Happy Graduation to Me

Friday, June 20 marked my graduation from the Radiation Therapy at the hosptial.

6 1/2 weeks over in the blink of an eye.

I got my certificate of completion signed by ’my’ team:  Steph, Maureen, Ann, Marie, Cheryl, Kelly, Sasha, and of course the good doctor.

While I am a bit unsure about the next phase of this journey – close follow-ups, anxiety around mammograms and other tests, and the feeling of waiting for the possible shoe to drop – I am very happy to have graduated and to have made it this far.

Now I can worry about other things, like why my almost 1 year old has stopped sleeping through the night.

French + Irish + Scottish + English = Adopted

To understand my husband is to understand his family.  His parents came up during the Great Depression.  His mom spent all year saving and siphoning groceries for the family vacation down the shore.  My parents would have taken the family out for over-priced Chinese food.

 

My husband was adopted.  He was adopted at 5 days old, by 2 loving parents, a bit older than the rest of the crowd in the neighborhood.  His brother, two years older, was also adopted.  Except for the occasional “Gee, I have no medical history,” inkling, he has no tangible curiosity about his birth parents.  Born before the Benetton explosion of multi-multi-culturalism in America, he was given an assignment in first grade, regarding Nationalities and Folk Ways.  “Irish people believe in Leprechauns,” the assignment began, “This is a folk way, or tradition.  Go home, find out a folk way from your family and heritage.”  So he went asking.

 

“Mom, what Nationality are you?”

“French, Irish, and English.”

“And what Nationality is Dad?”

“Scottish, Irish, and English.”

“And what Nationality is Craig?”

“Polish.”

“And what Nationality am I?”
”You’re Armenian.”

 

Fractions and subsets were not yet on the curriculum for first graders, but somehow he had his doubts about his next question, “So, French plus Irish plus Scottish plus English equals Polish and Armenian?”

“No, honey, you’re adopted,” she answered.

 

Then they explained what it meant, and that they had chosen him, and loved him very much.   His first grade self took it in stride, knowing these parents, the only ones he’d ever known, were the ones who loved and supported him, listened to his weird jokes, and drew sketches of Spider-Man for him, because that’s what he was interested in.  Some “birth” parent had no idea of what went on in his budding mind, or how he liked his pork chop gravy.  His mom and dad were his mom and dad.  What passed from them to him in a glance or a guiding hand or a decade of rides to the mall is what formed who he is.  Oh, and shortbread and bagpipes are Scottish folkways.  Armenia – that’s near Greece, right?

 

I’m Big!

My oldest daughter A, 2 1/2 years, has stopped wearing diapers.

Yesterday was Day 1 and there was only one accident during the day and one smallish accident (can’t blame the dog for that spot on the rug honey) at night during ‘nudie time’ after her bath.

Wish her, us luck!

DES and Me

You could say that my infertility story officially starts with my parents.

Like some people who find themselves passing through the land of infertility, I had known for some time that I may have problems having children.  ‘May’ is a far cry from ‘will’ however, and this warning from long ago, didn’t help the current situation that I found myself in a few years ago.

In 1972, my parents had been trying to conceive for 3 ½ years.  My mother sustained a miscarriage, and was prescribed DES (diethylstilbestrol), a very powerful, very evil synthetic hormone by her doctor.  This super drug, was supposed to prevent miscarriages, and enhance pregnancy.  The facts: DES had been widely prescribed to pregnant women all over the world since 1938.  Through World War II, Sputnik, neatly dressed Beatles, and sloppily dressed Beatles, this drug was issued to mothers-to-be around the world, including my mother.  Ironically, the year I was conceived was the same year that this drug was banned and taken off the market for good.  Better late then never (ho hum).

The drug was banned due to emerging research regarding reproductive-organ specific birth defects, in so-called “DES Daughters,” and “DES Sons,” too.  The research was “emerging,” then, but has reached through the decades to me and my husband.  Lucky us!  Exposure to DES in the womb likely (although no doctor will admit it with 100% certainity) affected the size and shape of my uterus, the alignment of my cervix (oddly flush in an opening it is designed to protrude through).  For me, being a DES daughter meant that at the age of eleven my mom took me to visit a gynecologist.  I didn’t realize at that time that other girls my age weren’t doing the same thing.  I had just had my first period and thought that this visit was a natural follow-up to becoming a woman.  My mom was upfront with me and I remember her telling me about a drug that she had taken when she was pregnant with me and that as a result, I would have to make sure that I was ok.  In a recent conversation with my mother about the way in which she revealed the possible consequences of my DES exposure, I found her to be very proud of the fact that she had been so upfront with me.  It was almost like her honesty compensated for possible consequence.

I have recently discovered my little white diary with a border of pink flowers, packed in some basement boxes, and it recorded this day much like any other.  “Mom took some drug to have me.  I may get cancer.  I have clarinet lessons tomorrow.”  At eleven, obviously cancer was just as foreign a concept as having a baby and noticeably both didn’t seem to impact my eleven-year-old world in any way – that didn’t make me late for clarinet, at least.  The actual memory of that time is sort of hazy, but I think my little, white diary says it all.

Several years later, my parents went to a meeting for women who were participating in a DES exposure study coordinated by a local hospital.  I remember my mom telling me about the people there — mostly young women, although there were some men present at the meeting too.  Many women were trying to have children and the pain that filled the room was horrible, she remembered.  At the time I was still in high school and this heartache of unknown women felt very remote to my life.

Over the years, doctors would tell me that I have a small uterus and that DES daughters have increased evidence of reproductive problems, such as infertility, ectopic pregnancy, and miscarriage.  These are scenarios that didn’t mean anything to a pre-teenager.  Now, today, they are painful reminders of things that are out of my control, but are sadly, part of my life experience.  Today, as I explore some of the technologies that may allow me to have a baby, I am warned once again that DES daughters also face the risk of premature delivery and that I will be classified as a high-risk pregnancy from the get-go.  I already felt like I was covered in labels by the time we got to this point in the endless doctor appointments.  DES-exposed, older (since I was passed 30, can you believe it?!), and now high-risk for premature delivery.  Little did I know that in a few months time I would be adding premature ovarian failure and perimenapausal to my growing list of ailments?  I felt like my body was spinning out of my control, dancing randomly under the gravity of these biological obstacles.  Once we realized that we weren’t going to get pregnant the “normal way” it was like a door in the back corner of my mind opened, and every warning I had been given since the age of eleven rushed in and came crashing through to the present, my reality.  I have remarked to my husband on several occasions since we started this whole process that I wasn’t sick; we just wanted to have a baby.

Looking for Answers

There is a book in here somewhere I keep saying to my husband.

Our life was that crazy at times and quite honestly, our ‘normal’ is still crazy.  But I love it and wouldn’t trade it for the world!  We have a unique tale to share.  Others going through infertility apparently have said that too, and I have read many of their stories.  Something about this struggle, while intensely personal in nature and often hard to discuss even with close friends and family, makes you seek out the experiences of others.  It is so comforting to have that “Me too” moment when you realize that someone else has been through the same medical procedure you had this morning, peed on half a dozen pregnancy tests, or fight a real daily struggle to maintain some kind of normalcy in their close personal relationships.  While each story has its own particulars, there is a common thread that runs through them.  When you read a mystery, turn to the last page and Holmes reveals the killer.  When you read a romance, turn to the last page and the lovers are together, waves crashing and bodices ripping.  I found that when you read someone’s personal story about their infertility, turning to the last page reveals the end result of their family-building efforts.  In these stories, the end result is always worth the many pages of difficult decisions that came before it.  Because, unlike conventional family building, the story of infertility is the story of decisions.  Some are long-term, but most are daily.  Today I choose adoption. Today I choose IVF.  Today I feel all alone, like I don’t have any choice at all.  Any account of such a journey is going to be filled with contradictions.  The processes are lethargic:  months of paperwork, invasive tests if you agree to them, and boxes of pointy Kleenex on doctors’ desks.   You are always trying to figure out what comes next.  Only that you can never prepare for it.  This is the mistake that many women make.  Months turn into years and you find yourself second-guessing what will be the right ending for your story.  Is becoming a parent really worth all of this?  For those of us who experience primary infertility, this may become a real question at times.  And just like the many choices that have now become part of my world, I find the answer to this question changing almost daily.  What had seemed so obvious a goal was clouded in the reality of endless doctor appointments and even more endless nights of emotional, draining conversations with my husband.

I hope that someone else, who is also in the middle of their struggle, may find some helpful information among these posts, or at least some much needed humor from something that I’ve experienced.  Chances are quite good that you are going through the same thing.  Take comfort in the fact that you are not alone on your journey towards parenthood.  Oftentimes it feels that way for us.  You feel isolated from everything and everyone.  This is normal.  But you are not alone.  There are moments when no other living person can understand the questions in your soul.  I wouldn’t suggest going this road alone for the distance.  It twists and it turns and there are many unexpected bumps.  Open yourself to the assistance of others and let their help in.

My Story in Several Parts (for NoComLeavMo)

Like a good NoComLeavMo participant (read tired mom who agreed to participate in this wonderful idea and wants nothing more than to finish her 5 commenting obligations and go to bed)  I was reading a post on http://becomingadifferentperson.wordpress.com/ when I saw that some folks had decided it would be helpful to have a brief summary of our story appear on our blog so that it would be easier to follow along.

I have decided to try and accomplish this task over the next several posts (read I really want to go to bed!)

In the Beginning –

The high cost of homes in our area, where we had lived for the past several years, was the main reason that we moved. The desire to be closer to my family, specifically my two nieces, affectionately known as the Genius and the Funny One, was a close second.

We moved into our 1950s style ranch, typical of this part of the city  We were home.  We quickly unpacked and settled in.  We had three bedrooms:  one for us, one for the dog, our beagle, and the middle room which we converted into an office.  Deep down, we hoped that this room would become the nursery one day soon.

I was stuck in the middle of the mess that has been my life since February, 2003.  My plan for parenthood felt infuriatingly stagnant some days, even when my husband, my unwavering partner in all of this, assured me that we were making progress towards our goal of parenthood. Yet, somehow I still felt firmly planted in the day-to-day muck of endless early morning doctor appointments and emotional outbursts which seem to happen at the most inopportune of times.  There were also the good days when I feel so hopeful and excited about what our life will be like in its next phase.  What kind of parents will we be?

A story usually has a beginning, middle, and an end.  Do the characters really know that?  For them it is always the middle.  A sentence without a period has no end, so it must always be in the middle.  My story, started without a period.  So even my beginning was a middle.  Are you confused yet?  I certainly was.  I spent the better part of 2 ½ years confused.  Confused about our reasons for wanting to become parents.  Confused about why we continued to pursue treatments when we had no guarantee of success.  Confused about how we would love an adopted child.  Confused about how we could manage to function in a world where we have lost all sense of control.  There were times when I was confused about simply being confused!  Sometimes I joked about the moments and situations that have made up my infertility journey and then I realized that these things were happening to me.  Sadly, at times I didn’t even recognize myself.

Often I wondered about the person I used to be before I viewed the world through this crazy filter called infertility.

1/2 Way Thoughts

Friday marked the half way point in my 6 1/2 week- long radiation treatment for breast cancer (DCIS).

An important milestone.

Things are going well with the treatment.  The skin under my left arm is turning a bit brown/red and there is a small area that looks like rash.  This rash is probably my fault.  During the initial consultation with a nurse, you are told not to shave your armpits.  Yet, 3 days into treatment I went and shaved.  It is short-sleeve season after all.  I remember thinking in the shower that my skin looked fine, it didn’t feel any different, so what would one more shave hurt?

The other side effect that I was told to expect is tiredness.  I laughed then (in the office) and I laugh now, because if I could list the number of things in my life that make me tired these days I would be rich woman.  One of the Waiting Room Ladies, I think it was the Lady who Cares for Her 90 Year Old Father, had warned me that the special radiation tiredness was the kind that you feel in your bones.

The scheduling of childcare has gone pretty well for the last few weeks with only 1 minor glitch – my husband getting into a car accident (he is fine) on his way home from work on the day he is scheduled to pick up the girls.  For the record, he would have still picked them up, but I figured I could climb out of my sweatpants and off the couch just as easily.  I am grateful that we live near family who are willing to help us out and watch our girls while I am at the hospital.

I have noticed the reappearance of peanut M&Ms in my daily diet.

*Not a symptom the nurse told me to expect, but I felt it in my bones and knew it was imminent.