Being Auntie Koppy

It's that time of year again...

We dust off our finery, accept the invitation, head out to find gift registries, get together with our friends, and celebrate the impending addition of a new family member.

I'm twenty-nine years old, and it seems that just about everyone I know is having children. I love being an Auntie. I really, really do. I love it when the kids learn my name, I love looking at their pictures, I love holding a newborn, and I really love playing with them and making them smile. There is nothing I love more than being Auntie Koppy.

I've always been good with children. There are some people in this world that are clearly "baby" people. I am one of those people. But for me, relating to children is much easier than it is to connect with adults, or at least I think so. A child's world isn't comprised of much more than mom, dad, school, and play group. They're proud of their new shoes, of their pretty dress, or of their new toy. It's just a matter of finding what they love to really get them to open up, laugh, and feel special.

Okay. I just re-read that paragraph, and I sound like I'm writing an instruction manual for child molesters.

So, this weekend was filled with baby-related activities. Last night, I went over to my friend Molly's for a Sip 'n See to meet Baby Maddie. I got to hold Maddie for a bit, give her a bottle, and I read stories to Gracie and Greta. And I could do that stuff for hours. Today, I went over to Tia's for a baby shower, honoring Jocelyn. Baby Maddie was there again and I got to hold her again. Baby Drew also made himself available for a little one-on-one. My cup runneth over.

All of my friends have children of their own, or they have nieces and nephews, so I suppose the idea of being around children is somewhat customary for them. Obviously, I have no children and I'm not an aunt in any official capacity. So, for me, the time that I get to spend with my friends' children is that much more meaningful for me. Still, as my girlfriends are trading pregnancy, child birth, or baby stories, I've got nothing to contribute. It's like being the only girl at Prom that wasn't asked to dance. They show pictures of their children, marvel at their growing bellies, and I...well, I get to show off pictures of my dog.

Relating this to my friend, Kelly, today, she tells me that it could be worse. I could be a cat lady.

And, not that I'd admit it to anyone, but these sort of things are hard for me. But, I don't want to be "that" girl. I don't want to be the one that can't overlook her own struggles to appreciate a friend's successes. So, I save my pity party for my own time. I reflect, I think, I re-read my ovulation calendar, this journal, I talk to my husband, and occasionally, one or two tears will leak out. And, as much as I hate to admit it, I do feel sorry for myself. It's stupid, really.

These past few months have been nothing but a roller coaster of emotions - drug induced or not. But more recently - and maybe I've just been doing a good job of forgetting - I feel a measured level of acceptance setting in. Maybe I'll never been the proud owner of a ceramic ashtray or drink out of a "Best Mom in the World" mug, but I'm starting to realize that with every success comes struggles. Every cloud has a silver lining. To quote the Pussycat Dolls, "Be careful what you wish for 'cause you just might get it." This is what I'm supposed to be, this is what is supposed to happen to me.

Until the course changes, however, I will continue to proudly display (and keep) all artwork made for Auntie Koppy and will always, always be available to babysit. Promise.

Beware of 'Roid Rage

I went in for another check up the other day - just a follow up after my surgery. My doctor takes a look around, peeks at my incisions, and declares me "cured." I look at him, questioning what this means. All my Internet research has never drummed up a cure for PCOS. If it had, you can guarantee that would have been the first thing I'd gone looking for.

"Well," he says, "I don't mean cured. You're still not ovulating. But, your internal organs look great. There's no evidence of endometriosis, and we've taken out some of the cysts. You should be able to have children. However, be aware! It can take women with PCOS longer to conceive."

I let the words wash over me carefully. This is good news, I think. This is what I had wanted - and waited - to hear. However, recalling my seventh grade sexual education classes, I ask if there's any evidence of ovulation, since I'm certain that needs to occur before I can conceive.

"No," he replies, somewhat cautiously. "And I'm not sure why. But, never fear! This is why scientists invented Clomid!"

Clomid is a drug used to stimulate ovulation in patients with PCOS. It's also an anabolic steroid, used by body builders. Side effects include overstimulation of the ovaries, hot flashes, mood swings, and 'roid rage. And, as my doctor informed me, I may have a more severe reaction to Clomid, considering my the reaction I had when I was on hormone replacement therapy.

So, I think to myself, I am now in a Catch-22. Taking Clomid may make increase my chances for ovulation, but my husband will be so scared of me that he won't come near me. What's a girl to do and why can't I seem to catch a break? So, I tell my doctor, thanks - but no thanks.

You see, my body has been on a number of drugs for a really long time. I've been on birth control since high school - for at least ten years. And, let's not forget the number of painkillers I've taken after all nine (yes, nine) of my surgeries, as well as all the hormones and antibiotics prescribed after the most recent procedures. It needs a break - I need a break. I want a few months to myself to let my body figure out how it's supposed to behave without pharmaceutical interference. Maybe everything just needs to clear out of my system and everything will turn itself right again.

But again, I need to have a plan. So, I left armed with graphs and charts so I can plot my basal body temperature. We'll continue in this fashion for a few months to keep track of any potential for ovulation. If I continue to remain in this infertile state, I'll consider taking Clomid. But don't worry - I'll make sure to warn you all first.

Book Club

I've been looking for new material to read. I'm an eager reader by nature, and my Aunt Jill passed along a list of books she's working her way through over the summer. Happily, I have been making my way through the titles.

I stumbled across a new book entitled "Look Again," written by Lisa Scottoline. It's about a single mother, who adopted a little boy only to discover that he was kidnapped when he was an infant. The story is just an adaptation and variation of a story that's been told countless times on television, as well as through movies and books.

I can't seem to make my way through it.

I don't know if it's because I know the inevitable conclusion or if it's because I identify too much with the main character. The story scares me. Maybe I watch too much television.

When you're faced with the possibility of infertility, adopting seems to be the most logical solution. I've looked into the option. I've gone to meetings and I've run the numbers. First of all, adoption is expensive. The people I've talked to say it costs, roughly, about as much as it would to have children naturally. But, to even have someone come into your home - just to determine if you're "qualified" to adopt - costs over $2,000.00.

And then, I start ruminating. So, let's pretend that we make the cut and we're put on a list of prospective parents for mothers to choose from. Who would choose us? We're both workaholics, and we live in downtown Minneapolis. If I was a woman looking to give her child up for adoption, I'd never choose us. I would want to pick a family where one parent stayed home - a couple with a nice house out in the suburbs. A house with a yard and a swingset - close to great schools and big parks.

I'm begging for someone - anyone - to tell me I'm being irrational.

Because here's the thing - I know we will be incredible parents. We'll never let our child go to school with a runny nose. We'll let her learn life's lessons the hard way but we'd never let her fall down. She would respect adults and never be teased by her classmates. We love her now and we've never seen her.

But adoption scares me. There are things beyond my control. What if she hates us? What if her parents change their mind?

It's time I found some serenity, as Jeff is so fond of telling me. I want peace of mind. I want to know my future. I need to learn to relinquish my control and remember that some day, some how, there is a little child out there just waiting to join our family.

I hope she gets here soon.

MTV can Bite Me

I'm starting to get irrationally angry at certain television shows and movies. The latest one I'm starting to get upset about is a show on MTV called "16 & Pregnant." First of all, from an objective view point, it seems contrary to give a television show to pregnant teenagers when we should be teaching them about practicing safe sex and abstinence. To me, MTV is saying, "Hey, you made a completely irresponsible decision, but we'll put you on T.V. and in magazines." It's like rewarding irresponsibility and encouraging other girls to show the same lack of restraint. As if the only thing standing between them and stardom is a just a baby away.

From a completely subjective perspective, though, I get so mad that those girls can get pregnant without even trying...and then, most of the time, they don't even want the baby and they act like it's a huge burden that they're saddled with a child. Now granted, I probably would have felt the same way if I had a baby when I was a teenager. However, had I known that I probably wouldn't have been able to have children, I might have been promiscuous, which I wasn't. It may have been a double-edged sword at the time.

I am at that age where everyone seems to be having babies. I see round baby bellies everywhere. It seems every time I turn around, another girlfriend is pregnant or another one has just given birth. I don't mean to sound bitter. I'm not. Truthfully, I am so jealous that sometimes I have to hold my breath until the feeling passes. Which, I suppose, makes me sound like a bitter (and barren) woman. And, it kills me that no one else seems to be having the problems I am. I've read the statistics. I know that 6.1 million women are affected by infertility. Some indicate that the as many as one in five women have difficulty or an inability to get pregnant. Other figures indicate it's closer to one in ten. Guess what? I know five women. I know ten women. I probably know one hundred women. So why, then, do I feel singled out? Why do I feel like I'm the only one with this problem?

But again, I sound ungrateful. I have been given so much. My husband supports and loves me. My friends will listen for hours. My family cries when I do. My sister offered to be a surrogate for me. I am overwhelmed at the amount of support I've been given. How, then, can I feel so unlucky?

So, that's why I put this blog out there. Maybe someone will stumble across it some day and she can realize that she's not alone out there either.

Roe v. Wade (The Real Story)

The Supreme Court's decision allowing a woman to do what she wants with her body is one of the most contentious pieces of litigation that this country has seen in the last sixty years. Abortion is a hot-button issue, and you'll rarely find anyone in this country that doesn't have an opinion on it. However, this issue has got me thinking, and I find that I'm viewing things in a much different light, given my lack of ability to reproduce.

The name, Jane Roe, was obviously a pseudonym. Her real name was Norma McCorvey. She had two children by the time she was nineteen. Her first pregnancy occurred when she was sixteen, and the result of an abusive relationship. Her second child was placed up for adoption. Her third pregnancy, and the one at the heart of the Roe v. Wade dispute, was actually born. She never underwent the abortion and the baby was placed up for adoption. Since then, Norma McCorvey has led an interesting life. She's a lesbian and has lived with her partner for many years in North Texas. She's also a Republican, a devout Catholic, and now campaigns tirelessly for an unborn child's right to life. She has continually expressed remorse for her contribution in the class action, claiming she was simply a pawn, utilized by two ambitious (and female) attorneys.

I've read the text of Roe v. Wade at least a dozen times. You'd have to believe that this was part of the law school curriculum, and it was even more hotly debated at the Catholic law school I attended. In essence, it gives a woman the right to do with her body as she sees fit. I believe that this characterization, even if painted with broad brush strokes, should be something that women hold dear. I can say, with absolute certainty, that if the government ever tried to legislate on what I can or cannot do to my body, I would be one of the first people on the steps of the Capitol, trying to protect my right to privacy.

But this is about the bigger picture. Last year, there were over 800,000 abortions performed in the United States alone. In China, you can't have more than one child, and abortion is technically a free service offered by the government. The "one child" policy has become more relaxed in recent years, but it surprised me when I learned that the policy has been in place for almost thirty years. In contrast, Chile and El Salvador prohibit abortion under any circumstances, even if the mother's life is at risk. The theory behind the law is that Chileans believe that the life of the unborn child is greater than it's mother's life.

At the end of the day, I think I still come down on the side of a woman's right to choose. I think. I suppose, more objectively, I believe that the government shouldn't control my reproductive rights, in the same way I believe China shouldn't be able to control the nation's family planning. But I see the way my friends carry their pregnant bellies around, and you can already tell they'd die for the life inside of them, and I wonder if Latin America doesn't have an equally good argument as well. I don't suppose there's ever going to be a policy that all Americans can agree on.

I was talking to my friend, Steve, last night. Steve and I have been good friends for years, and I've always been able to talk things over with him, even things as uncomfortable as infertility. I should also mention that Steve is a die-hard Republican, and this has been the source of many hearty debates over the years. Steve calls to tell me what he's been learning in his "Natural Family Planning" Class (side note: He's getting married in July), hoping to pass his recent knowledge on to me. I told him I'd heard it all (because really, I have). And, as it usually happens with us, we got on a political subject where our opinions diverge. Abortion. I told him what I thought about it, feeling as though my opinion should carry much more weight than his, since I am obviously a woman. He told me to think about how many aborted babies could be put up for adoption, and increase my chances if abortion weren't legal.

It makes you think.

According to some (possibly unreliable) statistics, there are two million couples in the United States that are infertile. Now, who knows how many of those people actually want to have children, but at the end of the day, if we take a lesson from Chile and put the baby's life ahead of our own needs and short foresight, we could decrease that number of childless couples.

But, that's just a thought.

It's in the books...

This morning, I woke up and decided to take a pregnancy test. I have no idea why I thought that would be a good idea; it's not like I don't already know what the test is going to say.

So, I went to the bathroom, took the test (read: peed on a stick), and set it on the counter while I brushed my teeth. The box said results could take up to two minutes, so I brushed my teeth really well, staring at the display screen the entire time.

It didn't take long before a picture of a book popped up on the screen. Yes, it was a book. I picked up the test and shook it a few times, and banged it against the bathroom sink. That book stayed right where it was. Puzzled by this, I went in search of the instruction booklet that came with the test, figuring that's what the test was telling me to do. Perhaps I forgot a step? But, anyone who's taken one of these things before knows there's not much you can screw up or forget to do.

The instruction manual was missing. I decided I'd research the issue at work. Still, as I was getting ready, a little light started growing inside of me. It wasn't negative. There was a picture of a book, staring straight at me. And then, my imagination started running wild. Perhaps I'm pregnant with the next Shakespeare or Dickens? Perhaps a Bronte sister has been reincarnated? Mary Faulkner? Hell, I thought, I'd even settle for a Danielle Steele or Nicholas Sparks. The thought of being the mother to such a prolific writer made me dizzy to think about. And, perhaps unjustly, got my hopes up a little too high.

I got into work and the first thing I did was find the E.P.T. website. But, I couldn't find anything referencing a book icon on the webpage, so I called Johnson & Johnson to determine if I had a literary genius growing inside me. Because you know, telemarketers know everything. It didn't surprise me when they told me that the book icon that showed up on the test this morning was an error message. And perhaps, I'll admit I knew that all along. The daydream I had for a brief moment this morning was dashed by "Felicia," who promised to send me a $20.00 E.P.T. coupon in the mail for my troubles.

Still, it wasn't negative. And, for someone who's spent a small fortune on negative pregnancy tests, that means more than you can imagine.

Cinco de Mayo

I haven't really felt much like writing over the past few days. Call it apathy, call it indifference brought on by Vicodin.

So, Wednesday morning came and went. I showed up at the hospital right on time. I marched right on up to the surgical wing of the hospital with determination. However, my strength of resolve seemed to fail when I was stripped, shaved, and poked. Shortly after my IV was placed, they began sending wondrous, magical drugs down the pipe. My sense of resolve and fortitude crumbled. As I was laid down on the operating table, I began rambling incoherently. I started crying for reasons I still can't explain. The last thing I remember is one of the nurses calling my anesthesiologist "Doogie." As in Doogie Howser, M.D. I took her at her word and looked nervously at the doors of the operating room, expecting a fourteen-year old boy to waltz through, scalpel in hand. I would have picked other names to call the doctor, as my expectant eyes landed on a dwarf when when the doors swung open. At least I think he was a dwarf. He hopped up on a step ladder and proceeded to send me off into my coma.

I awoke, in tears, yet again. Thank you estrogen. Next to me was a man who had his leg splinted, and being held in the air by some sort of contraption attached to his hospital bed. He wanted to talk. A lot. I don't remember what he was saying to me, but he would not shut up. If any of you have ever had surgery, coming out of anesthesia is horrible. You're confused, you hurt, and your throat stings. And, the last thing you want to do is converse with the guy next to you about the weather. So, I hit the nurse's call button and requested a change of venue. She looked surprised, until Motor Mouth started hitting on her. He was taken away shortly after that. I withdrew into unconsciousness again.

I remember my doctor coming up to me in the recovery room. Apparently, as Mini-Me was administering my coma cocktail, I began telling everyone who would listen about infertility. I made everyone in the operating room promise to take good care of my ovaries. I have no recollection of this. Apparently, my issues with fertility have permeated even to my deepest levels of consciousness. He told me this, as I looked up at him with nervous and expectant eyes, waiting for him to get to the results. At least that's the look I tried to convey. In reality, I was probably looking at him like he was some sort of sea creature.

So, the good news is that there's nothing structurally prohibiting me from conceiving. They cleaned me out, cleared up the cysts and the endometriosis. Incidentally, the doctors also decided to do a D&C, which means I'm starting "fresh" again. This should be good news. It is good news. However, we're not out of the woods yet. My cysts can come back, as can the endometriosis. In fact, it will. But hopefully, this will spur good changes in my body. I'll start ovulating, and I'll get pregnant. Before my thirtieth birthday. At least this is what I'm telling myself. My own internal, daily pep-talk.

Do you know what one of the worse feelings in the world is? Waking up after drinking way too much the night before, only to be tasked with cleaning up the remnants of the party. Something about the smell of liquor in the morning just makes my stomach churn. When I was in college, my girlfriends and I used to fill water bottles with vodka (Karkov, blech) and bring those to parties, instead of drinking keg beer. We were hardcore. But occasionally, in a blind attempt to hydrate the next morning, you'd reach for the vodka-filled water bottle and take a swig, which instantly produced retching. The old "hair of the dog" adage never held true those mornings. But right now, that's how I feel. And I don't think it's because of the operation.

I hate waiting. When I want something, I want it that moment. Yet, days and weeks go by and nothing changes. I'm still not pregnant. And currently, I can't do anything about that. I've been told to be "patient" and that "good things come to those who wait." I would like to tell people to shove it. I'm sick of waiting. I've stopped reading celebrity gossip because all these movie stars keep talking about "what a gift" children are, and how "amazing and life changing" pregnancy can be. They're acting like they're the first people to ever give birth. So, Giselle Bundchen, Angelina Jolie, and Jessica Alba can all shove it too. Their partners can take a walk off a cliff too. Do you know there's a whole section on the People Magazine website devoted just to celebrity babies?

Of course, I'm just jealous. I know this. I want my turn. I love presents, so why doesn't God give me a child? I want that life-changing experience. I want my husband to laugh over my cravings. I want to marvel at him holding the life we've created. Is that so wrong?