs on my stomach, torn muscles in my wrists from doing inversion poses, and have blisters on my toes from burning myself on accident while using a red-hot mugwort stick on my acupressure points. I do all of this because I am terrified of a cesarean section. I want a natural childbirth. If I hear, “You’re crazy to want to be in pain!” or “Oh lucky you getting the easy way out!” one more time, I’m going to cut someone. People don’t realize that my fears of C-sections and epidurals are paralyzing and on the phobic level. I tried watching a C-section video to prepare myself, and I shook violently and started to hyperventilate. I’m not sure how that behavior is going to translate well in to actually having the procedure performed with me as the patient. Yes, I realize natural childbirth can be horrific as well. I made the mistake recently of watching a YouTube clip of a woman who made it to the hospital just as her baby was crowning. She had no time for meds, and her baby was a ten pounder. I still hear the screams when I close my eyes. What I wanted, after all the science and medicine and specialists I have seen, was to have one thing, Mr. Baby’s birth, be done without so much intervention. Just this once I wanted something not to feel clinical, but natural. But as the date has approached, the likelihood of Mr. Baby turning is unlikely, and as I sit and type these very words, I am scheduled for a C-section in the morning. I seriously doubt I’m going to show up. I keep playing “Ride Like the Wind” in my head as I consider heading to the border of Mexico. I am not so great with the idea of my stomach being cut open. I’m not so great with my uterus being outside my body. I’m really not so great with being awake during the whole slice and dice. I try not to share my terror and fear with everyone because I get so many, “All that matters is a healthy happy baby…” Really? Like I don’t know that? If I didn’t care about his health and safety I would be at the midwives office, gambling my and my child’s life away for the old fashioned birthing experience I so desperately want, so I get that it’s about his and my safety. What I also don’t want is the brain trauma of being awake during major surgery, with the sights, sounds, and smells. I’m not going to be much good of a mother for Mr. Baby if my brain starts to fry Clockwork Orange style, on the operating table. So for now, I choose denial. I feel my sweet baby kicking as I type. Mr. Baby is ready to party, and I want to hide in the corner. I am fearfully excited and downright petrified. As the rest of the world awakes tomorrow, I will be headed south of the border, as the sun rises, far away from all the doctors and nurses and needles and antiseptic and masks and risks and signatures and stares. At some point, I will turn the car around, and head back to that hospital room and do what I have to do to have the baby whom we did what we had to do to make him ours. But one thought will linger....Mr. Baby had better cure cancer, run for President, or make middle management at Radio Shack. This had better be worth it. P.S. Mommy loves Henry