I could craft a clever introductory paragraph preparing you for the subject of today's blog (which is infertility, fyi), but how about we just summarize it with "No, my wahoo is NOT okay, thank you very much," and then dive right on in...
... just like my OBGYN did! (Bam! Didn't see me going there that early, did ya? Ha. Too bad for you.)
This whole drama llama started in a sterilized room with my doctor saying, "Okay, honey, this will only take just a minute. Wait... wait... I've almost found it. Yup. Got your dignity. You won't be needing THAT anymore." Then she yanked out my pride and tossed it into a dirty bedpan.
Actually, she said, "Sweetie, you have a tumor."
"Okay..." I said, mind racing. "Is it cancerous? Is it big? Do I need to call my husband?"
"Well, you might want to call him about the next issue," she said.
The next?!?
Weepiness settled into her wide blue eyes. "I'm just so sorry to tell you this, but... no, no... don't sit up... it's best if you hear this laying down ... but I'm afraid I have to tell you that you're infertile."
WHAT. THE. FUDGE?
At this point, my brain was running at the rate of about 27 WTFs per second, with my first initial thought being: "I can't have kids? Who the hell cares? Let's get back to this whole TUMOR business!!"
But the doc would not let it go. Instead, she kept saying things like, "Are you sure you're okay?," and "It's normal to cry." So, I kept saying back things like, "I'm positive I'm okay. Except for that TUMOR you so casually mentioned," and "I'm only going to cry if you don't tell me more about that TUMOR!"
When they finally got around to actually telling me about my tumor, they told me A LOT. But they also had plenty to say about the other condition from which I suffer: advanced polycystic ovarian syndrome (PCOS). I'm sure there's an actual medical description of what all thyroid cancer (yes, CANCER, even though you wouldn't have thought so from the way everyone focused on my lack of ability to spew out BABIES!) and PCOS entails, but for time's sake, let me just give you a rundown of the more salient points of being both cancerous and infertile and now hyped up on many, many meds:
... just like my OBGYN did! (Bam! Didn't see me going there that early, did ya? Ha. Too bad for you.)
This whole drama llama started in a sterilized room with my doctor saying, "Okay, honey, this will only take just a minute. Wait... wait... I've almost found it. Yup. Got your dignity. You won't be needing THAT anymore." Then she yanked out my pride and tossed it into a dirty bedpan.
Actually, she said, "Sweetie, you have a tumor."
"Okay..." I said, mind racing. "Is it cancerous? Is it big? Do I need to call my husband?"
"Well, you might want to call him about the next issue," she said.
The next?!?
Weepiness settled into her wide blue eyes. "I'm just so sorry to tell you this, but... no, no... don't sit up... it's best if you hear this laying down ... but I'm afraid I have to tell you that you're infertile."
WHAT. THE. FUDGE?
At this point, my brain was running at the rate of about 27 WTFs per second, with my first initial thought being: "I can't have kids? Who the hell cares? Let's get back to this whole TUMOR business!!"
But the doc would not let it go. Instead, she kept saying things like, "Are you sure you're okay?," and "It's normal to cry." So, I kept saying back things like, "I'm positive I'm okay. Except for that TUMOR you so casually mentioned," and "I'm only going to cry if you don't tell me more about that TUMOR!"
When they finally got around to actually telling me about my tumor, they told me A LOT. But they also had plenty to say about the other condition from which I suffer: advanced polycystic ovarian syndrome (PCOS). I'm sure there's an actual medical description of what all thyroid cancer (yes, CANCER, even though you wouldn't have thought so from the way everyone focused on my lack of ability to spew out BABIES!) and PCOS entails, but for time's sake, let me just give you a rundown of the more salient points of being both cancerous and infertile and now hyped up on many, many meds:
1) I was going to experience severe depression. A LOT of it.
2) Piggy-backing on the depression would be extreme anxiety disorder, so I could expect constant paranoia and regular panic attacks.
3) I was going to grow a beard. Maybe not a Santa Claus beard, but a good, dark 5 o’clock shadow.
4) I was going to balloon up like a bloated badger left on the highway.
5) I was going to start shitting my pants.
6) Oh, and my lady parts -- indeed, the very essence of my womanhood -- were completely on the fritz.
6) Oh, and my lady parts -- indeed, the very essence of my womanhood -- were completely on the fritz.
For those wondering what this looks like, I invite you to imagine a fuzzy-jowled, psychopathic, rancid, weepy, sexless version of post-gum-chewing Violet Beauregarde of Willy Wonka fame. Yup. That’s me. Hi!
But a funny thing happened on the way to the zoo that became my life. Soon, the shock of the cancer (and pants-shitting) wore off, and I started to accept that part of me. I embraced it even, because it was a journey that I felt would enrich my life, cause me to grow, and at least give me one hell of a story to tell when I'm finally allowed to drink again and need a good tale to trade at the tavern.
Not for one second did I think the infertility thing would bother me. After all, my husband, Mr. Big Moose, and I already had that conversation and came to a conclusion that can best be summarized by this picture:
We just weren't the parenting type, we'd told ourselves. I was worried that my whole shrieking harpy persona would result in an astronomical psychological bill for our child, while Mr. Big Moose feared his nerdiness would cruelly produce a jock child.
"I just know it," my husband said. "He's going to bully me! He'll come running into the room and be like, 'Ha ha, Dad. I threw your light saber on the roof. Go get it, you pussy."
But something wonky happens when God comes down to aisle 9 in LifeMart and says, "Sorry, but this version of your life is now out of stock." You get kinda pissy that one option -- even though it wasn't one you wanted -- just got ripped away.
Know what I want now?
Duh.
I want what I can't have -- a baby.
In fact, for a short period of time, I wanted one so badly that Mr. Big Moose and I actually went to an introductory interview to become adoptive parents. God liked that idea so much that She made our tire explode on the trip to the agency, causing us to be more than an hour late for our appointment.
That day, I learned a valuable lesson: When something unexpected happens, yell "Plot twist!" and move on.
So now, here I am blogging, and because I blog, I obviously contain a great store of knowledge on the subject at hand. Which, of course, means that you probably came here to learn a lesson or two from me about how to deal with YOUR infertility or whatever other hardship you're encountering.
I get it. I'm brilliant. It'd just be silly if you didn't take advantage of my wisdom. So, folks, here it is. What you've been waiting for. My "What to Expect When You Aren't Expecting" list of how to get through that point in your life where everybody but you is welcoming their progeny into the world.
1: Get used to people not minding their own business
When the doctor told me I wouldn't be able to have children, I immediately ... well, we covered this already... at that point, I didn't really care. But that doesn't mean that other people didn't. In fact, a lot of people still mind. Too damn many people, in my opinion.
Let's start with the obvious offender: my mother-in-law. Now, this sweet woman only wants the best for her son, bless her grandmotherly heart. But if you're not prepared for it, the desire other people have for you to have children can catch you off guard.
For example, my mother-in-law promptly told me that I should switch to a Christian doctor who could clearly make all of my problems dissipate through the power of pills and prayer. Or, on another occasion, I woke up to THIS text:
Again, I emphasize that she means well, but she's part of an epidemic that haunts non-preggers chicks. We constantly hear the question, "When are you going to start a family?"
Personally, my answer of choice is, "I'm infertile." It makes everything just awkward enough that I have ensured that the person will never torture another non-mom with that inquest. But I understand if you don't want to be that blunt, because, you know, they're your ovaries, and you don't have to talk about them if you don't want to. In that case, go ahead with whatever feels most comfortable. Another favorite is, "We're trying! In fact, we've got to leave right now, because I'm ovulating!"
You think I'm kidding. But hand-to-God, the number one question I'm asked as a young-ish married woman is when I'm going to get pregnant. Now, let me tell you something: That question is just not appropriate, folks.
When you ask this you are literally asking people when they are going to copulate, and since when is THAT a socially acceptable inquiry? You might as well just ask, "So, when's the next time your husband is going to stick it to you in an unprotected manner?"
Also, you never know how that person's uterus is faring. At least one in 10 women can't reproduce, and plenty of men's nether-regions are flawed, as well. (Fun fact: the top reason for male infertility is overtly large testicles. Bigger is NOT always better, my friends.) So, every time that you ask about impending pregnancies, you are actually wading through an emotional mine field.
Finally, to my most important point: Some people do not have children, and that is perfectly swell. In fact, some people shouldn't have children (crack whores and Republicans come to mind; JK - sorta). Yet we live in a society where everyone is expected -- nay, practically obligated -- to procreate. To do otherwise is viewed as abnormal. To have other priorities -- careers, traveling, volunteering, extended family -- is seen as settling for less. For some of us, this is viewed as getting more. We'll have more time for our jobs, our community, our nieces and nephews, for ourselves, and for the freedom to do all of the other things we couldn't do if we had kids. Sure, it's different from the norm, but for some of us, this is the hand life dealt, and we're going to make the best of it. Which brings me to my next list item...
2: Make lemonade
Really, this book right here is about how romantic your options are. If you do choose IVF treatments or anything of that sort, you get to look forward to charting cervical mucus thickness and having your doctor see your vag/sperm more than he/she sees your face.
Now, I'm not saying that it isn't worth it. For some people, the indignities, wait, and small fortune are completely embraced as worthwhile, and anybody who wants a child enough to have a turkey baster rammed up their wahoo is dedicated enough to make one hell of a parent. So, more power to you. Seriously. It's a really rad thing to work hard for something that you really, really, really want, and I wish you the best of luck. But, Mr. Big Moose and I couldn't see ourselves turning my uterus into a build-a-baby workshop. Which is why we encourage people to...
4. Choose the adoption option
In my opinion, adoption is totes the right thing to do.
Now, I'm coming from a place of bias. My parents adopted three of my four siblings, so I know what it's like to have family that doesn't contain any similar DNA. And guess what? There's nothing less special about choosing to love somebody rather than being indebted to because of blood.
Let me be clear: I'm not saying that people who adopt are better parents/people than those who choose to birth their own miniatures. Parenting is a peachy prospect, regardless of how the child is obtained (except for kidnapping; obviously that is bad, bad, bad.)
But I am confident enough in the fabric of my family that when Mr. Big Moose and I did consider having children, we never thought of anything but adoption. For starters, we have absolutely no attachment to the idea of mashing up our genes and creating tiny versions of ourselves. With our luck, our child would have hooves, horns, and a huge ol' honker** Also, to complement our complete self-righteous liberal hippie side, we liked the overarching benefits of adoption: not adding to overpopulation, helping mothers have a valid alternative to abortion, and giving of ourselves to a child who needs a home.
Mind you, this wasn't merely a generous act discussed by noble parenting heroes. I'm already fat enough without adding a wee beastie in my belly, IVF/fertility treatments cut into our traveling funds, as well as sounding just plain terrifying, and Mr. Big Moose can think of nothing more horrifying than dealing with an extra hormonal version of me. In short, pregnancy sounds scary, and neither of us are overtly brave people.
Of course, fear wasn't the main factor driving the people surrounding us when we went to the information session at a local adoption agency. Instead, these were folks who found no success with fertility treatments, who were too advanced in age to procreate, who were single and therefore unable to regenerate mini gene banks, and gay couples unable to produce on their own.
That being said, in the end, Mr. Big Moose and I decided that we're not ready at this to commit at that level. We don't have what it takes to move from "maybe one day" to "yes, we need this right now." But if we ever do take that giant step, we know that we're going to choose the adoption option.
5. Again, choose the adoption option
Um, so, confession: I'm a crazy cat lady. And I'm totally proud of it. It fills my maternal void.
Now, lest you think that I'm saying a hairy ball of shit and claws can replace your void for wanting children, let me back up. No. It can't. But it doesn't hurt to try. Besides, look at my rescue kitties. They're wearing bows. Tell me you're not a lot in love right now.
Now, I normally like to end my posts with cat pictures. It just seems like the decent thing to do. But not this time. Let me end by saying this: Whether you end up having babies or whether you end up doting on cats and your nieces/nephews, it's going to be worth it. Because that's how life goes. And as you wait for your journey to take you to your eventual path, just remember:
1: Get used to people not minding their own business
When the doctor told me I wouldn't be able to have children, I immediately ... well, we covered this already... at that point, I didn't really care. But that doesn't mean that other people didn't. In fact, a lot of people still mind. Too damn many people, in my opinion.
Let's start with the obvious offender: my mother-in-law. Now, this sweet woman only wants the best for her son, bless her grandmotherly heart. But if you're not prepared for it, the desire other people have for you to have children can catch you off guard.
For example, my mother-in-law promptly told me that I should switch to a Christian doctor who could clearly make all of my problems dissipate through the power of pills and prayer. Or, on another occasion, I woke up to THIS text:
Again, I emphasize that she means well, but she's part of an epidemic that haunts non-preggers chicks. We constantly hear the question, "When are you going to start a family?"
Personally, my answer of choice is, "I'm infertile." It makes everything just awkward enough that I have ensured that the person will never torture another non-mom with that inquest. But I understand if you don't want to be that blunt, because, you know, they're your ovaries, and you don't have to talk about them if you don't want to. In that case, go ahead with whatever feels most comfortable. Another favorite is, "We're trying! In fact, we've got to leave right now, because I'm ovulating!"
You think I'm kidding. But hand-to-God, the number one question I'm asked as a young-ish married woman is when I'm going to get pregnant. Now, let me tell you something: That question is just not appropriate, folks.
When you ask this you are literally asking people when they are going to copulate, and since when is THAT a socially acceptable inquiry? You might as well just ask, "So, when's the next time your husband is going to stick it to you in an unprotected manner?"
Also, you never know how that person's uterus is faring. At least one in 10 women can't reproduce, and plenty of men's nether-regions are flawed, as well. (Fun fact: the top reason for male infertility is overtly large testicles. Bigger is NOT always better, my friends.) So, every time that you ask about impending pregnancies, you are actually wading through an emotional mine field.
Finally, to my most important point: Some people do not have children, and that is perfectly swell. In fact, some people shouldn't have children (crack whores and Republicans come to mind; JK - sorta). Yet we live in a society where everyone is expected -- nay, practically obligated -- to procreate. To do otherwise is viewed as abnormal. To have other priorities -- careers, traveling, volunteering, extended family -- is seen as settling for less. For some of us, this is viewed as getting more. We'll have more time for our jobs, our community, our nieces and nephews, for ourselves, and for the freedom to do all of the other things we couldn't do if we had kids. Sure, it's different from the norm, but for some of us, this is the hand life dealt, and we're going to make the best of it. Which brings me to my next list item...
2: Make lemonade
Enough said.
3. Get ready to lose all dignity
Really, this book right here is about how romantic your options are. If you do choose IVF treatments or anything of that sort, you get to look forward to charting cervical mucus thickness and having your doctor see your vag/sperm more than he/she sees your face.
Now, I'm not saying that it isn't worth it. For some people, the indignities, wait, and small fortune are completely embraced as worthwhile, and anybody who wants a child enough to have a turkey baster rammed up their wahoo is dedicated enough to make one hell of a parent. So, more power to you. Seriously. It's a really rad thing to work hard for something that you really, really, really want, and I wish you the best of luck. But, Mr. Big Moose and I couldn't see ourselves turning my uterus into a build-a-baby workshop. Which is why we encourage people to...
4. Choose the adoption option
In my opinion, adoption is totes the right thing to do.
Now, I'm coming from a place of bias. My parents adopted three of my four siblings, so I know what it's like to have family that doesn't contain any similar DNA. And guess what? There's nothing less special about choosing to love somebody rather than being indebted to because of blood.
Let me be clear: I'm not saying that people who adopt are better parents/people than those who choose to birth their own miniatures. Parenting is a peachy prospect, regardless of how the child is obtained (except for kidnapping; obviously that is bad, bad, bad.)
But I am confident enough in the fabric of my family that when Mr. Big Moose and I did consider having children, we never thought of anything but adoption. For starters, we have absolutely no attachment to the idea of mashing up our genes and creating tiny versions of ourselves. With our luck, our child would have hooves, horns, and a huge ol' honker** Also, to complement our complete self-righteous liberal hippie side, we liked the overarching benefits of adoption: not adding to overpopulation, helping mothers have a valid alternative to abortion, and giving of ourselves to a child who needs a home.
Mind you, this wasn't merely a generous act discussed by noble parenting heroes. I'm already fat enough without adding a wee beastie in my belly, IVF/fertility treatments cut into our traveling funds, as well as sounding just plain terrifying, and Mr. Big Moose can think of nothing more horrifying than dealing with an extra hormonal version of me. In short, pregnancy sounds scary, and neither of us are overtly brave people.
Of course, fear wasn't the main factor driving the people surrounding us when we went to the information session at a local adoption agency. Instead, these were folks who found no success with fertility treatments, who were too advanced in age to procreate, who were single and therefore unable to regenerate mini gene banks, and gay couples unable to produce on their own.
That being said, in the end, Mr. Big Moose and I decided that we're not ready at this to commit at that level. We don't have what it takes to move from "maybe one day" to "yes, we need this right now." But if we ever do take that giant step, we know that we're going to choose the adoption option.
5. Again, choose the adoption option
Um, so, confession: I'm a crazy cat lady. And I'm totally proud of it. It fills my maternal void.
Now, lest you think that I'm saying a hairy ball of shit and claws can replace your void for wanting children, let me back up. No. It can't. But it doesn't hurt to try. Besides, look at my rescue kitties. They're wearing bows. Tell me you're not a lot in love right now.
Now, I normally like to end my posts with cat pictures. It just seems like the decent thing to do. But not this time. Let me end by saying this: Whether you end up having babies or whether you end up doting on cats and your nieces/nephews, it's going to be worth it. Because that's how life goes. And as you wait for your journey to take you to your eventual path, just remember:
** I've been sensitive about the length of my nose ever since Duane Bebb told me that I should stop sniffing the Miracle Gro, followed by Andy Hawkinson writing in my yearbook, "Roses are red, Violets are Blue, You have the nose, Of a B-52." P.S. I did NOT change their names to protect their identities.
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