Biological Child

​October 9, 2019

Jamie and I wanted a biological child.

We dreamed about it together. 

In fact, before we were married we decided to try to get pregnant immediately after our “I do’s.” He said there was no time to waste we should start our family immediately. 

Two weeks after our wedding, I missed my cycle. With excitement he exclaims, “Go pee on a stick!”

We drive to Walgreens to pick up a box of pregnancy tests. We come home. I pee. We wait. 

It does not show any lines, not one single line to say negative and definitely no double lines to say positive. The test is a dud. 

We wait an hour before I can produce another test. I set the timer on my phone for five minutes. We wait. 

From the moment we decided to make a family together we had been mulling over names. We made countless suggestions of characters from our favorite songs, books, and movie heroes. We picked out what we agreed to be the perfect ones, a moniker unusual enough to be different but not weird and we made sure to also include familial representations. 

We daydreamed about him or her, the traits we wanted from each other. I wanted our son to have Jamie’s blue-green eyes with the gold ring around the pupil, his lack of allergies, his quick wit, sharp tongue, mischievous smirk, and the twinkle in his eye. The same twinkle passed down from his Daddy to him – the one that lets me know he’s up to no good and the getting is going to be good. He did not want our children to have my sensitive soul, but instead to be thick skinned; I agree.

He assures me he would instill in our child a sense of fairness and justice. “But,” he warned “he’ll probably be sent home from school for standing up for himself.” ‘Standing up for himself’ is code for fighting. Jamie has never been one to stand down from a bully. “If it’s a her, she’ll pack a devastating hook too.”

Jamie talked about our son’s future appearance. With his Dad’s build and my Dad’s build, we would create a linebacker. We’d spend the next twenty or more years at Little League games. 

I would remind Jamie, little girls wrap their Daddy’s around their little fingers and they can also play in Little Leagues. 

“BUZZZZZ!!!” The longest five minutes has passed. He gets up to check the results. 

From our master bathroom he mumbles one syllable, “nah.”

I can tell from his tone and inflection he is disappointed. He admits, “I never wanted a child before I met you. Now, I wanted this to be positive.”

“Something’s wrong,” I mutter.

He glides towards me. He puts his arms around my waste, “Go to the Dr. Get checked out. Put your mind at ease. You could be stressed out. That won’t help us.” He reassured me that everything is okay. 

Besides, he was right, I was worried. The day before we had spent an evening in the emergency room after he cut himself in a cooking accident.

 

The next day, Tuesday, I call for an appointment. I explain to the lady scheduling my appointment, “I’ve missed my cycle. I took a pregnancy test. It showed negative.” 

Two days later I go in to the office, on June 13. I had never been to the OBGYN specifically to pee in a cup. It had always been to play “Fat or Pregnant” where I was always just fat. Well, actually, I’d specifically go in for a yearly exam or a follow-up and just-so-happen to always be fat. 

I wait in the exam room. To my surprise I am completely dressed in my own clothes, not in an open gown surrounded only by freezing air. 

The nurse walks in, her head bowed, her eyes lowered to the floor. Her voice is somber as she says, “I’m sorry. I have bad news, Miss Conway. You aren’t pregnant.”

I can’t help but to burst into laughter, “I know. I figured. I took a test at home. It showed I’m not pregnant. I needed to come in because I missed my cycle with a negative pregnancy test.” 

Her spirit lifts as she explains, “I never know if a woman in your position will be devastated or if her pregnancy test at home showed a false positive. The people answering the phones to set the appointments don’t put that information in the tickets.” 

“It sounds like they ought to.”

The nurse agrees and tells me to hold-tight she’ll send someone in to discuss pregnancy with me. 

Within a few minutes the nurse practitioner, Meredith, comes in. She says, “Everything looks good in your chart.”

Meredith explains I’d be an older Mom and there are some potential complications, such as becoming pregnant and the estimated percentage of having a mentally handicapped baby. She tells me that I might not have these potential issues if I were younger and in this same predicament of trying to get pregnant. She explains women usually have healthy babies until around 45 years of age but then the chances of birth defects increase significantly. 

She goes into great detail explaining how I should track ovulation and that I need to test myself daily for the next month. She tells me to  immediately begin prenatal vitamins and take multiple pregnancy tests for the next two weeks, just incase it was too early for the test to read. Then, after two weeks, I should begin the prescribed medicine that will jumpstart my cycle again. She hands me photocopied flyers, more-so instruction sheets, and a sample pack of prenatal vitamins with added folic acid. 

I walk out to the car, happily, to text the information to Jamie. It’s not daunting. We can do this. It should be easy – people that don’t even want to reproduce do it every day. 

Sometimes We Laugh Harder

​August 22, 2019

The only sperm bank joke I’ve ever heard was in high school. It went something like this:

A man and a woman meet in an elevator. “Where are you heading today?” asks the man.

“I’m going to the third floor to give blood.”

“How much do you get paid for giving blood?”

“About $20.”

“Wow,” says the man, “I’m going up to the fourth floor to donate sperm, and the sperm bank pays $100.”

The woman gets off the elevator.

The next day, the same man and woman meet in the elevator.

“Fancy meeting you again.” He asks, “third floor today?”

With her mouth full and her eyes wide, she violently shakes her head no and waves four fingers in the air.

Two days after the fertility appointment with Dr. Kutteh, I get a call from the fertility Dr.’s office in New Albany, MS. The nurse, Jessica, calls with the precise details of how to submit a sperm sample.

Either of us has to stop by the Dr.’s office to pick up a sample cup. Then, my husband must not ejaculate for five days. After the mandatory wait time, he may make the sample any way he deems necessary: on his own or with my help. When the time comes he will ejaculate the sample directly in the cup. We will have only 30 minutes from the moment of sample production and collection to get it to the hospital. And, it must be kept at body temperature. After 30 minutes the specimen is useless.

At this point nurse Jessica becomes very serious, “I hate that I have to tell you this and it is the worst part of my job. But, I have to tell women this because they try it all the time. They try to bring their husband’s samples in their mouth. You cannot submit a sperm specimen from your mouth.”

I am laughing so hard that I can’t breathe. Even in joking with Mom, I had no intention of making an oral sperm submission.

I let Jessica in on the joke with my Mom. She is laughing with relief. She tells me it’s difficult to give that necessary spiel. I can tell she has relaxed.

Then, I just have to ask, “For purely scientific knowledge, why can’t a sperm sample be made by mouth delivery?”

Jessica answers, “Well, by the time a woman makes it to us or the hospital, the sample becomes more saliva than sperm. That renders it useless because the count can’t be made.”

There you have it folks, that joke I heard in high school is a complete fabrication.

Sometimes We Laugh

​August 20, 2019

As my Mom and I sit across the expansive desk from the fertility Dr. we go over my medical history while also waiting for the test results of the ultra sound – internal wand covered in goop, not over the belly.

It is August 20th, the late afternoon sun is shining brightly through the gold tinted, floor to ceiling windows of Dr. Kutteh’s office. It’s hot next to the window. Three stories below is a pond surround by trees. There are some ducks lazily floating. Across the street is the backside of Baptist Memorial Hospital, or better known as Baptist East on Walnut Grove.

My number one goal after being diagnosed with endometrial/uterine cancer is to save my fertility. My husband and family want to save my life.

Dr. Kutteh opens up his laptop. The results of the ultrasound show that I have four remaining follicles on my right ovary. Follicles are little hairs that signify there are eggs left inside the ovary. Dr. Kutteh explains that could mean I have, at the most approximately 14 eggs left. Of which the possibility of viability is not known. His initial diagnosis is to treat the cancer.

I try to keep control. Every breath since my diagnosis has been a struggle to remain in an emotional state of calm, just trying to keep it together. Inhale now, without crying. Exhale, keeping the tears in. Repeat for the next 16 hours until I can lay in bed with insomnia staring at the circulating ceiling fan illuminated by the television, which is on as a distraction.

I look sad. I’m supposed to stay stress-free. I am not. My miserable nosey coworker has been fabricating and spreading rumors that my marriage is in trouble because we got married too soon.

All I want to do is sit in our living room with the curtains drawn and be numb by myself.

Now, one less person, an expert at that, thinks I should give up on motherhood.

My emotions come out in the form ugly face contortions and tears.

I glance down at the water, again. I don’t want to be here. I want to be one of those ducks in the pond. The shade seems inviting. The water looks cool, much calmer than what is being discussed in this doctor’s office.

Foregoing all of the medical lingo, basically my eggs could be scrambled and worthless. Combined with my age and my cancer the likelihood of having a heathy baby, without a mental or physical handicapped is not a high probability. The idea of us getting pregnant on our own is projected at a low single digit percentage.

We should look into in-vitro. We should look into egg harvesting and a uterine transplant. We should look into egg harvesting and surrogacy. I should start asking my friends and family to be a surrogate. We should look into egg donation so that at least one of us can be a biological parent. We should look into LiveStrong fertility services. We should look into adoption.

All of which I’ve already researched. As a couple, we have already decided that adoption is not for us. Please stop suggesting it like it’s the first time we’ve thought of it. It’s a broken record.

The monetary price of surrogacy might as well be equivalent to my Mom asking “do you have McDonald’s money?” when I was a child. If I wanted that as a feasible option, I should have been hoarding every penny my entire life.

And, to us, it is absolutely absurd to make a GoFundMe request for our friends and family to foot this medical procedure.

I have always wanted to have a baby. At this point it’s a race against my biological clock combined with cancer. I have to see this through.

Dr. Kutteh proceeds with ordering a blood test.

He goes on to explain that all of these tests would be futile if Jamie, my husband, has a fertility issue. Dr. Kutteh also writes an order for Jamie to submit a sample to the local fertility doctor in our small town.

Yes, a sperm sample. A splooge in a cup, or..

My Mom whispers under her breath, “Maybe you can bring in his sample to get tested.”

I slowly turn my face left towards her. I puff my cheeks out like my mouth is full and I cross my eyes in exasperation.

“Averill Rosalyn!” she loudly reprimands as she swats my left leg.

It’s exactly what she was thinking and we both burst out laughing. It’s a well-needed reprieve from all of the tears.

Dr. Kutteh does not look up from his laptop. He does not acknowledge our conversation. He hands over Jamie’s hand-written order and ushers us out to the waiting area of the phlebotomist’s cubby.

Sometimes There are Jokes

​August 1, 2019. 

Jamie has a habit of opening envelopes and packages addressed to me. It’s not a big deal. I warn him if a secret birthday or holiday package will be arriving and ask that he avoids getting the mail. He does.

It’s August.

A package arrives in the mail. It’s a padded envelope from Etsy. I know exactly what is going to be in the envelope. It’s a metal sign that says, “NO HANDBILLS.” It’s for our wall that will eventually be covered in music posters and handbills.

Jamie opens it. The padding is actually tiny, white, styrofoam balls and grey fuzz.

He hands me the package and warns, “Watch out you don’t touch the stuffing.”

I quickly quip, “Why? Is it going to give me cancer?”

I can’t help but to burst into maniacal laughter. It’s truly the first time I’ve laughed in almost a month. It is a laugh from deep within, a place of anger, a joke that was so funny because it is true, and a coping mechanism to avoid the severity and hurt caused by my situation and issue.

He looks at me in shock. And with such innocence he responds, “No, you are dressed nice and I didn’t want you to get the mess all over your pretty dress.”

I stand there dumbfounded, but even to this day I find this to be a hysterical joke.

In Sickness and In Health

​Tuesday, July 23, 2019, 10:00 a.m. my cell phone is ringing.

I try to answer the call, but the swap button refuses to work.

I listen to the message on speaker:

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The message is actually Dr. Heather Donato. Who knew? She is capable of actually contacting a patient, unlike after my previous surgery and unlike sending plagiarized photocopies.

I immediately call her back. I am sent to voicemail and leave a message with Dr. Donato’s nurse.

Our apartment is a loft. Their are only seven doors in our place, one of which goes to the bedroom but the wall does not even reach the ceiling. There is no privacy, there are no secrets, and all phone calls are shared.

Neither Jamie nor I are at work for the day. We spend it cleaning and purging from merging our belongings while completing our move into this apartment. As we wait for the AT&T technician, who is hours late to install our home internet, Jamie is doing more reminiscing than cleaning.

“Babe, who else do you think I need to talk about it with?”

“Unno."

"I don't know either."

We wait for Dr. Donato or her nurse to call back. Nobody from McDonald + Murrmann returns my call.

At 6:15pm my cellphone rings. I am searching in the pantry when I answer, “Hello.”

An automated voice message begins speaking, declaring, “appointment on Thursday, July 25 at 1pm,” and a notice to arrive 30 minutes early to complete paperwork before the appointment.

There is no further information. There is no office name, no doctor’s name, no address, nothing. But in this moment I am only concerned about getting the appointment in my calendar and preoccupied with cooking dinner.

It is 9:15pm, Jamie is already in bed and half asleep. The room is lit by the television, Netflix.

I’m getting ready for bed, tinkering between the closet, bedroom, and master bath.

“Babe? That doctor’s appointment...it didn’t have their name on the automated voice message. I wonder who they are?"

He has a habit of responding in his sleep, "I'on know."

I sit on the edge of my side of our bed and unlock my phone. I pull up Safari that defaults to my Favorites. I go directly to Google and flip between Recents phone calls, typing in the mystery doctor appointment phone number, “9-0-1-2-2-6-4-2-8-0” then click search.

My eyes frantically search the results of the phone number:

Only one word stands out, “Oncologist.”

My eyes begin to blur. My mind is racing, like a car that is in neutral but the driver's foot is pressing the gas to the floorboard.

"Oncologist," I know that word - it means cancer doctor. You don’t just go to an oncologist unless you have cancer. They don’t send you to an oncologist for nothing!

I cannot control my own body. This noise escapes from deep inside me. It's guttural. Gasping for air, I sob. My face is wet. My nose is running uncontrollably to the point that I have slugs.

I feel Jamie’s warm hand on the small of my back, “Hey, what’s going on?”

Wiping my left palm up and across my nose I end up with a hand full of slime. I’m cupping my hand and just looking at it with blurry vision. It’s shiny in the light of television. I don’t know what to do but sit there dumbfounded.

I try to speak, but I can’t get it out. I choke on my thoughts. I am blowing snot bubbles and trying to stifle my sobbing. But it's uncontrollable and coming so hard I can't catch my breath.

Jamie and I just got married - it hasn’t even been two months yet. I have cancer? And Jamie is stuck with a sick person? All of our ideas, plans, desires are halting. I’m sick; I don’t feel sick. I’m dumping this on him. It’s being dumped on me. We just met, fell in love, and got married in a hurry. This is all still so new.

I understand the vows we live, “in sickness and in health." But, I’m not going to hold him back or force him to stay if he’s not in it, doesn’t want to be in it, or doesn’t want to/can’t/won’t be strong enough to go through this. It’s not fair to force Jamie into this situation. I'll let him go.

Jamie is up, leaning on his right hip and right forearm. His left arm is around my left shoulder and he is embracing and pulling me towards his chest. He is cradling me. He is warm. Jamie is always warm.

Suddenly, my mind kicks in drive, I realize I am holding a hand full of snot. I need a Kleenex. I need an entire box of Kleenexes, immediately. I try to pull away from Jamie as I slide my phone across the sheets towards him.

Through inaudible sobs I blurt, “If you want to leave me, you can.”

Jamie has adjusted himself to be sitting up without the aid of his arm. He is still holding me to his warm chest. He is so strong, his arm has me locked in place. With his right hand he picks up the phone, glances at the screen, and immediately discards it back on the sheets, like it is garbage, “Don’t be stupid, I married you for forever.”

Gently, he turns me towards him, pulling me into his chest, and cradles my body as he lays us down. He holds on so tight there is no escaping. He consoles and caresses as I cry and blubber into his chest. With consistent repetition he traces his fingertips over my shoulder and back.

He is comforting and reassuring. He is calming. My breathing slows.

My head is resting on Jamie’s chest. His heartbeat is steady. His voice is mellow. The scent of soap on his skin is soothing. He is safe.

This is how I fall sleep.

Jamie internalizes issues. He does not sleep at all tonight.

A Noncommittal Diagnosis

​

July 13, 2019

While we wait for the pathology results I receive a thick envelope from McDonald Murmann Center for Wellness & Health. The post office’s information-based indicia is stamped December 04, 2018.

I had a yearly appointment on Monday, November 19, 2018.

I received the envelope on July 13, 2019.

 

  I open the envelope. Inside are seven pages printed from the website of Mayo Clinic about PCOS: Polycystic Ovary Syndrome. There is a sticky note with handwritten directions on how to take prescribed medication and a declaration to return for labs in three months.

  

  There is nothing else in the envelope. I can only assume, this is how Dr. Donato makes diagnosis for all patients - she has McDonald Murmann send Mayo Clinic “noncommercial personal use only” photocopies without explanation, a noncommittal diagnosis, without a phone call consultation.  

Snow Day!

When I woke up this morning the first thing I said to my parents, "Sledding?"

So, we got dressed, went out, and took turns sledding down the hill.

As we are walking in the garage my Mom says, "When we retired we made a list of things we want to do, sledding was one of those things to do again. You don't see many men, your Dad will turn 69 this year, out sledding like your Dad did today. That's cool."

#BucketlistAchievement, #RealLifeSuperman, #TheSilverFox