Recipe for a Baby. . .

Here I am again, keeping my word. Making sure you get your daily dose of tragedy - your daily dose of abnormality. Why do I keep thinking, "It's normal to eat peanut butter."? Maybe because it's my baseline, maybe because it's the thing that reminds me of ALL normality. It's like having a family - that is definitely something normal. It's the baseline for the American dream. It's the main ingredient in the recipe of life, is it not?

Last year, my husband and I wanted to try our hands at creating a life. Sure, we had tried before, but something wasn't working. Something didn't catch. We decided, no, I decided, to march straight down to the fertility center. I went to the best, I like going to the best when I can. After 2 meetings and an x-ray, I decided the best was too slow, dragging his feet in fact, and I wanted a baby when I wanted a baby - like with everything - I want it when I want it or not at all. So the second best it was. They had a plan, they had a schedule, and everyday something was happening to get me a step closer to the baby I so desired for $15,000 plus the cost of medicine - none of which was covered by my insurance at the time.

And so we began. The first bit of news was the fibroids, one was quite large, sitting on top of my uterus like humpty-dumpty, an evil infertility causing humpty-dumpty, but still we charged on. Hormone shots every day - a cocktail of man-made medicines and human pregnancy hormones derived from the pee of women somewhere. . .

Every morning for a week or two I had 7:00 am ultra-sounds and blood tests. My arms looked like those of a ten year heroine junkie and my veins are thin, so they began collapsing. I didn't care - the pain of the ultra-sounds and shots and blood drawings. I didn't mind these things. I was willing to go as far as I needed to without risking my uterus and my chance to give birth. I was eating healthier, exercising relentlessly and going beyond my usual regimen, and taking vitamins I would have otherwise never had.

Finally, the day of the egg retrieval. It was a surgery, and I had to go under. My husband waited outside while 4 eggs were removed from my body. 4 potential little ones. 4. I went away satisfied. Happy that I could produce eggs and looking forward to them growing with the assist from my husband's semen sample.

7. 7 days later we had 4 well developed zygotes ready for transfer. We transferred 3 eggs that day. I knew, as soon as they went in that one, if not all would take. It was a maternal instinct. It felt awesome! Like I was the god of my own little internal world. Everything was like some pleasant dream. I worked, I loved, and I grew babies. For many weeks I watched as my belly grew. Then that instinct kicked in again. I began telling my husband I didn't feel them growing any more. My new obgyn was scheduled to see me in a few weeks. It was a waiting game. It was a torture.

I sat waiting in the obgyn's office with my mother and husband. My husband and I went into the examination room and we were still excited. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe a woman doesn't get that maternal instinct until AFTER the baby is born. How would I know? I had never been pregnant before. The doctor came in, joking, smiling, laughing - and then the ultrasound. I held my breath. I had been carrying 1, 1 dead baby inside me for about 2 weeks. To reiterate his point the doctor shook the ultrasound device inside me to show me how my baby was floating around freely. He said I would miscarry in the next few days. He was still smiling, still joking as my heart was breaking. As I faced one of my most exquisite personal disasters, this man smiled and laughed. I walked out and told my mother the news. We went downstairs, and walked out into the street - it was a beautiful day, the sunlight warmed my face, and I looked up into the sky and burst into tears. I cried hard for about ten minutes in front of hundreds of passerby’s. I nearly collapsed. But I knew, I knew. . . I was a failure. I couldn't do what millions could do, I was embarrassed, and I was ashamed.

I went home and laid down, crying as my husband tried to console me - but I was inconsolable. I told the baby, "It's okay, you can go now." and I relaxed my body. That's when the blood started coming. Then the cramping. There was blood everywhere for 2 days and the pain was tremendous. I travelled between the hot water in the tub and my rumpled bed. Pacing and crying and doubling over waiting for the end. On the second day, finally it passed and I caught it in a little plastic bowl and put it in the refrigerator. I was ill prepared for this. I didn't know what to do. I was in a place I had never been before. I was experiencing something I had no information on. No one ever talked to me about what was supposed to happen during a miscarriage or what I should do. I was lost emotionally and physically.

2 days later I returned to work, still bleeding and still in pain. I explained to my boss what happened through a river of tears and blubbering and he immediately sent me home. I called my fertility doctor and a friend, they both suggested I go to the emergency room - I could have "products of conception" still inside me which would make me very sick. I went and was treated. The pain was tremendous, even after morphine. I went home. My recipe for a baby was disaster - it was as though it were a planned miscarriage. . .

We buried our baby in a park, with flower seeds, and it was exquisitely beautiful.

(see yesterday's blog to read what happened next)

Tomorrow: A brother's near death experience