Uncle
I held up the strip to the light to see if I could see a faint double line. As the box advertised, results could be detected up to five days early. I did this for five days, every month, for fourteen months. My husband rolled his eyes at my compulsion and questioned my wasteful ways.
“You do realize that you’re literally pissing away money?” he asked.
“When you can get pregnant, you can test whenever you want.” I told him.
*
Test #75. Single line. Not Pregnant.
*
I reached out to a mom acquaintance from our neighborhood playground who had adopted two children over the past 5 years. Intuitively, I felt she might have all of the answers.
We met for tea and coffee on a summer morning, post-preschool drop off.
“Ok….So where are you in the process of it all?” Jane asked.
“We’ve been “trying” for 14 months and it’s not happening, and I don’t like the way the hormone pills make me feel and I feel like my body has been through a lot over the past six years and, to be honest, I kinda feel like I’m done but I think I want my son to have a sibling. Adoption has always been a possibility. Obviously, I know I’ve been idealizing so much of it…I was thinking you might be able to fill me in with a realistic picture…”
“Alright,” Jane leveled with me. She detailed the nuances of adoption, “You should start by scheduling a meeting with an attorney- I can give you the name of ours’- there are like three of them, total, in L.A, that everyone uses. I’ve heard they’re all eccentric- some are hand holders; ours’ is no bullshit. I think they all charge about $750 for a consult.”
Jane continued, “Look, you’ll know. We tried for years, I was pregnant, I did IVF, I was pregnant with twins, I lost them- and my husband said, ‘you let me know when you’re done- you just cry Uncle and we’ll be done.’ Finally, I did. I remember the day I looked at him and simply threw my hands up and said, ‘Uncle’.”
I left our coffee date still loving the idea of raising an adopted baby- but actually getting to the point of really adopting in the real world with real attorneys and real possible worst-case scenarios felt daunting to me in that moment. Was I a monster because I wished for a baby adoption to more closely resemble a dog adoption? Visit an organization, see which adoptee we connected with and simply bring him/her home?
We continued “to try” because we had familiarity with pregnancy. This brand of anxiety and discomfort and pain was a familiar beast. It was the devil we knew.
So, I continued with weekly ultrasounds and shots and blood draws and hormone pills and mood swings. Because I continued to think that I wanted our four-year old son to have a sibling and I didn’t want to wonder what if. It was now or never. And so, on this fourteenth unsuccessful month, we sought the help of a Fertility Specialist, Dr. H.
*
Dr. H brought us into his office and within moments, he covered his desk with a ton of yellow Starburst candies. He used this as an analogy for my good and bad eggs.
“The yellow ones are the good eggs and the orange, the bad eggs,” he told us. “This is what it looks like for a typical twenty-year old woman,” he explained,
He broke down the evolution of the good egg to bad egg ratio for a thirty-year old, a thirty-five-year old, a forty-year old and a forty-five-year old. More and more orange Starbursts appeared while yellow ones disappeared as he progressed with his analogy.
So, while I still had a lot of eggs at age 40, they could be mostly orange Starbursts. After some discussion, it became clear that IVF with PGS (preimplantation genetic screening) was our best bet. So basically, birth control, daily hormone shots, estrogen pills, egg retrieval , fertilize egg to make embryos, test embryos, more shots, more hormones, more birth control, more ultrasounds, more blood draws, and some more painful shots and transfer/implant. When faced with what felt like my version of a very expensive temporary hell with no guarantees, I decided that I am determined to get pregnant this month without the help of science.
*
I tried to treat this cycle like a normal person and attempted to resist testing until I was late. However, once I could no longer stand the anxiety I felt every time I used the bathroom, I impulsively rummaged through my cabinet like a raccoon searching for a slurpee in the dumpster. I held my bladder until I found that Clear Blue Easy box and tore open the package.
*
Test # 76. Double Line. Pregnant.
*
I stared at the lines in disbelief as I sat with my unrestrained smile in a bit of paralysis on the cold-tiled bathroom floor. I wiped the urine drops away, took a picture of the positive test with my iPhone, wrapped the stick up for keepsake in toilet paper and carefully placed it into my top bathroom drawer.
I shared the news with my husband, who was at his office, immediately via phone, without any ceremony.
“This is…this is… great news. One step at a time, but I’m hopeful. How you feeling?” He deflected.
“I’m excited!” The words impulsively came out. “I mean…I’m obviously hesitant…” I covered.
I told my entire inner circle immediately. And for the next two weeks I vacillated between excitement and fear- and everything in between.
And then I decided I was going to go for it. Go big or go home. I let my friends know we had permission to blow caution to the wind. We could talk about my due date and my hospital vacation and the hand me downs they kept for this baby. I commiserated with my pregnant friend and neighbor on our morning sickness while we also envisioned raising our babies together. My husband and I took it a step further. We decided on a name.
However, when our son would ask, as he often would, why his sisters were dogs while other people had human brother and sisters, we put on the brakes. We couldn’t tell him yet.
*
I was seven weeks, three days when we went in for our first ultrasound with the hope, er I mean, expectation, of hearing a heartbeat. After all of the heartbreak that accompanied our countless ultrasounds in the past, there was no faking optimistic footloose and fancy free for me. I got out my soothing mechanism- a Dum Dum lollipop, and tried to suck away my anxiety as the lab tech coached me to just relax. Dr. K, my OB of 5 years, scoffed at her request. He knew me better than that.
The lab tech inserted the wand, and the familiar shooshing of the sonogram began. Dr. K, laptop and stylus in hand, looked concerned as he got closer to the monitor and called out measurements to the tech.
“There’s the heartbeat…” He hesitated.
I studied his face. Something was up. “What is it?”
“It’s too soon to tell. But the yolk sack is enlarged. It can mean absolutely nothing. Or, it can mean that there’s a chromosomal abnormality. In that case, it usually takes care of itself- ending in miscarriage.” He sounded doom and gloom.
“I’m getting the sense from you that based on what you’re seeing, you’d expect miscarriage,” my husband said.
“Look, it’s really too soon. But it’s out of your control. Make an appointment for ten days from now and we’ll know more.” Dr. K hugged me.
“Thank you. Have a good Thanksgiving,” I feigned normalcy.
*
Ten days later, after eating my feelings in pumpkin pie, I laid on the exam bed, my feet in stirrups, Dum Dum lollipop in mouth, when Dr. K walked in.
“I’m rooting for you guys,” he said. Dr. K called out to the lab tech as he checked the monitor. “What’s the measurement? I have eight weeks, three days. Is there a…?”
The lab tech scrutinized the monitor. She shook her head no.
“What? What…. What is it????” I scream-cried.
“No heartbeat.” Dr. K turned off the monitor.
I exhaled. Lost hope and death. Dr. K hugged me while questioning whether or not hugs were still allowed in reference to the endless reports of workplace sexual misconduct. We briefly discussed Matt Lauer and scheduled my D&C for the next day.
In the car, I texted my mom and each friend individually, the same text:
No heartbeat
No heartbeat
No heartbeat
I screamed with the windows up, heat blasting. I drove home. My last night with my baby.
Uncle.
~Jessica Wright Weinstock