Author: Brittney

Hey there, munchkin!!!

You are the greatest little thing on the planet right now!!! Daddy and I saw you again today, and I can’t believe it – you look like a baby now!!! It completely blows my mind how fast you’re growing. In a few short weeks you went from a tiny little microscopic bug into this wonderful, wiggly creature with arms, legs, fingers, toes, a cute little tummy and hands that PUNCHED your mama during the ultrasound! I guess you like kickboxing like me. It was the cutest thing I’ve seen in my life. Even though you’re only 3.54cm long, you’re already this perfectly shaped little human, and that makes you larger than life to me.

I know so much about you already. I know that you don’t like sweets all that much, but you’re into savory things like mashed potatoes and salsa. Not together. That actually sounds gross together. Let’s pretend I didn’t just put those two things in the same sentence, because I really don’t want to see how that looks coming up. I did start getting nauseated – I guess I counted my chickens too soon on the whole “no morning sickness” thing – but at least you haven’t made me barf. That’s another reason why we’re not going to try mashed potatoes and salsa quite yet.

Anyway, I know that you’re stubborn and independent and have very strong opinions on certain things. Like cinnamon, for instance. Your hatred of cinnamon is so legendary they’re going to write songs about it to pass on to future generations. The first time I really thought we were going to hurl was walking into Vons and getting smacked in the face with the cinnamon-y odor of their seasonal display. I wanted to barf right there in the produce section, but I guess you have more class than that. Luckily, we were able rush outside and get some fresh air, which saved us some embarrassment.

Another time was walking into Target. I don’t know what set you off then – I think it was the smell of grilling burgers at The Habit, but whatever it was, I barely made it to the bathroom before I started dry heaving. Thank goodness you didn’t let me eat much that day; otherwise it would have gotten messy. We did manage to scare a mom and her daughter out of the restroom, so I guess there’s that. Nothing sends families scattering quite like a disheveled lady about to toss her non-existent cookies in a public place.  Go team!

I love you so much, and I love having you with me. One thing we don’t know about you is whether you’re going to be a girl or a boy, and I have mixed feelings about finding out. Because while it’ll be fun to know; ultimately, it doesn’t matter. This morning, I had blood drawn for something called an NIPT – non-invasive prenatal test – which will not only tell us the likelihood of you being a perfect, healthy baby, but it will also reveal gender. Your gender doesn’t matter. I want that to be clear, right now. Whether you’re a boy or a girl, your daddy and I are going to love you the same. We’re also going to love you the same whether you’re gay or straight, or transgender, or anything else. You’re our baby. And you’re being specially created for us right now, and however you’re made is going to be 100% perfect.

I’m also not going to toss gender specific clothes and toys at you. I don’t agree with any of that. Boys can like pink. Girls can like the color blue. Boys can play with dolls and girls can chase their pets with remote control cars and/or fire trucks. There’s this amazing little toy that I give to all of my friend’s kids when they’re about one year old. It’s a Leap Frog learning toy, in the shape of a stuffed puppy dog. It teaches kids numbers and letters and body parts and it talks and sings to them. It’s a really exceptional little toy…but it comes in a green “My Pal Scout” and lavender “My Pal Violet.” Why do we need two of them? Why do they have to market baby toys for girls and boys? It’s the Same. Exact. Toy. Having a “girl” and a “boy” dog puts gender stereotypes into kid’s heads as early as year one. I’m not cool with that.

I’ve also been shopping around for cloth diapers for you, and wouldn’t you know, several companies have “boy” diapers and “girl” diapers. The only difference is that the “boy” diapers are green and blue and brown and have fire trucks and dinosaurs on them, while the “girl” diapers are pink and purple and white and have flowers and bows on them. Dinosaurs are cool to ALL kids. And boys can like flowers. It totally annoys me.

So. We will find out in about two weeks if you’re going to be a boy or a girl. I’m excited, but at the same time, nothing I do is going to change knowing which gender you are. You’re still going to be my baby. Your crib will be gray, it’ll be covered in puppy dog crib sheets, and you’re still going to have your first bath on this huge, frog shaped sponge I found on Amazon and fell in love with. I’ve had you bumping around in my head for so long, but knowing whether you’re a boy or girl will put a face on the child in my head. It’ll make you more real, whether that face is a girl or a boy.

We’re having a gender reveal party for you, but planning it is hard, because even the gender party themes are so sexist it drives me crazy, and literally everything is in either pink or blue.  The “Baseball or Bows” theme is one that particularly irks me. I like baseball AND bows. Another is “Ties or Tutus”. Excuse me, but boys can and do dance ballet, and male ballet dancers are some of the strongest, fittest dudes out there.

I’ve kind of always imagined you as a girl, to be honest, but in my heart of hearts, I feel that you’re a boy. And in about two weeks, we’ll know if my head or my heart was correct. Your dad and I already love you so much. Being able to address you with the proper pronoun in two weeks will just be icing on the cake.

Love you Always,

Mom

Hi Baby!

This is going to have to be a really short letter because to be honest, your mama is exhausted. I guess it takes a lot of work to grow a perfect little baby. I wasn’t expecting to be so tired. It’s funny, my friend was pregnant last year that this time, and every day, she’d come into my office and crash on my couch.  I remember foolishly thinking, “Oh, I won’t be so tired when I get pregnant. It won’t be like that for me!”

Yeah, that was silly. I’ve never been able to nap in the middle of the day, but lately (especially weekends), I seem to accidentally fall into a coma for about 2 hours at a time. It’s like I get abducted by aliens – I just lose time and wake up in a puddle of drool not knowing what day it is or where my pants are. Commutes home now involve a pillow and a blanket (your daddy is driving), and I’m still so exhausted I can’t function when I get home. But I wanted to fill you in on how perfect you are!!!

First of all, this is our year, and it seems to be the Dodger’s year, too. Not only did they sweep the Giants, but they secured a playoff spot while we were there. By the way, we’ll have to take you back to San Francisco when you’re older. It was really nice, and I think you’ll like it a lot – especially all of the barking sea lions on the wharf.  Then on Monday, with a little help from the Rockies, Dodgers took the NL West! They had to play a one-game tiebreaker, but they pulled it out. They’ve also won their first two games against the Braves, so I have high hopes. However… even if they beat the Braves, I’m not sure they can beat the Brewers, which looks to be their next opponent if everything goes well. We’ll see.

I hope you’re a baseball fan like your mama. Your daddy loves NCAA football, and don’t get me wrong, so do I. But if I had a little buddy to take to Dodger games when your daddy wanted to stay home, that would make me so happy. But I promise I won’t be one of those parents who tosses you into anything you don’t want to do. If you like sports, great! But if you want to play the tuba or dance ballet or collect gum wrappers or become a master at Dungeons and Dragons – all that is great, too!  The world is your oyster, Baby. You do whatever makes you happy. We’re going to love you through it all. When I was a kid I collected key chains. Key chains. Yeah. And Babysitter’s Club books. And stuffed animals. And I had giant coke bottle glasses and poufy, teased bangs. Ugh. The 90s. *shudder*

All I know is that I’m so excited to share this journey with you! You’re inside of my tummy right now, and I am loving every minute of it. I go to sleep at night with my hand on my tummy. You’re still so tiny I can’t feel you yet, but knowing you’re in there is the best thing in the world.

We’re going to announce you to this world soon. On Monday at the doctor, you were looking more like a gummy bear and less like a marble, and Dr. Landay said you were measuring perfectly. That, combined with your strong, steady heartbeat of 164bpm and MY great bloodwork means you’re sticking around for the long haul. Even though it’s still early, we’re 8.5 weeks along, and the risk of anything going wrong now has dropped to less than 5%. We passed the highest risk point between 4-6 weeks, but now, especially since your heartbeat is so strong and fast, there’s no doubt in my mind you’re going to meet us in a few short months. There was never any doubt in my mind, to be honest. I knew once I saw that second pink line that you were ours. I felt it.

I know some parents wait a long time to tell everyone, but I see no need. You’re our miracle. Everything went so perfectly with our FET this time around, and you were so strong and ready to go before all your siblings. You were perfect then, you’re perfect now, and in about 31 weeks, you’ll make your grand appearance and the whole world will see how perfect you are.

But until that day comes, you can help your mama nap. Because that’s where we’re headed right now.

Love you so much!

Mom

Hello Baby!!!

Life is so wonderful right now! I know this is a change from all the worried, humdrum letters of yesteryear, but it’s such a welcome change! Right now, your daddy and I are so happy. I don’t think I’ve stopped smiling since Dr. Landay called with our first beta test.  You are such a little rockstar!

I learn new things about you every day. Right now, you’ve been with me exactly one month – happy anniversary! That makes me right at 7 weeks pregnant, or right smack in the middle of our first trimester together. Things are going so perfectly. I feel that the universe is finally on our side – we had such a hard time finding you, but that now that you’re here and growing inside of me, everything is going to be a breeze from here on out.

I don’t want to get ahead of ourselves – we still have a very long way to go before you meet us face to face. I know that I’ll have aches and pains, and swollen ankles, and lately I’ve been so exhausted I can barely stay awake, but all of those little things are just typical pregnancy symptoms.  For the first time, I’m right in line with other women, and it feels great to be normal for once in this journey. I’ll welcome the aches and pains. I’ll gladly walk around on swollen ankles. Because that means I have YOU in my tummy.

I’m 7 weeks along, and I haven’t had one wave of morning sickness. Thank you for that! I was a little nervous about being super nauseated and throwing up everywhere, but aside from your extreme dislike of all things with almonds, cashews, or any other nut, and your newly discovered hatred of chicken (where did THAT come from?!), our last month together has been pretty uneventful.

We heard your heartbeat last Friday, and it took my breath away. There you were, a little tiny blob, but inside that little blob was a perfect, fluttering heartbeat. We are so lucky. Not everyone gets to hear their baby’s heartbeat so soon – at 6 weeks – but not only did we find yours right away, it was a strong, steady 117bpm. You’re growing perfectly!

Next Monday, we go back to the doctor for another ultrasound, but not before you take your very first road trip with us. Your daddy and I are heading to San Francisco for the weekend to see the Dodgers play the Giants. It will be our 2^nd annual trip to another ballpark outside of Dodger Stadium to see our boys play, and with a little luck, they’ll win the division and make the post season. It’s so great knowing that the next time we travel to another ballpark – you’ll be with us! Our next trip may have to be close – like Petco Park in San Diego, or even to the Angels Stadium in Anaheim, but we’ll cross more out of state parks off of our list soon enough. And we’ll do it together, as a family.

I love you so much! I can’t wait to see what new adventures are in store for us.

Love you forever,

Mom

Good morning, Baby!!

These last couple weeks have been such an amazing whirlwind. I feel like the luckiest mama in the world.

I just KNEW you were waiting for me in Encino. I just knew everything would turn out perfectly fine. And it did, and for the first time in this incredibly long journey, you are with me. I can talk to you every day.

Dr. Landay called me the morning of the 27th. Our Good embryo had become a fully hatched blastocyst, there were four others hatching, and two others that were a tiny bit behind their siblings, but even they looked healthy and promising. Not only were we going to transfer, but at that time, we’d have anywhere between four and six additional little munchkins to put in storage for second chances or siblings.

(The final tally was six. We transferred you, and we have five healthy siblings in cryogenic storage for later.)

This transfer was by far the easiest part of this entire process. Everything went smoothly, and Dr. Landay got you perfectly positioned inside my uterus. The rest was up to you, and you, Baby, are a superhero.

I started cramping a bit that night as you were snuggling in and getting comfortable. Just a bit, nothing that I couldn’t pass off as side effects from the procedure. The next day, Tuesday, I didn’t really feel much of anything, but Wednesday morning I woke up so dizzy the room was spinning and I was afraid to walk downstairs. And my allergies were raging. I couldn’t stop sneezing and my nose was running nonstop.

I had felt like this a few times before – during all the biochemicals and early miscarriages. But I KNEW this was going to be different. You were strong – the strongest of your siblings, the first to develop, and the only one fully hatched and actually waiting on us the morning of the transfer. I know you wanted this as badly as your daddy and me.

I waited four days to test, which from what I’ve read is the absolute earliest anything will show up on an HPT, and only if you implanted the day of the transfer. Which you must have, because while faint, that unmistakable second line was right there.

I knew you were with me Friday, August 31. I told you great things happen for your daddy and me in August.

I showed your daddy the test, but I woke him up, and he didn’t have his glasses on, and he didn’t exactly know what he was looking at. But over the next couple days as that second line got darker and darker, and I started getting super exhausted and even more lightheaded, even he was convinced. We finally had our miracle rainbow baby growing inside of me.

Our first beta test was the following Wednesday, and you knocked it out of the park. 341. Two days later it was 605, then 1442. I called your Bo and she was so happy, she started crying right in the middle of an El Paso Target.

I’m pregnant. It’s so magical and wonderful and just saying those words gives me such joy. I’m pregnant, and your daddy and I will get to meet you in a little over 34 weeks. You are our miracle.

I already know so many things about you. I know you are super strong and independent. I know that you are healthy, and right now you’re about the size of an orange seed. And I know that you don’t have much of a sweet tooth, because I haven’t wanted sweets of any kind since the transfer.

Or coffee. I guess you’re finally going to be the one who gets this mama to kick her coffee habit.

Most of all, I know that you are so incredibly loved. Not just by me and your daddy, but by your Nana and Pappy, and your Bo and Sharkey, and by all of your aunts and uncles and cousins. Your daddy and I are so incredibly lucky to have so many people in our lives who love us, and by extension, you. We may not all be related by blood, but genetics don’t matter. We are family.

Welcome to ours.

Love always,

Your Mama

Dear Baby,

I know I start off every letter like this, but I’ve been thinking about you so much lately. I feel so, so close to you.

The thing is, I know in my heart you’re waiting for me at the clinic in Encino. You, and maybe one of your siblings if we’re really, really lucky. Luck hasn’t been on our side through any of this, so I have to believe that the tide is changing, and it’ll be good news from here on out.

Once I realized my strength, my entire outlook changed. I don’t see failure as our only option any longer. And I’m not scared of it any more.

This could be our time. August has always been good to your daddy and me: we were engaged on this day, August 26, six years ago. We adopted your kittycat sister Charley in August. We’ve moved into two different homes in August (one just a couple weeks ago). So if big, important events happen for us in this waning summer month, why shouldn’t we get pregnant with you?

I wasn’t planning on writing to you about any this, because the “what if” alarm was sounding in my head. What if this doesn’t work? What if the transfer fails? What if we still don’t find you? I didn’t want to get your hopes up… which sounds silly as I write this, but I know that you’re out there looking for me, too. Your soul; your spirit is just waiting for a host.

This is farther than we’ve ever come. I am literally one day away from having you transferred to my womb, and that is to be celebrated.

I need to start from the beginning.

On August 6, I started taking medication to prepare my body for a pregnancy. On August 16th, I went in for a checkup, and because nothing is ever easy with us, my lining – the little bed where you’ll snuggle into and start to grow and gather nourishment from me – that lining wasn’t thick enough to allow for any of that. So we almost had to call everything off and try again with different medicine.

But something told me this was OUR month. So we waited five more days, I kept taking my medicine, and I went back in for a check up.

And guess what? Even though I had braced myself for a delay, and my doctor and I discussed alternate medication before she even started the ultrasound, and I was okay with waiting, we were both surprised to see a perfectly thick lining waiting there for you.

So we moved forward. The next day, Aug 22nd, your dad and I went to the clinic and signed a bunch of papers, paid all of our fees, and dropped off your dad’s contribution. After we left, they pulled our cohort from storage and began the process of thawing and fertilization.

And just like that, your host was created. In fact, you and a couple of your siblings were created. Every single ovum survived their thaw, even though the egg bank’s success rate is only 90%. Then, every single ovum fertilized, even though the average success rate is only 80%. We went from having 8 frozen ova to having 8 developing embryos in a matter of hours.

This is the first time in our entire journey that we’ve beaten the odds in our favor. And that, my baby, is a miracle.

However, while I wholeheartedly believe in miracles, I also understand science. I understand that not every egg in a woman’s body is capable of turning into a baby. If this were true, your daddy and I would have found you long ago. Only the best of the best are even released during ovulation, and only super strong, Navy SEAL eggs turn into embryos. After those become embryos, only super elite ninja warrior SEALs develop into blastocysts and, eventually, babies.

I understand that this entire process is part science, part miracle, and completely fascinating. I understand that having eight embryos guarantees nothing. When your dad and I tried this ourselves, we had a total of 29 eggs; 12 became embryos, and absolutely zero survived.

Nothing. Is. Guaranteed.

But we’ve beaten the odds once this month, and I know we can do it again.

They grade the quality of embryos on two main factors: how many cells they are comprised of and how fragmented they look. On day 3, healthy embryos should contain 6-10 cells. Obviously, the more the merrier, but everyone develops at their own pace, even in vitro. They are also ranked Good, Fair, and Poor, with plus or minus rankings. Best critter ever would be a 10cell, Good quality embryo. And those guys are super rare. Like finding a unicorn.

And again, I understand that not all embryos are Navy SEALs or ninja warriors. That’s purely science. So when my doctor told me yesterday that we have one 8cell, Good quality warrior, three 7-9cell, Fair quality Navy SEALs, and four 6-8cell, Poor quality struggling infantrymen… I wasn’t – I’m NOT – discouraged.

I know that one of those Fair or even the Good embryo is you. You are alive, baby. Right now. You exist.

Tomorrow, we transfer one of those little guys inside of me, and with a little luck and one HUGE miracle, that little warrior will grow into you. Our perfect little baby.

If not tomorrow, we’ll try again. And again and again and again, until science and the divine come together and I can hold you in my arms. We should have four chances, possibly more. It’s not uncommon for embryo grading to change between day 3 and 5.

Whatever happens, I’m ready for it. I’ve waited so long for this moment, and we’ve come so very, very far.

I know I’ll be seeing you soon.

Love,

Mom

Dear Baby,

I want to talk to you for a bit about strength, and what it means to be strong.

Throughout this entire journey, my friends and family have always admired “my strength” or told me to “be strong” and honestly, I haven’t had the slightest idea what they were talking about. I’ve never imagined myself as a strong person. Over the last several years, I’ve cursed and I’ve cried; I’ve felt helpless and alone, and I’ve had this crazy idea that the world was swallowing me whole. I’ve never associated those characteristics with that of a strong person.

I regarded myself as weak; an impuissant shell of who I once was, and I would cringe when others called me anything other than an unmitigated disaster. It seemed so hypocritical to acknowledge the strength others saw in me, because I couldn’t see what they were talking about. I felt like a fraud, and I hated myself for that.

But recently, I had a long talk with someone about you. About how the closer we get to a transfer, the more terrified I am about failure. About how I don’t have a plan if this fails. Not a plan for our next steps in the process; that’s simple. I don’t have a plan for my life. If this doesn’t work, I don’t know how I’ll move on.

Because this is it. I don’t know what I’ll do with myself if this fails again. I honestly don’t know how I’ll survive another loss, and that makes me feel so weak and broken.

So she and I started talking about strength, and about how having doubts and fears and experiencing sadness isn’t a sign of weakness. We’re all human, and just by existing, we are faced with a wide range of emotions all the time, and it’s how we deal with those thoughts and feelings that define us.

This was a foreign concept to me. I thought I was weak, because I often cry for you, and my heart is broken, and I don’t feel whole. But she made me see this isn’t all that I am, and it’s really changed my entire way of thinking.

Yes, there are some days I feel like I can’t go on. But I do.

There are some days I miss you so much that I don’t want to get out of bed. But I do.

There are some days when I must surrender to the thoughts in my head, and I cry until I can’t catch my breath. But then…I do. And I dry my tears, blow my nose, change out my gunked-up contacts for a fresh pair, and I move on.

She helped me realize that THIS is strength. The actions I take when I feel so lost and hopeless are what define me. And for the first time in this eleven year journey – I feel strong enough to find you.

I feel strong when I get out of bed and make a cup of (now decaffeinated) coffee. I feel strong when I get dressed and head in to work. I feel strong when I’m at work, and I’m performing at my best and getting projects finished.

I’m strong when I go to birthday parties and brunches with my friends instead of drowning in my own fears. I’m strong when I clean my house and cook dinner, or when I bake and decorate those cupcakes that my friends and coworkers rave about. And I’m strong when I put on my gym clothes and work out, even though that little voice in my head just wants me to sit on the couch with a glass of wine and feel sorry for myself.

This has changed my entire philosophy, Baby. I don’t feel weak anymore. I never realized the strength there was in determination.

Because that’s it – all these years I’ve been determined to find you. I’ve been hurt and broken down and defeated time and time again, but I’ve gotten back up and moved on – and now I feel so proud of how far I’ve come.

Eleven years is an incredibly long time to go through hell, and I see now that I could have let it beat me. I could have given up at any time. After the miscarriages, after the IUIs, after the first or second IVF. But I didn’t. I’ve lost every single battle along the way, Baby, but I know now that I’m going to win this war. Because I’m strong.

I. Am. Strong. It feels so good to finally believe that.

I don’t know if this transfer is going to work. There are a thousand little steps we must take before I get a positive beta or before I hear your heartbeat. Before I feel you move inside me. And then, there are a thousand more before your daddy and I get to hold you for the first time. But I’m facing those steps head on, and I won’t let them defeat me.

Yes, I’m sure it’ll crush me if it doesn’t work. And yes, I’m terrified that it won’t. I’m terrified that it’ll never work; that something will always come along and push the finish line, like it has time and time again. Sometimes – a lot of the time, actually – I have difficulty seeing a future with you in it.

But I will never stop looking for you. I will never give up, and now for the first time I see the strength in my own determination. If this transfer doesn’t work, I will pick myself up, dry my tears, and move on. It’ll be a devastating blow, but I’ll get through it. Because I am strong.

We’ll try another transfer until we’re out of donor eggs. If none of them take, we’ll find donor embryos. If those don’t work, we’ll move on to foster care or adoption. We will find you. I am determined to find you. I am strong enough to find you.

My all-time favorite television show is The West Wing, a political drama that focused around a democratic President Bartlet. After every cabinet meeting, after every hostage negotiation or assassination attempt, after every victory or defeat, Bartlet would take a deep breath, collect himself, and ask, “Okay. What’s next?”

I always admired his strength and determination, and couldn’t see how he was able to carry on, other than the fact that he was a fictional character in a fake, albeit well written, storyline. It’s funny now, looking back over these past eleven years, to see that’s exactly what I’ve been doing.

What’s next? OPKs and changing doctors. What’s next? Insemination, then IVF. What’s next? Human Growth Hormone and acupuncture. What’s next? Donor eggs.

There will always be a “what’s next?”.

This will not defeat me. You make me strong, Baby. It’s been your face that has kept me going all these years. My strength comes from you and from Jesus, and I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to acknowledge that. I couldn’t have done this on my own. You’ve been with me every step of the way, and you’ve given me strength I didn’t know I had. I can’t wait to pay you back a thousand fold, and be the best damn mother to you. Because I know now that I can. And I will.

Love you so much,

Mom

Dear baby,

I wish all this waiting was over. I wish these last several years hadn’t been so hard on your dad and me. I wish you were here.

I’m having a very hard time staying positive about all of this waiting. So many things have happened since I last wrote to you, and to be honest, I’m feeling pretty defeated at the moment. I haven’t written to you in over a month, but not because you haven’t been on my mind. Actually, it’s exactly the opposite. You’ve been on my mind so much that sitting down and putting the proverbial pen to paper has been too daunting a task, and I can’t focus enough to make any kind of sense.

The last time I wrote you, we had just found your genetic mom. Those words seem so strange to me, but I don’t really know what other way to refer to the woman who gave a piece of herself to our family. But I’m your mom. I’m already your mom. I need you to understand that, baby. You won’t understand the science behind everything until you’re older, but from right now, through the day you’re born and until the very last beat of your heart, I need to you know that I’m your mom, and I love you so, so much. I’ll always be your mom, and I will always love you. Genetics don’t matter.

I’ve fallen madly in love with you, baby. And it’s different than before. You are so very real to me now, not just an idea in my head. A very real, corporeal part of you is right now sitting in a lab just a few miles from here. And I love that piece of you the same as if I were already pregnant with you. The same as if you were already alive and in my arms. And this terrifies me, kiddo. Because I love you so much already, but we still have a long, long way to go, and there are no guarantees we’ll ever find you.

It’s not guaranteed that any of the little ova sitting in cryogenic storage will survive their thaw. It’s not guaranteed that any of those who do will fertilize and hatch and become embryos. And it’s not guaranteed that any of those will transfer well, or implant, or grow into a baby. I know this. But that doesn’t stop me from loving them just the same.

I’m terrified that I’ll lose you again. Right now, I can’t see past losing you, and it’s killing me. Nothing about this process has gone according to plan. Nothing has been easy. Time and time and time again we’ve been close, and we’ve had you pulled away from us. I can’t count the number of chemical pregnancies I’ve had. We retrieved a total of 29 eggs through 2 IVFs with 11 fertilized embryos and we lost them all. I’ve lost you over and over and over again and I can’t handle it anymore. I absolutely cannot lose you again.

I’ve been having dreams. Horrible dreams. The closer we get to a possible transfer the worse the dreams become. I’ve dreamed I’ve miscarried you. I’ve dreamed I was in labor with you, and having contractions and watching your heart beat on the monitor, only to have the contractions stop and the monitor flatline. And just last night I dreamed I was giving you your first bath and you died in my arms.

When will I stop being so scared? When will this end? I am trying so hard to be strong, and to hang on to hope, to have faith, to be patient – all the little well meaning but entirely overused platitudes I’ve been told for over a decade now – I’ve tried it all. I’m tired. I’m living in fear, and it’s exhausting. I’m so scared I’ll never get to see you, or hold you. I’m terrified I’ll lose you again, and it will break me. We’ve never been this close before, and the stakes are so much higher now.

I love you so much, baby. But I’m so scared you’ll never get to feel my love, and that will destroy me.

Love,

a very heartbroken Mom

Dear Baby –

We did it. We absolutely did it!! I haven’t had a chance to update you because I’ve been busy, but boy, do I have a story for you.

Last time I wrote you, your dad and I had just saved up the entire cost of a cohort of donor eggs. Which, while amazing, brought on an onslaught of issues I needed to address within myself. I had been looking at donor sites for MONTHS, Baby. I had found a few pictures of donors I liked, but a) we couldn’t afford to do anything besides window shop, essentially, and b) once I started looking into the donor’s files, her education and her medical history, there was always something that turned me off.

For example, I found a donor with my eyes, but every one of her grandparents had some form of cancer. Skin cancer, bowel cancer, and lung cancer. I could pass off lung cancer as the person being a heavy smoker, but bowel cancer? Absolutely not. And the fact that EVERY grandparent had cancer…she was a no.

Next, I found a donor who was my exact height and weight, and had my nose and these beautiful hazel eyes. Not an exact match, but close enough to leave me wishing we had the financing available. But then I read into her file, and both of her parents were morbidly obese, her dad was diabetic, and her grandfather died of heart disease at 40. I know obesity may be closely related to the foods you eat, but a big part of it is hereditary. And heart disease is definitely hereditary. So she was a no.

This went on for months. There was always something in her file that gave me pause, and your dad kept telling me we’d find someone better – someone perfect – once we had the money saved and were really ready to pull the trigger.

I didn’t believe him, honestly. I thought for sure that no one would be good enough for you. I had started letting go of my strangle hold on finding a donor that looked like me, but that let in doubts about looking down at you and not seeing my child.

But then, I was speaking to my therapist, and something snapped. I won’t go into the details of what happened (you can ask me when you’re older and reading this), but in an instant, I knew I was being too narrow minded. You didn’t need my eyes. You didn’t need my nose. And you for sure didn’t need to be stuck in a tiny little 5’2″ body frame. You could be your own person.

This was Sunday, April 22nd. I know the day because my session was particularly brutal, and so intense that I didn’t trust myself to drive home. Which was a smart move, because no sooner had I driven the 5 minutes to your Aunt Natalie’s house, I broke down. I had an anxiety attack and your poor Aunt Nat had to hold me for an hour and give me tea while I sobbed uncontrollably. So it’s embedded in my memory.

I didn’t trust myself to look at the egg banks that evening, or on Monday. But Tuesday, April 24th, I checked the sites again, and on this one particular site that had honestly never been my favorite – I spotted this new donor. She was brand new to the site. She hadn’t been there on Saturday.

She was beautiful, with a soft caramel complexion and eyes she called hazel, but looked bluish gray to me. She had wavy brown hair and was tall – man, was she tall. 5’10”, and a slender 170lbs. She was nothing like what I had been looking for, but something stirred in me, looking at her pictures. I… connected to her. At first I thought I was drawn to her because she was so completely different from what I thought I wanted, and I didn’t trust that initial connection. So I tried to brush it off, but…she was on my mind.

The next day or so, I sent her baby picture to a friend of mine and got the response, “is that YOU?!” So I took it one step further, and took her baby picture and mine, put them side by side, and sent that along to my friend. She showed it to her wife, and her response blew my mind.

“It’s a trick, right? That’s the same kid in both pics?”

I knew then that I was on to something, but I’d also gotten this far before. Looks, as I’ve said, don’t matter. And she and I don’t look that much alike as adults – she has the shape of my eyes and my mouth, but that’s about it.

But I opened up her file, fully expecting to see all kinds of medical issues, or see that she’s a first time, unproven donor – meaning that she doesn’t have any children of her own, and there are no reports of success with her donated eggs. I knew I’d see something that immediately turned me away.

But I didn’t.

First thing I noticed was how many aunts and uncles she had. She has a HUGE extended family, and while she only has one sibling, she has literally dozens of cousins. So that was a good start – no fertility issues in her family.

Next thing I noticed was that 3 of her 4 grandparents lived well into their 90s with zero health problems. Then I saw her mom was a yoga teacher and accountant, her brother was a nutritionist and life guard. Her dad owned his own company.

I kept looking for something to turn me away from this donor. She seemed too good to be true. Her worst health issue was slight lactose intolerance and she got heat exhaustion once during lifeguard training (did I mention she was also a lifeguard?!).

I was falling in love with this donor. I showed your dad and he was no help. His biggest concern was, “is she healthy? That’s good enough for me!”

Which, of course she was. As were her parents and her brother and all her family members and grandparents. It’s like every single health problem imaginable just…skipped over her family. She doesn’t even wear glasses.

Her family is filled with doctors, CPAs, an attorney, firefighters, life guards, yoga instructors, and one was in the armed forces. So not only are they super smart, but they are compassionate and strive to help others. These are good people.

I knew something was going to be problematic – she was a first time donor. So I called the egg bank and inquired about her cohort. She had two, each with 8 ova. This was incredible. Cohorts range from 6-8 ova, but most only contain six. Having a donor with not one but two lots with 8 eggs each was a huge step in the right direction.

I was still caught up on her being a first time donor. With my experience, it doesn’t matter how many eggs you have, it’s whether those eggs turn into babies. And she had no babies.

However, I read deeper into her file and saw that while she had no babies…she has had two elective abortions. She had gotten pregnant twice. I don’t know her motivations for those, but that’s not my place to judge. As much as I personally can’t understand going through with that, I’m not going to hold it against her. She had her reasons, and that’s all that matters.

What’s important is that seeing her two elective abortions made it abundantly clear that her eggs DO become babies. Easily. One could say, even accidentally so. This was great news, and pretty much all I needed to see.

I called and reserved one cohort of her ova, and asked if she would agree to be tested further to see if she was a carrier for lamellar ichthyosis, which is the one genetic condition your dad is a carrier for. It’s a pretty horrible condition, but you’d only be at risk if both parents were carriers.

She agreed to the testing, and we discovered early May that she was NOT a carrier.

Your dad and I were at Disneyland that week with your cousin, aunt, and nana Bo. But I got up early the morning of May 3rd, called the egg bank in Fairfax, Virginia…and purchased one cohort of donor 50226’s eggs.

And they became ours.

Shortly after I got the receipt emailed to me, I was overcome with this sense of peace and purpose. You are REAL now, baby. You’re not just a wish or a dream or a one day maybe.

I’ve started seeing you everywhere. Our baby. I see your gray eyes, and your wide smile and your broad forehead. I see your long limbs and your wavy, sandy blonde hair and freckles. I see you, and every time I do, I love you more.

Your dad always told me that once you were ours, once I gave birth to you, nothing I was worried about would matter any more. Well, he was right and wrong. You are mine now, my dear baby. You’ve been mine since I gave the woman at the bank my payment info.

It doesn’t matter one teeny bit that you may not have bluey green eyes or a button nose. In fact, I can’t wait to see what you do look like. You’ll be your own person; you’ll be beautiful and perfect…and absolutely 100% mine. And your dad’s.

We still have a ways to go to afford the transfer, so I may not get pregnant with you for awhile. But you’re already alive inside me. I can’t wait to meet you.

Love, Mom

Hi baby,

Big news. Big, big news. Are you ready? A couple weeks ago, your dad and I hit our goal.  Sooner than we expected which is crazy, but it’s my busy season at work and I’ve been putting in long hours.

We made it. We have the full cost of a batch of donor eggs, no matter which bank we choose. Now all we have to do is find you.

I thought that once we had the cash on hand, things would get easier. Or, at the very least, speed things up a bit. Nothing about this process has been quick or easy, but for some reason, I had this idea in my head that once we had the funds available, finding you would be simple. But it’s not. If anything, things have gotten a lot more complicated.

You see, these last few months we were working with the hypothetical. We didn’t have the means, so thinking about you was more wishful thinking and less of a reality. I would look at page after page of potential donors and find a young woman with whom I felt a connection, who maybe had my eyes or my nose or had my same likes or dislikes, and wish that I could click “select donor” and make you a reality. But a few days later, she’d disappear and I’d start all over.

But now that’s changed. Now all I really have to do is click a button and you could be ours…but clicking on that button is so overwhelmingly hard. It’s not hypothetical any more.

Long ago, I thought for sure we’d find you naturally. When we didn’t, I knew in my heart that we’d find you with fertility drugs and an insemination, but so many times that failed us, too. When we moved on to IVF, I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that we’d be parents soon.

But that didn’t happen, either. When we tried the second ivf with more drugs – and steroids, and acupuncture, and Chinese herbs – and then retrieved 17 eggs, I was positive we’d finally found our baby. I cried happy tears after that retrieval, because you were finally within our reach.

But you’re still not here. I’ve been knocked down so many times that it’s hard to imagine a world where we try something and come through it with a baby in our arms.

I know that nothing is guaranteed. I know that I could click that button and drop a small fortune on a batch of eggs…and still not find you. I don’t even feel comfortable calling a vial of somewhere between six and eight ova from a woman I’ve never met you. I can dream, sure, and I can hope beyond hope that this time, we find you…but the reality is, your dad and I aren’t spending twenty grand on a guarantee.  We’re spending it on a chance. We’re buying hope.

It’s not about the money, either. Time and time again we’ve pulled that trigger. We’ve already spent a fortune looking for you, because no matter how small the chance, the final result would have been worth every penny. I’d spend it all again twice over if it gave me you.

But it’s not about the money. Not at all. Clicking that button means I’m giving up on ever finding you naturally. On ever being your genetic mother.  I’m giving up on wondering if you’ll have my eyes or your dad’s.  On whether you’ll have one dimple like me.  I’m giving up on the chance to look down at you and see myself staring back up at me.

When we started saving for a donor, I kept hope alive that by the time we’d saved enough to afford one, I’d be pregnant with you and a donor would be moot. I didn’t want to believe that I couldn’t get pregnant, I didn’t care what the doctors kept telling me. But now we have the money, and when I click that button, I’m turning a page. I’m giving up on myself.

This time, I’m not dealing with a hypothetical.  We’re not paying for fertility drugs or hormone therapy or medical procedures. When I click that button, I’m choosing you.

Or, what could be you. What I hope will eventually grow into you. I’m deciding on half of your genetic makeup, which is a HUGE responsibility. I’m deciding what color eyes you could have.  What the shape of your nose may look like. Whether or not you could have dimples or big feet or a cleft in your chin. These are little things that I thought wouldn’t matter, but they do. They matter so much. I feel like I’m about to make the most important decision of your life, and if I mess it up, it won’t affect me.  It’ll affect you.

What if I choose poorly? What if, God forbid, you get some kind of childhood disease that I could have prevented if I went with another donor?

This may seem silly to some people. I’ve had certain people tell me that I’m lucky – I get this choice that natural parents don’t have. That I get to choose my baby. But that’s not true at all. I already made my choice. I chose your daddy. I chose to fall in love with him, and he with me. We chose each other. We could have each married other people, but we didn’t. We chose to create a family together. And then we had that choice ripped from us.

And now I have to click a button, and decide everything about you. And I know I won’t find a donor just like me. I won’t find a woman with bluey-green eyes and one dimple, who’s left handed and double jointed in her shoulder. I won’t find a woman who loves baseball and hates math and thinks Cheetos and chocolate are their own food group.  I won’t find me. And so every part of me, every part that I love and hoped one day to pass on to my child, that all gets left behind when I click that button.

I know it won’t matter when I hold you for the first time. It won’t matter when we’re reading bedtime stories or playing with Casey. It won’t matter when you’re off to kindergarten or graduating college. But it matters now.

I don’t know which donor we’re going to pick. No one seems to be a good fit right now.  But I do know that I love you so much. I want the absolute best for you, even if I can’t provide it myself. I want you to love who you are, and I want you to be happy and healthy. Those are the most important things. We’ll figure out the rest later.

Love,

Mom

 

 

Happy Easter, Munchkin.

Another major holiday has come and nearly gone and you’re not here with us. There were no eggs to hide again this year. No baskets of candy. No trips to see the Easter bunny.

I will say that I’m handling this a lot better than I handled last Christmas. I even texted my friend with the baby and told her that pics would be welcomed today. That they wouldn’t cause the same pain like that awful morning back in December.

So, why is the absence of you on another major holiday less of a problem than it was three months ago?

I think it has to do with how I relate to each holiday. Even though Christmas is a religious day, when I was a child it had nothing to do with Jesus’ birth and everything to do with family. My parents weren’t the slightest bit religious, but we celebrated Christmas.  It was a huge day in our house. My entire life, I’ve always associated that day with decorating the tree, hanging mistletoe, gift giving, making cookies, digging into stockings and watching football. Christmas had everything to do with family, and I looked forward that day, and the huge family meal, and the eggnog, and utter mess of our den on Christmas morning, with ribbons and bows and wrapping paper strewn everywhere. As an adult, I’ve kept that association. It’s a literal holy day for me now, too, but Christmas will always mean family. So not having you on Christmas year after year tears me apart.

However, Easter was just a day to go to the mall and hunt eggs. Sometimes we’d hide them ourselves, and my parents would always have baskets of goodies for us, but it wasn’t an event like Christmas was. My mom would sometimes cook a roast or a ham, but not always. It was just another day.

It wasn’t until I became a Christian myself did Easter really start to mean anything to me. But now it does. It matters to me in a way that has little to do with family and egg hunts, and more about my connection with Jesus Christ.  This is a very personal holiday.

Do I want to share this with you? Do I want to share in the joy of the resurrection and take you on Easter egg hunts? Do I want to give you baskets filled with goodies? Of course I do. But that’s not what matters the most on this holiest of days.

People have asked me if this journey has lessened my love for Jesus. The short answer is no, not really.  But there’s more to it than that.

I wish we would have found you by now. I wish this journey was over, and the three of us would have started another, much happier one together. I wish I was able to have children in the first place, naturally. I wish this wouldn’t have been so hard.

But I’m not mad at God. And I don’t blame Him for any of this. I don’t love Him any less for what He’s putting us through.  This has tested my faith, absolutely.  Countless times I’ve asked myself why He’s given me this cross to bear. Countless times I’ve cried, and I’ve asked Him just how much longer I had to wait to meet you.

And honestly, I’ve questioned Him.  I’ve gotten angry with Him and the utter unfairness of it all. That’s something I’m not super proud of, but I’m not perfect.  I’ve asked Him why He made this so easy for some and has made it so incredibly difficult for your dad and me.

But I have faith. And I think that’s the nuts and bolts of all of this. Faith isn’t a switch that I can turn on and off.

I have faith that He has a plan for me, and while I may not see it; while I may not know what kind of plan it is, I have faith that He knows what He’s doing. It’s not supposed to make sense to me right now. Maybe some day it will, but I’m not divine. I can see the beauty in the divine, but I can’t understand it. Yet.

And I’ll tell you something else, too. This is not a blind faith anymore. My eyes are wide open. It would have been so much easier to use this challenge to turn away from Him. To say, “He’s not answering my prayers, He’s not hearing me when I call, so He must not care about me. He must not exist.”

It’s much harder searching for answers and waiting on the Lord. It’s much harder to be still and quiet and try to hold on to something that seems so far beyond your reach. It’s much, much harder to not give up.

It’s easy to believe in a higher power when everything is going your way, and your life is full of butterflies and rainbows. It’s much harder to keep the faith when things are falling apart, and you’ve been punched in the gut so many times you can’t breathe.

But life is full of choices. And life is full of heartache. It’s never an easy road, but it’s how you choose to deal with what you’re given. You can choose to shut down, or you can choose to rise above and press on. I’ll never give up searching for you, and I’ll never give up on God.

I choose faith. I choose to believe that He’s still here, and He’s still working in my life.  I choose to believe in a God of miracles, and I choose to believe He loves me, and He’ll see this through to the end.

I choose faith. It’s really as simple as that. I choose to believe that one day, this will all make sense. And I can accept that day is not today.

One day, we’ll have you with us to celebrate in Jesus’ resurrection. Once day, we’ll dress you up in frilly little outfits and set you screaming into the lap of some fat man in a bunny costume for reasons I still don’t fully understand. One day we’ll dye Easter eggs and eat way too much chocolate and play Fluffy Bunny with Peeps. But that day is not today.

So today, I celebrate my love for Jesus. I celebrate with my friends, and your daddy, and I keep my faith that Jesus knows what He’s doing.  I’ve seen Him work so many miracles in my life, and I know that He has at least one more big one in store for me.

And I know in my heart that we’ll be together soon.

Love you so much,

Mom