Powdered Ham

When I worked at the abortion clinic, people asked me if I ever felt angry or jealous, seeing all those fertile women giving up their pregnancies. I didn't. After all, if you're pregnant and you don't want to be, it sucks.

Before I'd call a client in for counseling, I reviewed her file, always glancing at the glossy little black and white ultrasound print-outs. Every now and then, I would see the ragged image of a miscarriage in the works. Once, the static starry-sky pattern of a molar pregnancy. In these cases, I'd read the nurse's notes and prepare to discuss them with the client. But usually, I found myself looking at the white shrimp-like blob of a growing fetus inside the dark abyss of an amniotic sac -- A healthy pregnancy. And that's when I'd feel it: a dull pang of longing.

I never got around to ultrasound with my second miscarriage, but I had two with the first. All you could see in the first was the little black hole, the sac in which a pregnancy would, presumably, grow. But it never happened. Several weeks later, the second confirmed what, by that time, I suspected, dreaded, knew: miscarriage was imminent.

Yesterday afternoon, I met J~ at the obstetrician's office. We sat holding hands in the waiting room, taking deep breaths, thumbing through a cooking magazine together. One of the recipes called for, of all things, "powdered ham." I wanted to throw up. Nerves? Pregnancy? I didn't know.

A nurse led us to the couch in the doctor's office. Assuming we wanted to check them out, she offered to tell us about the practice. "Actually," I told her, "the main reason we're here is to get the results from hCG tests." Surprised, she admitted the reports were not in my file. She left to call the lab about a fax. More deep breaths for J~ and I. She returned, reporting results were on the way. In the meantime, she launched into an introduction to the practice. beginning by listing numbers of doctors, midwives--

"I'm sorry," I interrupted, "I'm not able to concentrate on what you're saying." I briefly explained my history, my fears, my desire to hear the lab results first.

Finally, Dr. A~ appeared, and introduced himself. He sat, opened my file, clicked his pen to the ready position. "Let's see," he drawled, flipping pages, "I've got just a few questions for you."

"Can't you tell us the numbers first?" Meekly, I said this. Shaking.

"Well, okay," he shrugged, surprised, but, thankfully, understanding. He shuffled his papers, and then, before telling us, held up a warning hand and said, "I don't know."

Monday: 22153
Wednesday: 29156

My heart sank. I wasn't shaking anymore. I was numb. I looked at J~ and shook my head. Not good. Everything I'd read indicated that hCG levels should be doubling at least every three days. But at this rate, mine would take five.

The doctor was quick to say this doesn't mean much. Doubling rates slow, eventually. An ultrasound would give far more accurate information. "Your numbers are high enough that we should see a heartbeat."

"Can we do one today?" I was literally at the edge of my seat.

"Yes," Dr. A~ smiled. I sighed, relieved. He laughed. "Now can I ask you some questions?"

He clicked his pen again, collected some medical history, and then he, the nurse, J~, and I, trundled off down the hall.

There was a monitor mounted to the ceiling. In the dimly lit room, our eyes were glued to it well before the ultrasound wand was near my vagina. After some initial fumbling something came into view (Dr. A~ was like a nervous teenager with that thing, poking further and further from the mark -- I finally offered to put it in myself). Finally we saw it: the white shrimp-like blob of a fetus inside the dark abyss of an amniotic sac. A rapid flicker. "See that?" the doctor exclaimed. "Can't ask for better than that!" The nurse gasped (she later told us she'd had goosebumps, a chill up her spine). J~ drew in his breath, squeezed my hand. I corralled my tears, holding out for measurements. "How far along are you," Dr. A~ asked, clicking his mouse over the image, "six weeks, four days?"

I nodded.

"It measures exactly six weeks, four days."

Hello, waterworks.

I am sitting at the computer this morning in my bathrobe, with my Chinese herb tea and toasted rice bread, prepared by J~, and my very own collection of glossy black and white ultrasound print-outs, all contained in a cheesy little folder labeled, Baby's First Pictures.

Baby?

J~ and I went out to dinner to celebrate, couldn't stop smiling, laughing, shaking our heads, incredulous.

Baby??

I didn't sleep well last night, worrying over the hCG readings. But I found an article by Dr. Robert Warnock this morning that put me at ease, suggesting that once levels get beyond 6,000, it can take more than four days for them to double. "Once fetal activity has been detected by ultrasound," Warnock goes on to say, "the chance of miscarriage is usually less than 10%."



Holy powdered ham, people, I may be having a baby after all!

Looking Forward, Looking Back

At this moment, my stepson is in the next room, being the typical twelve-year-old: doing homework (i.e. cruising iTunes). My man is at his men's group, getting and giving that good ole manly support. I am just home from the gym, curled up on the couch with my laptop propped on a pillow, feeling content.

The only clouds on my horizon are my ex, who has basically dropped off the face of the earth, and J~'s ex, who errs in the opposite direction, sometimes calling J~ three times in a day, imagining she and I are friends or will become so, while going wet-noodle limp in terms of holding up her end of the parenting bargain. But she lets J~ know how much she appreciates all he's done for her, and how sorry she is for her part in the downfall of their marriage. I'm glad he's receiving that healing salve, but I can't help but compare, and it makes me sad. Could twelve years of relationship truly go down the drain with just a "Thanks for everything. Keep in touch"? I guess so.

Tonight I will prepare myself a peaceful, solitary meal (my boys have already eaten). I'll compose my Thanksgiving shopping list. I'll file a few papers, and, come nine o'clock, herd B~ upstairs to brush his teeth and get ready for bed. J~ will return and we will have, as he puts it, "functional sex" (as opposed to the passion-driven sex we've been having all weekend, our first alone since marrying two weeks ago). Tonight is prime pre-ovulation time for my menstrual cycle.

I looked at my fertility chart a few minutes ago, and noted that my next period will be due November 27th or 28th. If it doesn't come, I'll be doing a pregnancy test by the 29th. The timing couldn't be more perfect. Exactly a year ago on that date, I sat down and began this blog, still reeling from my recent miscarriage, unclear as to whether there would ever be another pregnancy attempt in my life.

I could have never predicted the changes this year would bring, not the least of which is that I'm happy, and that the question (Babies, or not?), as well as the mantra, (Doing well... Babies or not.) are still very much alive.

Slippery Slopes

After my second miscarriage, I spoke to a fertility specialist about what might be happening with my body. He listed things that might be wrong with me and/or with my partner, testing we (mostly I) could undergo, and what could be done if any of those tests revealed issues. "There is only a fifty percent chance of uncovering the problem anyway," he told me, and about the same chance that another pregnancy would succeed without intervention.

I went home to think about it.

I knew already that I would not undergo testing for the sake of reassurance, since nothing short of a healthy baby would convince me that I could make a healthy baby. I knew I wouldn't take "it's impossible" for an answer either. Haven't we all heard stories of miracle pregnancies on the heels of such dark diagnoses?

But what if they found something wrong and had treatment options at the ready? Where would I draw the line? There will be no injected hormones, no egg retrievals or donor eggs, no invitro procedures for me. I won't even use progesterone creams. Not that there's anything wrong with any of that. I congratulate everyone who's found success with these things. But it's not for me. If my body isn't prepared to make a baby, I don't plan to force it. Perhaps I'm too passive or too fatalistic, or too paranoid about western medicine, or perhaps I just don't want a baby badly enough, but this just seems like a slippery slope of financial and emotional drain.

There will be no first child in my forties either; I feel my age, my energy waning. I don't want to wait any longer. I want a child, but if it doesn't happen, I can move through the sadness and let it go. I'll find another outlet for my creative energy.

Less than two weeks after this became clear to me, in the midst of another baby-making attempt, my husband abandoned our marriage. It was painful, of course, but before long I was breathing a sigh of thankful relief for the miscarriages, for the fact that I wasn't pregnant again yet, and for the understanding that I would be okay child-free. It is strange how life can twist what looks like bad luck into good.

Of course, I know that the opposite is also true: what seems like good luck can also go sour. My "wonderful Mr. New Wonderful," as one of my dear readers describes J~, could lose his charm in a few months time. We could have a falling out. I could be pregnant and consumed by fear and regret. The practical thing would be to wait, to test our relationship further, to be less impulsive about it all. But I care very little for practicality at this point. My entire approach to my last relationship was practical. I played it safe for twelve years, struggling to elicit the kind of love and straightforward communication I receive easily now from J~. I was appreciative anyway, accepting of the flaws, and still, it blew up in my face.

I have no illusions that this new fantasy fabulousness will not change. Issues will churn up to the surface. We'll deal with them in our sincere and imperfect way. There will be added richness, no doubt. There might be unexpected tragedy, who knows. But it all comes down to this: I'm ready. We're ready. We're getting our house in order, literally and figuratively, and we're not afraid.

Speaking of being unafraid, I ovulated earlier than usual this month. This kind of unpredictable biological syncopation is exactly why they say the rhythm method doesn't work. We knew it, we risked it, and I have no shame about it. Yes, it would've been more practical to wait. But a week from now, if I discover that I'm pregnant, I won't be complaining. There will be hella logistical details to wrangle into place, to be certain. There will also be a great deal of celebrating to do.

Revisiting Miscarriage

After my second miscarriage, a dear friend suggested to me that I try to be with the situation in a peaceful way. "Everything happens for a reason," she said.

I got angry. I hated the idea that people who had miscarriages are subjected to this kind of seemingly easy dismissal. The true and only reason for my suffering seemed obvious. Because of some physical limitation in my body and/or his, baby-making just hadn't worked for us so far and maybe never would. Besides, I was in mourning. "I'm sorry for your loss," or "Is there anything I can do to help?" was about all I could take in terms of well-meaning support.

But my friend's point did not easily leave my mind. It seemed to beg the question, "Is it possible that deep down, you don't want to be pregnant?" After all, I had my doubts. At the time, it didn't occur to me that this might have had more to do with my partner than it did my desire to become a mother. I saw my doubt as weakness. Now I see that not facing it was the weakness.

It also never occurred to me that one day I'd be grateful for those lives that came into mine, with A~'s ambivalent consent but at my invitation, even though they only stayed for a short visit. It was better than never being pregnant at all. Because I no longer fear pregnancy, nor do I believe there's no fate worse than never having kids. (I could have been living proof of that right now, if I'd never miscarried.)

My New Hero. Period.

Two Short Updates:

1. I've just stumbled on Katha Pollitt, columnist for The Nation, and she is my new hero. I can't wait to read her books. She's smart and hilarious and she tells it like it is.

2. It's official. I have my period. Miscarriage #2 is officially old news. Now begins the monthly "Am I? Am I not?" daisy-petal briggade. Tune in next cycle as this zany adventure in fertility (pun not intended, but subliminally appropriate?) continues.

The Dilemma

My thought process about whether or not I ever truly wanted to have kids was somewhat stunted with my first pregnancy. I just wasn’t able to think about it clearly (I want to say “until now” but I’m not sure that’s true).

When I was seventeen, I made an unrealistic promise to an aborted soul that I would give her another chance to return. Soon after, because of emerging disillusionment about the mothering I had received, I had new doubts as to my own ability to properly mother. On one hand, I had already comitted to trying again one day, but I didn’t have a willing partner, so the point was moot. On the other, I didn’t think myself worthy of a child.

So now that I’m no longer questioning my worthiness and ability (I have a willing partner, and done some healing), now that I have two failed attempts under my belt and the ol’ clock a-winding down, I’m finally looking at the whole issue straight-on(ish), and boy, it’s still not an easy question.

A friend (J.) with a child via an unplanned pregnancy told me that, in a way, she's glad she avoided the whole family planning issue, because she expects she and her husband would have "talked ourselves in circles and would have never known the right answer." I can relate. I really don't know if I'll ever be sure. I don't want to enter into parenthood half-hearted, but I hate the thought of missing my chance. It's a real conundrum.

My husband is no help on this at all, by the way – he continues to say he could happily go either way. If only he desperately wanted a child, maybe then I’d ride his enthusiasm over my own ambivalence. Kids, after all, are so much work. And money. Don’t get me started on money. But on the other hand, I’m kind of glad he isn’t desperate for a kid, because that would freak me out.

As things stand, though, I can’t imagine us getting to the point of ever knowing for sure what we want. Just closing our eyes and playing pin the tail on the donkey, so to speak, may just be what we do, in the end.

One new development: I talked to my husband about taking on foster kids. It's something I've always wanted to do, babies or not, but he resisted the idea. Turns out, he didn't really understand how fostering differs from adoption. I explained, and now he’s kind of into it, actually. Surprise, surprise.

The Backstory

The somewhat condensed version:

At seventeen and a half years old, I discovered, unhappily, that I was pregnant. On one hand, the decision was easy: I was pro-choice, college-bound, and desperate to get away from my small-town upbringing and unhappy family of origin. On the other hand, the decision was not easy at all: I already loved the growing life within me, and my boyfriend would have been thrilled to marry and have kids. Everyone in our lives would have supported us, though at first there'd be a major scandal to live down. A very major scandal. I couldn't face it. Bottom line, I felt like I was doing the wrong thing, but couldn't consider the alternative.

I went to college, my boyfriend and I broke up, and then I dropped out and in and out of college, depressed. I did a lot of wandering around the country, supporting myself as an artist, craftsperson, musician, peer counselor, migrant farm worker, and all around odd-jobber. And finally, I went back to college at 31, to complete a degree in art.

Exactly seventeen and a half years after my first pregnancy, I found myself pregnant again. This time I was extremely happy about it. I had just married my love of ten years, and this was our first attempt at conception. But two months later, I miscarried. We tried again, but conception didn't come so easily this time, and I fell into depression. I regretted my teenage abortion, and everything else that had taken place in my life as a result of that decision. In the process of working my way out of that depression, I took a job as an abortion counselor.

And then I found out I was pregnant again. This one lasted one week longer than the previous pregnancy. I miscarried at eleven weeks, on Wednesday, November 9th, 2005, less than two weeks ago.

There you have it, the backstory in a nutshell.

Why?

I'll tell you why: Because the clock is ticking down. Because I've had two miscarriages this year. Because I'm still not done processing the abortion I had at seventeen. And because I still can't decide, though I desperately fear missing my chance: Babies or not?

Also, because two nights after my last miscarriage (on Wednesday, November 9 — ten days ago) I sat up writing until four in the morning, and then got up and wrote some more. The result: a 9,500 word essay covering every facet of my dilemma. Apparently I have a lot to say.

The fact is, just about half (49%) of all pregnancies in this country are unplanned, and about half of those (24%) are aborted. (As soon as I figure out how, I'll put a link to the source of those statistics here.) What with so many of us warming up to motherhood later in our reproductive years, I must not be the only one rethinking the choices I made way back when. And I know for a fact that some of you contemplating abortion are worried about finding yourself in my position.

I hope that by sharing my experience both at home and at work (while guarding the privacy of those I counsel, of course), I can be of some use to other women struggling with their fertility, or lack thereof. And frankly, I also hope that some of you reading this — and I do hope there are some of you reading this — will share your thoughts and stories as well. I look forward to hearing from you.

So so so SO much more to come....