Author: Brittney

Dear Baby,

I never realized I was the type of person that could be triggered.  Which sounds odd, now that I think about it, because over the last few years, everything seems to have affected me in some way.  I just never considered myself triggered until today.

Let me start by saying that over the last few weeks, I’ve been fighting like crazy to stay positive.  I’ve been walking around with a plastic smile glued to my face, telling anyone who would listen that I was doing well.  I was better.  I was fine.

But I’m not fine.  This is hard, and pretending that it’s not hard any longer is actually making things worse.  Issues have come up recently that are knocking me down, and the more I struggle, the more I fight it, the more it tears me apart. I’m having anxiety attacks again.  My body is aching.  I’m having trouble sleeping. I finally had to shut myself in my office last week and just cry it out, because I wasn’t strong enough to deal with this any more.

It’s hard because we found out that the donor bank we’ve been in touch with, and have been setting aside money for, has just raised their prices by $1000. I can’t magically pull an extra thousand bucks out of thin air. I’ll raise it; we’ll set it aside, but the money isn’t the issue. The issue is that this delays our next chance of finding you by a month or more. I know in the grand scheme of things, a month isn’t very long, but we’ve been looking for you for over ten years now.  A month is agony.  I’m tired of waiting, and I’m tired of being patient.  I’m tired of getting so close to you and something coming along and moving the finish line.

It’s hard because we found out that your dad is a carrier for a rare and very serious genetic condition called lamellar icthyosis type 1.  This didn’t matter when we were going to use my eggs, because I’m not a carrier for anything, genetically speaking.  But now, since we’re going to try using donor eggs, we have to make sure any potential donors aren’t carriers for this, either. Which would be easy…if donor banks screened for it. But they don’t, so before we can move forward we have to contact the bank, ask them to contact the donor, and then ask the donor to undergo extensive genetic testing, which we will have to pay for. All before we can narrow down our search for you. Which adds even more time, and a greater expense, and pushes the finish line even further out of our reach.

It’s hard because I started talking to my doctor about transfer fees, since up until recently, I thought we’d procure donor eggs by April and I wanted to be ready. I have tests I need run, procedures to start, vitamins to take, and acupuncture treatments to schedule before we think about a transfer. I needed to nail down the exact cost of the medical procedures, so we’d know where that finish line was.  Because paying for donor eggs and paying for the actual embryo transfer are two very different races, with two very different finish lines. I had budgeted a set amount for my transfer, based on the cost of a frozen embryo transfer that I would have undergone if any of our eggs had survived.

And I was wrong.

A transfer from donor eggs has added fees – an egg thaw fee, a separate fertilization fee, that sort of thing.  My budget was off by nearly two thousand dollars. No telling how far away we are from that finish line, but it’s a lot farther out than I anticipated. I was hoping to be pregnant with you by the end of this year. I don’t think we can make it by then.

So, yeah.  Lots of things have been on my mind. And then today, I realize for the first time in all of this what it meant to be triggered.  Something happened that took an otherwise good morning and turned it sideways.

I told you social media is a cesspool, right?  And that you should stay off of it until you’re 40?

I should take my own advice.

I saw a video today of some guy trying to mansplain fertility in women over 35.  His “facts” were inaccurate at best, flat out wrong at worst. He was mocking everything I’ve been through for the last ten-plus years. He was trying to be funny, but he said that freezing eggs was a waste of money and wouldn’t work anyway. He claimed that research on fertility was based on women in the 1600s and had no relevance in modern society.  He had an “expert” – a woman in her 40s who had three children at age 36, 38, and 40, respectively, and therefore his thesis was that fertility struggles in women over the age of 35 were a bunch of hooey.

Was his expert a reproductive endocrinologist? Nope. A fertility specialist? Nope. Was she even a medical doctor? Ha! No. She was just a psychologist, promoting her book, claiming that there was no such thing as infertility in women over 35.

Normally, when I see things like this, I just skip over them. People are assholes. Social media is a cesspool, and people will say or do anything to get attention. But the person that posted this video is a very dear friend of mine. She knows all I’ve been dealing with, and has seen me struggle for years. She’s been right here in the trenches beside me.

She knows I have friends who didn’t think to preserve their fertility and are now dealing with AMH levels below 0.5.  They may never have children, and this video mocks them. This video mocks all the science I’ve had to endure over the last decade with my low egg quality and decreased ovarian reserve – that started well before I was 35.  She knows that my only chance – ever – of finding you is through frozen eggs, and her posting something saying that it was a waste of money and wouldn’t work anyway was a slap in the face.

And so today, I finally understood what it meant to be triggered.  I was having a great day, but for some reason I decided to check social media and spent the next several hours hurt, angry, and depressed.  I felt so alone.  If my dear friend couldn’t understand how this affected me, how could anyone?

There are douche bags out there trying to get attention who make a mockery of this pain, and the pain of all childless, infertile women out there, whether or not we’re over the age of 35. I guess it’s easy to laugh at something you don’t understand.  But laughing at those of us who deal with poor egg quality, decreased ovarian reserve, recurrent miscarriages, and abnormal genetic screenings – things that weren’t even considered in the 1600s – that’s just cruel.

I was triggered because it came from someone I trusted.  Someone who I thought had my back. Someone who I thought understood my pain.  Damn it, she got it. But she doesn’t.  And if not her…then no one else really can, either.

And that’s hard.

Mom

Dear Baby,

I’m in a weird mood right now. It’s about the roller coaster, and being stuck for so long on the top.

Let me start off by saying that I feel good. I’ve been in an upswing ever since I started processing my friend’s miscarriage. That rocked me pretty hard, but I recovered fairly quickly in the grand scheme of things. I’m so used to being in a deep, dark place for much longer, but that wasn’t the case this time. Her loss affected me, greatly, but it didn’t bury me. And I’ve been getting better ever since, which has put me in this weird mood.

I’m not used to being this happy. I’m not used to going days – weeks, now – without crawling into a hole and weeping for hours. I’m not used to actually wanting to go out and do things with your daddy and my friends. I’m not used to hearing of pregnancies and seeing baby pictures and experiencing more joy and happiness, less jealously and pain.

But this is where I am. I’ve gotten stronger, and while that should be a good thing…I feel like I’m waiting for the coaster to drop again. I’m waiting for the fall.

Because I always fall. This ride has been a huge part of my life for years, and I’ve never been at the top for this long. And every time – countless times – I’ve been at the top, I’ve always fallen. Lately, the peaks have gotten higher and the valleys lower, and every time I’ve fallen, it’s gotten harder to pull myself out. And that’s got me worried.

Am I setting myself up for a fall? Am I not allowed to heal, not allowed to enjoy where I am in life?  Am I not allowed to be happy if you’re not with us? There is a certain guilt that comes with this happiness. With being content.

I played with your little cousin this past weekend. He’s about nine months old and cute as a button. I was making silly noises and goofy faces, and he was giggling and trying to grab my tongue. It was the first time I’ve played with him, ever, that I didn’t end up crying and missing you. I was just able to enjoy my little nephew, my birthday buddy, and not be sad.

Which, of course, confused me. When did playing with him stop being so hard? Am I actually getting better, or am I not missing you as much as I have in the past? Am I allowed to play with a baby and not weep? Playing with a baby and being happy shouldn’t make me feel guilty, but here I am.

And then something magical happened, and that guilt once again reared its ugly head.  My dear friend at work is about six months pregnant, and she and I were talking in my office earlier this week. She put her hand to her belly because her little boy was wiggling around, and I put my hand on her tummy and he kicked me.

I felt him move.

And I burst out laughing. A genuine, exhilarating, wonderful laugh. I’d felt my friend’s baby move inside of her, and everything was perfect and beautiful and right in the world. No tears of sadness, just pure joy at the wonder of life.

It was only after she had left my office that my coaster dipped just a bit. It didn’t drop, but I sat alone in my office and wondered why I was so happy feeling another baby move. That little stab of guilt started poking at me. How could I be so happy and excited feeling another child kick inside of someone else? I wondered if I’d ever feel you kick inside of me.

And right there, I knew I would. I have to. Our turn is coming, baby. And I hope you turn somersaults inside of me.

Maybe that’s why I’ve felt so good lately. Because you must be getting close. I feel closer to you than ever before. But even still, this long period of happiness scares me. What if we go through all of this – again – and we find perfect donor eggs and pay for them and we get perfect little embryos and then we still don’t find you? What then? I don’t know if I’d ever claw my way out of that valley.

I’m almost expecting the plunge. And the longer I’m up here at the top of this peak, the more terrifying the drop. It’s exactly like a thrill ride, only not nearly as fun. I’m at the top, right before it tips downhill and my stomach leaps into my throat.

Or like watching a horror movie.  The protagonist is creeping around, and then the music drifts away and all the sound effects die off, and we’re sitting there in silence and we know there’s a big scare coming. Something awful is about to happen to our hero, but all we can do is sit and maybe cover our eyes and wait for it. I feel like I’m about to get blindsided.

I really, really don’t want to fall again. I want off of this ride. Then you and I can hop on the teacups at Disneyland, and twirl around together for the rest of our lives.  I’d like that.

Loving you so much today,

Mom

 

Dear Baby,

I feel like I’m on top of the world right now.

I told you that all of this is like a roller coaster, and it is. Lately, though, I’ve felt so good. I’m at the top the of the crest.

Today, I can look out all around and see things clearly, instead of everything flying by in blur, to my ultimate chagrin. I’m calm, and I’m breathing fresh air for a change. It’s nice.

It’s getting easier to talk about you, and I think a large part of that has to do with these letters. I’m not keeping you pent up inside of me any longer, and trying to write down what I’m thinking or feeling at the moment actually draws things better into focus.

I no longer feel like I’m in a fugue, where every time I try and talk about you it all comes out in a jumbled, sobbing mess. This is especially true with my therapist – I know what to talk to her about, and we’re able to work through things individually instead of me just sitting and crying for an hour.

I told you I’m getting better.

Another part of this upswing has to do with the crafting I’ve started. I’ve made close to thirty pairs of earrings right now, and I love it. I’ll sit and twist wire and string beads and when I come up for air, my head is clear and I’m content.

Only once recently have I sat down to craft and I just couldn’t do it. I couldn’t put you aside then, and the earrings I tried to create reflected that. Wires were bent. The patterns were uninspired. But even that, in a way, was helpful. I realized that sometimes, I just need to sit with you. My crafting isn’t a hobby, it’s more like occupational therapy. It’s not something I do when I have time; it’s something to do to help me heal. I can’t and won’t force myself to do it. But when I use it correctly, it works like a charm.

I spent some time with your aunts this past weekend, and I know that they are also a huge factor in keeping me at the top of this hill. It doesn’t matter what we do – it doesn’t matter if we do anything at all; spending time with those ladies always – always – clears my head and sends me to my happy place.

I hope you have friends like mine some day. Do they understand exactly what I’m going through? Not really. Do they always have magic words that can lift me up and draw me out of whatever spiral I’m swirling around in? Well, no. But that’s not their fault.

No one can truly understand this unless they’ve lived through it, and I thank God they haven’t had to live through this. And sometimes, there are no words. There’s nothing to say, and there are times when filling the air with empty drivel can exacerbate my pain.

Of course there are missteps. There are things said that, while well intentioned, they land wrong, or I construe a different meaning. But again, this isn’t their fault.

This is a struggle that no one talks about. This is a private pain, and when someone opens up and brings this into a public forum, there are no set social norms on what and what not to say. There’s no handbook.

But.

Your aunts are the best. We’ve been together nearly 20 years. We’ve seen each other at our best and cried together at our worst. We are family.

They may not know what to say, exactly, but the old adage is true: actions speak louder than words.

And they are always present in my life.

They are always there; a crutch I can lean on when I can’t stand on my own. I’ve needed that crutch more than clever platitudes and well wishes. They understand that I am in pain, and I know that seeing me like this hurts them, as well.

Just sitting with me on a couch watching Netflix with their tiny dogs snoring in my lap, or coming with me to the movies and eating too much popcorn with M&Ms mixed inside, or even those nights when we dunk snickerdoodle cookies in birthday cake vodka, because why not?? Those nights have helped me feel whole while I was crumbling inside. That presence in my life is something I’ll never take for granted.

They long for you too, baby. They long for a little neice or nephew; a cousin for their own children. And that’s what you’ll be, no question. You already have such a huge, loving family. I can’t wait for you to meet all of us.

I can’t guarantee that I’ll stay on the crest of this coaster indefinitely. We still have such a long way to go before we find you, and I know this ride isn’t over yet. But I know that we’re closer than ever before.

And I know that there are loved ones in my life that are right there, buckled in the seat and screaming next to me. And no one’s getting off of this ride without me.

We’re all still waiting for you.

Love,

Mom

Good morning Munchkin,

It’s been a long week. Not an altogether bad one, really, but I’ve been dealing with more than my fair share of highs and lows. I thought I got off of this emotional roller coaster when we had to give up trying to find you naturally. No more two weeks on, two weeks off; two weeks of happiness and hope and possibility followed by two weeks of loss, and misery and despair.

More and more I’m realizing that I’m still on this ride. The only difference now is that I can’t set a watch to it. It’s day to day, really. Hour to hour. One minute I’m hopeful and happy, the next minute I’m overcome with pessimism and doubt. I still feel awful every time another month goes by and I’m not miraculously pregnant with you, but it’s getting better. I have to believe it’s getting better. I’m slowly coming to terms with knowing we won’t find you this way, so the utter depression and hopelessness I’ve felt every month like clockwork for the last several years has been replaced with a kind of resolute melancholia. This is my new normal, and I know there’s nothing we can do to change this outcome.

When my doctor told me I’d never get pregnant with you naturally, it was like a part of me died. My therapist says she and her colleagues equate this kind of loss with the death of a loved one. The grief is the same. I was – and am – grieving the loss of you.

Someone once described grief to me as being in the middle of lake. You’re out there treading water; something comes along and drops a boulder into the middle of your world, and the waves created span out all around. First they’re huge; powerful enough to bury you beneath the surface, stealing your breath and knocking you down every time they pass. But over time, the waves get smaller and calmer; they’re still rippling past but they don’t swallow you any more.

And then, eventually, the water is calm again. The boulder is still there right under the surface, and you know it’s there; you can think about it and remember it. But you can control how and when it affects you.

That’s grief. You’ll carry it around with you for the rest of your life, but it will eventually stop hurting.

I’m getting better. I’m still just treading water; the waves are still coming but they aren’t knocking me down. They’re less powerful than before. Only lately, I’m beginning to think that my lake is sitting below a cliff, and boulders keep breaking off and crashing into me. I’ll think I’m getting better and then something comes along and I’m rocked and drowning again.

Last week when I learned of my friend’s loss, another boulder came smashing down. Not only did it create its own waves of grief, but it disturbed all the other rocks lying just beneath my surface. All the other rocks that have fallen on me over the years and have knocked me down – they all shifted just a bit, and the last week I’ve been treading in pretty rough water. Waves of all different amplitudes have been rocking and rolling over me.

I used to use baking as a coping mechanism, and it kept my mind occupied for a bit.  Baking was something tangible that I could control; I could focus on something other than my grief. I could create something beautiful while I felt ugly and broken inside. I still bake, but as I do – as I measure ingredients and pour batter into pans – my mind always drifts to you. You’re right there with me, grabbing at beaters and getting flour everywhere. Or you’re older, and baking with me while we’re in the middle of some deep discussion I’d love to share with you some day.

Even as I bake, even as I’m trying to steady myself and clear my head, you creep into my mind. I’m no better off than I was before I trashed the kitchen and left a mess to clean up. Baking has become my drug; I feel great while using – you are always there with me in the kitchen, and as long as my mixer is running and there’s something in the oven, you are alive and real, and I’m not alone.

But once it’s over, and the kitchen is cleaned and the dishwasher running, you fade away. Walking back through my empty house hurts so much more than before and my heart aches, longing still for the ghost I had with me. It’s no longer a useful way to control my grief, and I don’t need a therapist to tell me it’s not healthy.

I needed to find something to not only busy my hands, but to also occupy my mind. Baking has gotten so natural for me that I no longer need to think about what I’m doing, so I find myself drawn closer to the grief I’m trying to escape. As much as it hurts me to admit it, I need time away from you to heal, and to allow these waves to calm.

I’ve started making jewelry. It’s only earrings for now, but I’ve been doing it for a week and it’s working well for me so far.  My hands are busy; I’m creating something beautiful and something I can share with others. But more than that, I’ve discovered that between the sorting of beads and twisting of wires my mind is full, and there’s no room for you lingering in there.  When I’m crafting, I can totally focus on my task. For the first time in as long as I can recall, I can go for hours and my thoughts won’t drift to you. When I’m making the jewelry, your ghost can’t haunt me, and when I’m finished, I’m happy and less stressed. I’m not aching for something I’ve left behind.

This has an added bonus, too.  I always give away my cakes and desserts to friends and coworkers. I bake, but I can’t eat everything by myself, and I haven’t worked out getting the permits needed to sell anything.  It’s a costly hobby, with dwindling rewards.

But I can sell my jewelry.  I’ve already sold 5 pair, and I have an order for many more. I’m going to start an online shop, and in so doing, I can chip away at the expense it’s going to cost your dad and me to find you. Little by little, one pair at a time, this new hobby may actually bring us closer together, and I’ll be a little more at peace while we’re waiting for you.

It’s been a rough week, that’s for sure.  But I feel like I’m in a better place, and this week that has passed is one more week closer to you. So I’ll take it.

Love, Mom

Dear Baby,

My mind is reeling. If it weren’t for me being so busy at work right now, I’m sure I’d be sitting behind closed doors again, weeping in solitude.

But I’m not. I had a bad few hours this morning, but I got through it as best I could. I’m glad that I can talk to you like this; it helps a bit when I start spiraling.

A lot of things have happened in the last few days that are starting to bubble over inside of me. I don’t know where to begin.

Let me start with Sunday. Back at the beginning.

Every other Sunday I see someone and we talk about you. She’s the one who convinced me to start writing these letters, and she’s one of two people that I know who has found her baby through a donor egg. She’s more than just a therapist; the fact that she’s been exactly where I am means that she has invaluable insight and advice that ordinary people just can’t offer. I don’t have to explain to her what I’m feeling or what’s racing through my head and heart, which is great, because most of what I think and feel is impossible to put into words.

But she already knows. She’s able to help me not because it’s her profession, but because she’s lived it. She’s been through this hell and made it out the other side.

I honestly don’t know if we’re going to find you with a donor egg, but she’s helped me realize that in order to move on, it’s something we have to try. It’s a step that I must take before we look elsewhere for you. I can’t spend the rest of my life wondering if I could have carried you inside of me. Because I want to,  desperately.

So, Sunday. We hadn’t met since before the holidays, so I had to relive Christmas morning all over again telling her about it. Then we discussed my dream. The dream where I was at the hair salon, five months pregnant with you, but so sure you’d never come home. Where I was so adamant that no matter how close you were, you’d be forever lost to me.

She said both of these events stemmed from fear, and she’s right. I’m terrified we’ll never find you.  I’m terrified that we’ll never have a Christmas morning together or write letters to Santa. And I’m terrified that I’m denying your dad a chance to be a father, and that’s killing me.

But it’s more than that. I’m terrified that even if we do find a donor, I won’t be able to carry you. My body has failed me so many times over, I’m terrified she’ll fail me again. Because nothing is guaranteed, baby.  Nothing is guaranteed until you are swaddled in a blanket and wrapped in my arms.

That was Sunday.  On Tuesday, I got an email from a friend. Your dad and I are involved in a group called BabyQuest; it’s a nonprofit that helps people like your dad and me find their babies,  and it’s connected us with couples all over the nation who are also still searching for their child. Through BabyQuest, we applied for and received a grant back in June, which helped us afford our second IVF.

There was another woman who also got a grant in June, and I really connected with her. She had initially been diagnosed with “unexplained infertility,” the same as me. That just means the doctors have no idea why we couldn’t conceive.

She also had an appendectomy, which they discovered was partially responsible for her trouble. This gave me hope that maybe one day, we’d also find an answer as to why I can’t get pregnant.

She went through her IVF at exactly the same time I did. We had our retrieval within days of each other.

I watched this mirror of me have a successful retrieval when mine had failed, and transfer a viable embryo when all of mine arrested. She got her happy ending while I had to give up hope.

But I told you nothing is guaranteed. She found out over Christmas she was having a little boy, and over the weekend, at five and a half months along…she lost him. And I found out in an email on Tuesday night.

I feel like a piece of me has been ripped out. There isn’t enough hyberbole in the world to describe the anguish I feel for her and her husband. I wish I could say I can’t imagine how she feels,  but I can. I’ve been there, time and time again. I know the pain. The guilt. Worthlessness. Shame.

She’d felt him move and heard his heart beat. She’d known him for nearly half a year, and loved him all of her life.  And then she had to deliver him,  knowing she had to tell him goodbye before she could say hello. That was particularly cruel.

This was supposed to be her happy ending, damn it. This was the rainbow at the end of her storm. This was her baby.  Her miracle.

And this was hope for all of us out there praying for our miracle, proof that dreams do come true, and babies eventually find their way home.

But he’s gone now, and though she’s halfway across the country,  I’m hurting right there with her. Losing him at five months and so closely on the heels of my hair salon nightmare only compounds my fear that you – my happy ending, my rainbow, my miracle – you are forever beyond my reach.

I believe in God.  But sometimes,  I really struggle to find the purpose in His plan.

Mom

Good morning, Baby!

So, there’s some good news to talk about today.  It’s a new year, like I said.  I won’t tell you I have any New Year’s resolutions, because I don’t really believe in them.  I’ve made and broken resolutions in the past; life gets in the way and I’m unable or unwilling to follow through. I hate feeling like I’m setting myself up for failure.  Promising yourself to do something and then having it fall through is a double whammy.  So I don’t say things I can’t guarantee any longer. It’s counterproductive.

And I also won’t say that THIS YEAR will be the one where we find you. Or that THIS YEAR will be the year I get pregnant (and stay that way). I can’t say that. I’ve been saying that for the last, what, five years? At least. How far back should we go? It’s not a guarantee, it’s not even all that likely; and when the end of the year comes and we still don’t have you, it makes for a pretty crappy December.

I mean, case in point – you were with me on the couch this past Christmas.  Part of that stemmed because I was so sure we’d find you in 2017, and when it didn’t happen…it got ugly.

So anyway. I can’t and won’t say anything that I absolutely can’t guarantee, 100%.  So, I will say this:

Several years ago, I started working at a small post house in Burbank as an assistant editor for tv marketing campaigns. It was my first week at this new job, and the campaign I’d come in on was the film Legend of the Guardians. You’ll probably read this series one day, if you’re anything at all like me (if you’re like your dad, you’ll be reading Hank the Cowdog and Calvin and Hobbes comics, and that’s okay too).

Anyway, this started off as a series of novels about a bunch of owls who befriend one another and go on a long journey to find the Tree of Ga’Hoole, where all these powerful and benevolent Knight Owls live. These Knight Owls are like the Avengers of the owl kingdom.  Or the Justice League. They’re superheroes.  Champions.

So these ordinary owls form a group and they all go on this long journey to appeal to the Knight Owls to help them fight this army of bad-guy owls who are kidnapping and enslaving a bunch of owl children by hypnotizing them with the light of the full moon. It’s…complicated.

It’s actually a fun little series, but really, I’m way off topic. The only thing that matters is that these novels were turned into a movie, and in this movie – that I worked on close to a decade ago – the hero owls stop and ask this other owl for directions to the Tree of Ga’Hoole, and after the owl gives them directions, he yells after them, “when you’ve flown as far as you can, you’re halfway there!!!”

When you’ve flown as far as you can…you’re halfway there.

All these years, that particular line of dialogue – spoken by a cartoon owl in a not-quite-successful feature film – has stuck with me.

These poor owls were on an incredibly long journey and they felt like it would never end. Sure enough, when we got to the climax of the story, the young owls were so exhausted; some had fallen, others were barely hanging on – after this epic battle where they gave nearly everything they had – they were only halfway to the Tree of Ga’hoole.

I can relate.  I can definitely relate.  Right now, I feel like I’ve gone as far as I can.  To think that we’re only halfway through finding you has me so terrified. I don’t know if I have it in me to continue for another ten-plus years.  This is taking all of me.

But – I said that I had some good news, and I do.  The reason why I’m thinking so much lately about those owls of Ga’Hoole and their incredible journey is that your dad and I have also reached a halfway point.

When our second retrieval failed earlier this year, we went back to see Dr. Landay one more time, to talk about where we went from there.  I felt like I had lost everything, and in a way, I had.  I lost all hope of you and I ever being genetically related.

But I gained something.  Dr. Landay spoke to us about egg donation – how there are women out there who donate their eggs to literal egg banks, and how that may be an option for us.  A donor egg.

While we may never be genetically linked – I could still get pregnant with you. I could still feel you grow inside my tummy, feel you move and kick, listen to your heartbeat.  I could still give birth to you. I would be your biological mom, a miracle from an angel woman I’ve never met.

And so that became our next step.  We looked into egg donation and calculated exactly how much it would cost to get you from a donor; to have you shipped to us, and go through the transfer to get you growing inside of me.  It’s an astronomical, barely-fathomable cost for most people, but we started working toward it. It became my goal.  My focus.  My purpose.

And today, my sweet, sweet baby – we’re halfway there.  We have saved exactly half of the cost it’s going to take to find you this way.  We’re no longer climbing uphill.  The end is in sight.  YOU are in our sight.  If everything goes perfectly, we’ll have enough saved up by late spring, early summer at the latest.

I don’t make new year’s resolutions. And I know we’ve been down this road, or a road like it, several times before.  We saved for the IUIs.  We saved for the IVF not once, but twice.  Is this cost greater? Of course it is.  Is this road longer and harder?  You bet. But if the reward at the end of this is you, I’d gladly save up the cost hundreds of times over.

Most couples get their children for free.  I’m not talking about doctor’s bills and general baby expenses, I know that’s expensive, but it’s generally free for a mom to get pregnant with her child.  Nothing about our journey to find you has been free, or easy, or quick.

But I’ve gone as far as I can.  If this means we’re halfway toward someday finding you, then we’re closer than we’ve ever been before.

And I can tell you right now, the first series we’re reading together at bedtime will be the Owls of Ga’Hoole.

Consider that my very first promise to you.

Love,

Mom

 

 

Dear Baby,

I had a dream last night and I want to get it all down while I remember it. It’s not super hard to recall the sweeping themes, but details are already slipping away.

Some of it was silly; I was in a hair salon getting my hair cut or colored (or both, that’s a detail I can’t remember), but this isnt surprising – I just changed my hair again and finally got around to posting a picture on social media, so last night right before bed I was responding to all my friends’ comments. It’s not unexpected to be dreaming about a hair salon.

What makes it strange was that in my dream, at the hair salon, I was with a friend of mine, and I was pregnant. Big, round belly, and I somehow have five months etched in my brain, so I’m guessing I was about five months along. I can’t remember my friend’s face – another unimportant detail  – but she was also pregnant, about six months along.

Sometimes while I’m dreaming, I can’t see these details, like who my friend was, and for the purposes of the dream I don’t think it matters. I have a lot of pregnant friends right now. It could have been anyone.

All that matters is that I was pregnant, and my friend was pregnant, and we were together at a hair salon chatting with the stylists.

My nameless, faceless friend was so excited about her baby. She kept talking about her pregnancy, and the nursery, and her trips to Target to update her registry, everything. My stylist asked me about my baby…and I brushed her off. I told her it didn’t matter, I wasn’t preparing anything. No registry, no setting up a nursery, no planning baby showers…because my pregnancy wouldn’t last. I was going to lose my baby.

I said it so matter-of-factly, sitting there in a salon chair, that no matter how far along I was, however close I was getting to finding you…it wouldn’t happen. That even though I was so close; pregnant, five months along, big round belly – I still didn’t believe it would ever happen.

I guess even my subconscious thinks you’ll forever be out of my reach.

Let’s prove everyone wrong, okay? It’s a new year now.

Your mom’s feeling a little melancholy right now.

Love you lots, wherever you are.

Mom

Dear Baby,

I wanted to let you know that I’m not always sad and heartbroken when I think about you. I spent some time recently going through the last five years of journals, and I noticed that in the beginning, and even during treatment, I was on a roller coaster of emotions. Some entries were happy and fun and hopeful, while others really highlighted how long, hard, and emotionally draining this journey can be.

Then, after stepping away from writing about it all for a year, I came back and every post since has been really depressing.  I’m sorry about that.

I know that it’s been difficult lately, especially with the holidays, but I think it’s important to let you know that this isn’t always the case. I can and do think about you and not cry. I can and do play with my friend’s babies and have a wonderful time. I can and do share in the joy of pregnancy with the mommy-to-bes in my life, and I can laugh with them and touch their tummies and come up with names for their little ones. Babies are wonderful, magical, and they don’t always make me sad.

You are not a hardship for me.

The road getting to you may be awful, but that’s only because I want you so badly and I’m frustrated with everything keeping me from you.

But you. You are wonderful. And when I think about you – about my baby, and not my inability to find you or the unfairness of it all – I am unbelievably happy.

Today is a prime example of what I’m talking about. I’ve thought about you all day, but I’ve had a wonderful time doing it.

Let me start off by telling you a bit about this silly, amazing, perfect family you’ll get to call your own. There’s your dad – we’ve discussed him at length, and yet there’s still so much left to say. For now, though, we’ll move on to the other people who make up the Miller family.

You see, you already have four siblings. They may not be human, but they are our kids and will be your brothers and sisters. They didn’t come to us as a replacement for not finding you, but over the years, they’ve helped to fill the gaping hole where you should be. They’re more than just pets. They’re our children.

I’ve mentioned them before, but I want to formally introduce you guys:

First, there’s Charley. She’s the oldest at twelve. She’s a precocious little muted calico cat. She’s not overly fond of her siblings, but she adores your dad and me. Every morning, she’ll meet me in the hallway, and together we’ll head to the kitchen for coffee and treats. For a solid half hour, she’s in my lap and it’s just the two of us, starting our day together. Then, she’ll stay up late into the night with your dad, so much that when I snuggle her in the morning, she smells like your dad’s cologne.

Then, there’s Wesley. Wesley is a seven year old husky/bulldog mix, and make no mistake – he’s a person. He’ll be your big brother in such a way you won’t realize he’s another species. Wes talks to us, Wes runs errands with us. Wes has his own circle of friends. Wes goes to restaurants with us. He doesn’t realize he’s a dog, and we don’t have the heart to tell him so. He’s the smartest – and most stubborn – person I know. Above all else, I can’t wait for you to meet him. He’ll be a great big brother to you.

Next, there’s Harley. She’s six now, and tiny for her breed – she’s supposedly a rottie/mastiff/terrier mix, but she’s barely larger than a lapdog. Don’t let her size fool you, though. To quote Shakespeare, “though she be little, she is fierce!”

Harley is our protector, our security guard, and our queen. She rules the Miller Manor with an iron paw, and has more energy than all of her siblings combined. She demands playtime, demands cuddles and scritches, demands love and attention. She tries to pretend that she’s a heartless ruler, but she is the most affectionate little dictator you’ll ever know.

And lastly, there’s Casey. Casey is our biggest, but definitely not our brightest. He’s our five year old pittie puppy, and the sweetest critter you’ll ever meet. He’s got these beautiful brown eyes that will melt the coldest of hearts and a smile that will brighten the darkest day. He’s a lovebug, a gentle giant, and a couch potato. He’ll be your pillow, your pony, and your best friend.

I love them all so much. You will, too, once you get to meet them. The only thing that makes me sad is sometimes wondering if there will be a day when the five of you get to play together. I want that so much.

But for now, you guys go hand in hand, and when I’m with your furry little siblings, I can’t not think about you, too. You will fit right in with all the craziness, and it makes me so incredibly happy.

Like today. Today was Saturday, and since your dad and I were out later than usual last night, watching football with some friends, I slept in this morning.

Or, maybe I should say, I tried sleeping in. I hadn’t gotten up for coffee and snuggles with Charley yet, so she came in and got me. Which made me smile – I got to thinking about you,  and how there would be some Saturday mornings when you’d come hop in bed with your daddy and me before we all started our day.

Then, everyone except Charley went outside for playtime. I got another cup of coffee for me and one for your dad, and we sat on the back porch and watched the puppies play with new toys they got for Christmas. That also made me smile. One day, we’ll watch you play with everything Santa brought you.

But outside this morning, I noticed this wonderful spot on the corner of the patio – it’s partially dappled with shade from the branches of our trees, and would make an excellent spot for a pack n’ play. You’d fit right in with us, outside every Saturday morning watching the puppies run around like little hooligans. I could almost hear your laughter at their antics.

After I came in and did some housework, we went on a few errands, and then came home and took the puppies for a walk. Once again, I thought about how one day I’d be pushing a stroller with you in it while Wesley meandered along, stopping every few feet to sniff at nothing in particular. How we’d eventually graduate to a little red wagon, and then how you’d walk or maybe ride your bike along beside us, like the other kids in our neighborhood do with their parents and puppies. And then, I thought about the days when you were old enough to walk the pups by yourself.

I know that Wes, at least, will be long gone by then, and I’ll admit, thinking about that made me a little sad. But we’ll have other furry siblings for you, for all of your life. Maybe by the time Wes, Harley and Casey have left us, you’ll want to go to the shelter with us and pick out your own little brother or sister. And, once again, that filled my heart with so much joy.

We WILL be a family one day, baby. You’ll play with us and hop in our bed and come on walks with the puppies. I’ve got to believe that.

Think of you and smiling today.

Love, mom

(And Daddy, Wesley, Harley, Casey, and Charley Cat)

Hi buddy –

I’m better today.  Christmas was hard – way harder than I expected it to be.  For the few weeks leading up to Monday, I was bugging your Aunt to come out here, asking my friends to come to my house for Christmas dinner, thinking of inviting the neighbors over.  I didn’t know why this year in particular, I felt like I needed more people in the house for the holidays. Your dad and the critters have always been enough.

Until Christmas morning, where I sat in a blubbering heap on the couch with a kitty in my lap, writing to you.

Family is important to me.  Friends are important as well, because to me, my friends are my family.  I think I was trying to get as many people into the house as I could, so missing you wouldn’t have been so present in my mind.  This Christmas, you seemed further away from me than ever before, and I desperately needed something to fill the void.

But I sat there, alone, for the better part of three hours. With just you.  And Charley.

You know what got me out of my funk? Your dad. You are going to be the luckiest kiddo on the planet, bub.  I may not turn out to be the best mom in the world, but I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that when it comes to being a dad, yours is going to knock it out of the park.

I can’t wait for you to meet him.  I can’t wait for him to meet you, actually.  The look on his face when he holds you for the first time – it hasn’t happened yet, but the image is already burned into my mind.  God, I love your father.

Christmas morning, he found me right where we left off.  I was sobbing on the couch, my nose a swollen mess, my hair everywhere.  I didn’t have tissues, so my poor shirtsleeve was sopping wet with tears and slobber and snot.

But your dad walks over, and he sits down on the ottoman beside the couch, and he puts his arm around me.  And I just start talking.  I tell him everything I had just told you, everything I had written down, and you know what he did?  Nothing.  He just sat there, and held me while I cried, and rubbed my back and let me get it all out. I don’t know how long we were there. It could have been five minutes or it could have been an hour.  Time seemed to stop while he held me.  Finally, must have gotten it all out, because I had stopped crying.  Then I realized how sopping wet my shirtsleeves were, which grossed me out.  And your dad did what he’s best at.  He made a joke, and it cracked me up, and I got off the couch to go shower with a smile on my face.

This is your dad.  This is the man that knows the exact right thing to do at the exact right time.  He may not have all the answers, but he knows how to fix things.

I won’t say I was happy the rest of the day, but he made it as good as it could be.  We played with the puppies, they opened a gift or two, and then he and I opened our gifts to each other. The rest of the day was as non-traditional as he and I have been over the last several years together, but it was a good day.  I made a pie, which I somehow managed not to screw up, and we took the kids on a long walk.  I usually don’t go on walks with him and the pups, but I think he knew that I needed some air, because when we got home, I felt…good.  And when I started cooking Christmas dinner, I wasn’t frazzled or upset.  I’m a pretty decent cook, but over the last several months it seems like every time I’ve tried to cook or bake – even though I love doing both – I somehow mess it up.  My cupcakes fall.  I put too much salt in the spaghetti sauce. I burn the chicken.

Not Christmas dinner.  It turned out amazing.  We may not have had you around, but the two of us – and Charley, and your puppydog siblings – all ended up having a pretty great evening.

Maybe you’ll join us next year or the year after.  Maybe you’re out there right now, wondering when you’ll have a big family Christmas.  Maybe we’ll find each other soon.  I’d like that a lot.

Love,

Mom

Merry Christmas, Munchkin. Wherever you are.

Less than two weeks ago, someone asked me how I was handling the holidays.  I said I was fine.  And I was…until this morning. Now, I’m not doing so hot.

Last Christmas, even though I was barely a month removed from our first failed IVF, I didn’t think about you very much. I had just undergone an emergency appendectomy and was dealing with a terrible post-surgical infection, so I wasn’t really myself. I spent Christmas Eve in the emergency room hooked up to IV antibiotics, so we didn’t really do Christmas here at the Miller Manor.

Your daddy tried. I told you he’s amazing, didn’t I? Well, last Christmas Eve, once we finally made it home from the hospital, I went straight to bed.  We had decided to forego celebrating Christmas, because neither of us had done any shopping or decorating, and with me pretty much confined to bed and on painkillers, it wasn’t going to be a lot of fun anyway.

Except, your dad is a wonderful, wonderful man.  Christmas morning, I woke up to twinkling white lights in the living room. After he had gotten me tucked into bed the night before, he stayed up and pulled our artifical Christmas tree out of storage. He didn’t put all the decorations on it, but waking up to a naked Christmas tree, covered in only the white lights that came with it, filled me with so much love.

We ate leftover tamales and watched the puppies play all afternoon. He’d even wrapped up silly little “gifts” from things lying around the house – a sock, a half-eaten dog toy – so there would at least be something under the tree Christmas morning, to me, from the pups. He knew exactly what to do to make me forget my pain and laugh out loud for the first time in weeks. It was perfect. I’m pretty sure that was the best Christmas I’ve ever had.

And now, a year has passed. Once again, I’m just a few short months removed from another failed IVF. This is the first Christmas dealing with the very real possibility that we may never find you. When our doctor told us that we shouldn’t try IVF again – that there is something wrong with me on a cellular level, and I would never get pregnant with my genetic baby, I was consumed by the all-encompassing “I’ll never be a mom.” That if we ever did find you, it would take years and years, and buckets of money, and a string of miracles, just to hold you in my arms. As time has passed, though, I’ve started to realize all of the little nuanced “nevers” that not being a mom also entails.

Little things, silly things that most moms either complain about or take for granted.  Spit up on a new shirt. Diaper blow outs. Temper tantrums.

We’ll never have a bath time ritual. We’ll never have storytime at night. I’ll never blend my own green beans in a baby bullet and have them spat in my hair.

I’ll never send a baby off to kindergarten. I’ll never help her with homework. I’ll never teach him to drive. I’ll never attend a high school or college graduation, swelling with pride.

And today – especially today –  I realize that we’ll never leave cookies out for Santa. We’ll never stay up into the wee hours on Christmas Eve, making sure all the presents are wrapped before sunrise. We’ll never see the delight on a child’s face when they come in, pajama-laden, and look at all that Santa left for them.

Your dad and I will always just have quiet Christmases with puppies.

No cookie making. No big family meals. No traditions to pass down.

I started off this Christmas like always. I got a cup of coffee and closed the door to the bedroom, so your daddy and the pups could sleep in. Then I gathered all the little gifts we’d gotten the pups and Charley and sat down on the floor to wrap them.

You see, Santa doesn’t visit the Miller Manor just yet. Since the puppies are over-eager little hooligans, we can’t just leave wrapped presents under the tree, as they’ll get into them and argue over which ones are theirs. So that leaves Christmas morning, before they wake up and start wiggling, to wrap puppy toys and stuff stockings with cookies and treats. Which – I guess that does add a small element of “seeing delight on a child’s face,” because when the puppies see their presents they do get super excited. But it’s not the same.

Anyway. I got my coffee and sat down to wrap the toys and treats…and my mind immediately drifted to you. I couldn’t help it. It’s not something that I can control. You consume my thoughts, especially when I’m having a quiet moment to myself.  And I’m sitting here on the floor in our dining room trying to wrap a big bag of Greenies kittycat treats for Charley and all of a sudden, the house feels so cold and empty. I feel completely and utterly alone.

So here I am. I barely made it through the wrapping before I had to move to the couch.  Charley’s here in my lap, and she’s helping a bit (kitty cuddles always help), but I have no desire to get off of this couch and start the rest of my day. Little traditions I’ve tried to set in place over the years to bridge the gap between being a child and having one. There are desserts to make, and pies to take to the neighbors, and phone calls home I need to place. I need to go wake up your daddy, but I’m just sitting here with you, and Charley, and a massive heartache.

I’m so lost.  I miss you so much and we’ve never even met. I long for you. I don’t know if there’s ever a Christmas in my future with you in it. And now I’m getting Merry Christmas texts from friends,  and it’s making things worse.

Someone thought it’d be a great idea to send me a picture of their new baby wearing a Santa hat just a few minutes ago. I tried to smile through it – I sent her a pic of Charley in my lap, because that’s all I could do. I don’t even feel like wishing anyone Merry Christmas, because I don’t feel merry. It doesn’t even feel like Christmas.  How can I even say those words when I just want to lock myself in a dark hole and stay there?

Seeing her smiling baby today was the absolute last thing I needed. Was he cute?  Sure.  But why does she get to be so happy? I understand that she wants to share her happiness, but why today? Why send me something that she knows will break my heart into pieces on what’s supposed to be the happiest day of the year?

How long until a picture of a giggling baby in a Santa hat doesn’t ruin my entire morning? How long must I go on wondering if I’ll ever find that level of happiness? How long until we find you? How long until I really believe in Merry Christmases?

Today is one of the holiest days of the year, and I should be rejoicing in the birth of Jesus, but I’m ashamed to admit that I’m sitting here,  on the celebration of His birth…and I feel so far away from Him. There’s a voice shouting Psalm 13 in my head and I can’t shut it out.

How long, oh Lord, will you forget me? How long will you hide your face from me? How long must I wrestle with this and have sorrow in my heart? 

I’m sorry, kiddo.  Your mom isn’t doing very well today.

Love,

me