tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-41154386186303886482024-02-20T23:53:34.702-08:00iMagsiMags stands for: Intended Mother After Gestational Surrogacy. My name is also Maggie, some call me Mags. I'm establishing this blog in an attempt to tell my own story of Gestational Surrogacy, and to share stories about our crazy life with 6 year old twins. Maggiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08824208780118119332noreply@blogger.comBlogger34125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4115438618630388648.post-16149924203187148512013-08-02T21:30:00.001-07:002013-08-02T21:30:16.743-07:00DinnerFirst: Hello again! I seem to have lost steam on the blog posts. I think I hit a wall when it came time to get to the "meat" of my story. I promise, I will get back to that story. I need to approach it in an easier way, rather than trying to piece the exact events back together from a mountain of notes and medical records. It was too daunting a task, and I panicked and fled.<br />
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One thing that has kept me very busy these months, has been Irish dancing. I did start lessons along with Sophie, in January. Alex has also joined in the fun- we're the Irish dancing Von-Trapp family performers! I have found that dance class has become a kind of therapy for me. I look forward to our weekly class all week, and leave after 2-3 hours of grueling hard work, absolutely on top of the world. It's seriously addictive. Sophie and I participated in our first feis (pronounced "fesh"), in February. Sophie got a second place for her light jig, as did I. The two of us also did a mother-daughter two hand jig, and tied for 3rd. It was so very gratifying. How often in life do we, as adults, get a chance to work hard at something and perform, much less compete? I mean, unless these are things you actually DO for a living. So we've been practicing hard, I started in hard shoes rather quickly, and now know all of my beginner solo dances. Alex decided he wanted to start dancing as well- and he loves it. But wait- here's the bummer. I have been battling terrible shin splints. Staying up on our toes is killer on the calves. While I was compensating for painful shins in my right leg, a toe on my left foot starting hurting. Which turned into my whole left foot hurting. Alot. To the point where I was having trouble even walking on it. I could tell something was not right, so I went to see the lovely Dr. Pacheco (yes, I do have a bit of a crush on him) yesterday, who showed me on the x-ray exactly how and where my stress fractures are located. Divine. So now I'm wearing the medieval torture device known as "the boot" for 6 weeks, and I'm not allowed to do any dancing. I go back for another x-ray in September. The upside is that we are on a break from dance class anyway until September. But I'm not allowed to practice in that time. Sad clown face, big time. Even walking/ jogging on the treadmill is out of the question. I guess I can do the bike machine? And now comes the serious watch-what-I-eat time, so I don't just gain back the 20+ pounds I've worked so hard to lose since December.<br />
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With this seriously careful about food thinking in the forefront of my mind, I went grocery shopping today. I planned out dinner for us tonight: I'd do a stir-fry with some leeks I already had in the fridge and a yellow pepper, carrots, broccoli, bok-choy, ginger, garlic, lemon grass paste, tamari and lemon. I'd also fry up some firm tofu, and put it all over brown rice. Total experiment to see if the kids would even touch this health-fest of a dinner. I filled my shopping cart with lots of fresh veggies, fruit, turkey sausages, organic brown eggs, organic milk, about 8 different packages of frozen wild-caught different types of fish, flash frozen fruits and veggies, hummus, canola oil cooking spray, gluten free crackers, spinach sandwich wraps, among other necessities. Now don't get me wrong: I also had microwave-able spaghetti and meatballs for kids lunches, pasta, juice boxes, turkey lunch meat, a box of fruit loops, frozen waffles, frozen chicken pot pies, frozen white castle cheeseburgers which the kids love but I think smell like dog food, corn chips...<br />
The one most noticeable thing absent from my cart today? Bread. My love. This will be tough to cut out, but I'm willing to give it a go.<br />
While I was walking around, (ok, hobbling around in my boot) I became hyper-aware of other people shopping, and the contents of their carts. It's a really interesting study in humanity to observe people in grocery stores. Now I don't normally grocery shop in our local co-op, or whole foods, or sprout markets. Only occasionally will I splurge on a few items at those stores. They're just too damned expensive. So I do our normal grocery shopping at our local Smith's. The average people's store. Where most everyone has the same daily struggles: income, employment (or lack-there-of), balancing work and family time, weight issues, pain, depression, etc. Most people there today, were trying to balance costs of their purchases with coupons, or food stamps.<br />
But here's what I found most disturbing: the uncanny abundance of severely obese people- people who ride on wheeled vehicles as walking has become too difficult. What I observed with these people, most consistently, was the contents of their carts. Mostly all of them were filled with absolute crap: donuts, snack cakes, hot dogs, bread, beer... so much crap I had to stop looking. Sugar, processed foods, carbohydrates, fat, and more sugar. Almost no fruit or fresh vegetables or lean proteins, or even whole grains. Seriously horrifying. Sad, really. My thoughts were not as much judgemental, (who the hell am I to judge anyone), but perplexed. How is it that in a country where obesity and diabetes have reached epic proportions, is there seemingly so little education about the things we are filling our grocery carts with? Why are billions of dollars spent by the government getting health "reform" bills passed that government employees themselves don't want any part of, and no one is taking the time or making the effort to educate people about what to eat and not to eat? When did we become a country where billions of dollars are spent in the pursuit of "thin is beautiful" while those who are truly struggling with serious weight and health issues are not getting the support or education about the simplest of things: food. How many countless ailments are burdening our health care system due to the epidemic of obesity? Why are these people not making better choices? Again, don't get me wrong: I also struggle with my weight. Every day is a constant battle of choices and guilt. But I know what I SHOULD be eating and not eating. I know what I should be filling my shopping cart with. Why not others? Do they not know how make better choices? Do they simply not care? Is it less expensive to buy crap? (I refuse to believe this). Is it marketing?<br />
I asked the gal at the check-out about it. Very diplomatically, she responded with, "I just try not to look. I've seen it all. Live and let live, to each their own I guess." Absolutely right. Point well taken. Mind my own fucking business. But then she very quietly told me what she thought was the "real" problem. She told me that she sees so many people come into the store with thousands of dollars in welfare money- WIC checks, food stamps, etc. And they blow it all on crap. Serious crap. She said she once saw a woman come through with a cart FILLED with candy. All paid for with government issued money. When she asked her if she was having some kind of party, the woman apparently responded with, "no- I'm sending it all to my mother in Mexico." Honestly, I didn't know what to say to that. Yes- who the hell am I to judge? But surely, we could be doing better than this!? There has to be better education about food and diet. There just has to be. But where to even begin?<br />
BTW- the kids loved the dinner I made. Small triumphs.<br />
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<br />Maggiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08824208780118119332noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4115438618630388648.post-86141992653073258172013-01-23T19:51:00.001-08:002013-01-23T19:51:15.437-08:00FlewWow- this flu season hit our house hard. First it was Sophie- high fever, barfed a couple of times. The day she was fighting the fever, our thermometer was on the fritz (I found out later) so I was getting readings of 103.4, one hour after I had given her Tylenol. This is when I tossed both kids into the car - on New Year's Eve, mind you, and drove downtown to the Pediatric ER. They took her vitals right away and, voila! No fever. Of course. I don't look like the crazy paranoid mom, or anything, do I!? The nurse actually told me, "well, you can wait if you'd like, but if I were you, I'd go home." Which we did. By the next day, she was doing better, but was developing a nice juicy cough. Then Alex got hit. And he got hit hard. High fever again, and terrible cough. Sophie was well enough to be back at school, but Alex stayed home. Much to Sophie's chagrin. On the way home from picking her up, the first day back after winter break, Alex started coughing in the car and choking on whatever he was coughing up, he couldn't catch his breath and started turning blue. Luckily, we were turning right in front of where an urgent care office was- I whisked him right in. He was able to catch his breath again, but not after causing me to completely freak. (Inside, of course. On the outside, I was all business so I didn't scare him or Sophie). The doctor there said, "It's the flu." And, "You're next." Right on both counts. I got hit the next day, complete with barfing. Because feeling like I had the worst sinus/ lung infection and fever wasn't fun enough. Barfing had to complete the picture. Oh yeah. Almost three weeks later, and I still have a bit of a residual cough. I guess having asthma just doesn't work well with this one. Of course, the cold temps here lately did not help matters one bit. But we're all on the mend! I got lectured about getting flu shots next year, but I must admit: I really think there's a lot to be said for having gotten sick and allowed our own bodies to form their own antibodies and fight it off on our own. When I was a kid, I remember getting sick quite a bit. You got sick, and stayed home for a few days from school. In bed, garbage can next to the bed for barf, lots of liquids and rest and that was it. There weren't flu shots back then, and I do not remember hearing about any deaths or weird strains of viruses no one could fight off on their own. I truly believe it's a bunch of hooey and hype from pharmaceutical companies in order to market and sell product. Those flu shots don't do shit for me. Every year I've gotten one, I've gotten sick anyway. In fact, every year I've gotten one, I've been plagued with one sinus infection after another. I did not get a flu shot this year, and I got the flu. Big deal. I got over it. But so far, not ONE sinus infection. Which is pretty miraculous for me. As for the kids- got them flu shots in the past, and they've both gotten sick anyway. No flu shot this year, and they were sick. And they got over it. On their own.<br />
And so- I ask you: to flu shot, or not to flu shot? What's your opinion? <br />
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<br />Maggiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08824208780118119332noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4115438618630388648.post-55025291494522638192013-01-02T21:04:00.002-08:002013-01-02T21:04:19.803-08:00RAS-PutinRussia, Russia, Russia!! (To be screeched in your best Jan Brady whining tone)<br />
Today, I read on the <a href="http://pailbloggers.com/2013/01/02/guest-post-missohkay-on-russia-banning-international-adoptions/" target="_blank">PAIL Bloggers</a> guest post that President Putin has officially banned all adoptions from Russia to the USA. Including any that are in process. Apparently, the new law "is part of larger legislation by Putin-allied lawmakers
retaliating against a recently signed U.S. law that calls for sanctions
against Russians deemed to be human rights violators," according to the story in the <a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2012/12/26/russia-adoption-ban-against-us_n_2364481.html" target="_blank">Huffington Post.</a> I'm so saddened by this- and truly disgusted. I'm sickened that a twisted politician would "retaliate" in any way to another country in the first place (yes, I know this happens all the time) but to use innocent children as pawns in a spoiled brat reaction is really gross. Because, who is Putin really punishing? The USA? Adoptive families in the USA? Or the needy and family-less children in his own backyard? Is he going to personally insure that all of these children will be well taken care of? Well fed, clothed, kept warm, educated, loved? I seriously doubt it. I suspect he will simply turn his back on them-because, really, wasn't the whole point of this law just to "get back" at the U.S.? Who gives a shit about the children- "fuck those Americans and their adoptions, we're going to keep all our little Russian children here in their own country. THAT'LL show THEM." <raspberry> Where they can spend the rest of their lives stuck in an institutional, bureaucratic system instead of in loving homes with families and parents.<br />
Here's the response to the post that I wrote this afternoon...<br />
Oh this saddens me so much!! My great friend and former roommate has
adopted twice from Russia. Her girls are so beautiful and happy- they
are a marvelous little family. When we were in the midst of our own IF
drama, we briefly explored Russian adoption. We found that both the wait
and the expense were going to be too much for us- particularly as we
were already, by that time, considered “older” parents. I was so
dismayed at the condition of some of the orphanages – babies with
flattened backs of their heads, who were being put down in their cribs
all day long on their backs with no changes or stimulation, delayed
learning from lack of stimulation, potty training by being sat down on
buckets or potties for hours on end. Really horrifying. I don’t know how
much of these tales were factual and how much were exaggeration or even
fabrication. What I did know, is that there were far too many children
in need of good homes and not enough families in their own countries
adopting. I also knew that the majority of these children were the
products of drug addicted parents, and struggled with withdrawal
symptoms, emotional issues or severe learning/ social drawbacks. All
very challenging stuff for any family, made even more so by the added
stresses of adoption, and international adoption at that. It broke my
heart and I did not think we had the fortitude for such stresses.
Selfish sounding, I know. But I knew our limitations. Obviously the
woman who sent her child back on an airplane had underestimated her own
limitations, which is tragic. I wonder how common that underestimation
actually is? I know there are so many deserving families out there who
desperately want children through adoption- and how many of them end up
facing problems they never could have imagined? I also wonder if the
sharp drop in international adoption rates coincides with a rise in
infertility treatments and successes here? Could it be that all of those
families who were historically adopting are now having greater success
conceiving their own children? Has science made such great strides with
infertility treatments that adoption itself is becoming a “thing of the
past” for those who cannot find success with IF treatments? I really
hope not. There must be many many families out there who choose adoption
for the sake of wanting to adopt- period. I think of adoption as
something truly beautiful and noble. I have often thought about our own
decision against it, and for moving forward with a gestational carrier
so we were able to have “our own” children. I have guilt about this. I
sometimes still consider adopting- though by now we really are much
older parents! (And really couldn’t afford it) If I were to pursue
adoption now, it would definitely have been through Russia. It breaks my
heart to know that petty, political backstabbing will hinder this
process when so very many will suffer. And who will suffer most from
this decision? Innocent children in need of loving homes. I hope Russia
is prepared to find more (desperately needed) funding to support the
ever growing (now even more so) population of these children, and to
keep the orphanages already so underfunded, running, staffed, and
stocked? If they won’t accept American parents, will they accept
American dollars to at least try to provide better environments for the
growing number of institutionalized minors? One can only hope.<br />
Has anyone else noticed President Putin's name being the last part of RASPUTIN!? Hmmmm... makes me wonder.... Maybe he really DIDN'T ever die!? Evil fucker.<br />
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Maggiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08824208780118119332noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4115438618630388648.post-6521551352172671332013-01-01T21:15:00.002-08:002013-01-01T21:15:21.944-08:00Let GoI've been more than absent from this blog for the past couple of weeks. Holiday busyness, late nights and somewhat of a writer's block have kept me away from writing anything new here- and for this I apologize! Not just to you, dear reader, but to myself. I apologize for not being able to carve out even a few minutes of my days or nights, to write. I apologize for whatever lack of motivation has kept me away. Mostly, I think, I have simply felt shell-shocked. The Newtown school shootings and my subsequent harsh post, have left me reeling. How can my own small story, or daily rantings possibly be of any interest when families are suffering the loss of precious babies? Why does my own shock and sadness about it even matter? What can I possibly do to help change or improve such a complicated and huge issue as gun control, or mental illness? How could I help those grieving families cope with their losses? The truth: I can't. I hate that. I'm a "fixer." My natural inclination is to want to try to fix things for people- make something better, more tolerable, more pleasant, easier. Ease others' burdens in some way. It's very hard for me to think that I'm somehow powerless. This tragedy has left me feeling exactly that. And I don't like it at all.<br />
I think that this gets at the very heart of infertility. It's something that I am powerless against. It's something I cannot fix, or make more pleasant for anyone, or control. (Hello- Type A personality!) That's a serious emotional challenge: letting go. With the advent of the New Year, my own personal challenge and a challenge for all, would be exactly that- Letting Go. Letting go of past pain and jealousy and anger. Letting go of my own feelings of inadequacy, insecurity, negativity. Letting go of my ideals about possible futures that will never happen and embracing the reality of the ones that can and will. Letting go of expectations- realistic and un. Letting go of fear. I have to say that again: LETTING GO OF FEAR!!<br />
Here's to hoping that 2013 brings new opportunities for greatness and fearlessness. And here's to hoping that 2013 is the year I finally shed the weight (literally and figuratively) of infertility and LET GO.<br />
Peace. Love. Out.<br />
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<br />Maggiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08824208780118119332noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4115438618630388648.post-56307199560960361772012-12-18T23:54:00.000-08:002012-12-19T09:01:00.478-08:00New AngelsI have not been able to write anything about last Friday's horrible tragic events in Newtown, CT. for many reasons. When I first heard about a young man walking into an elementary school and shooting a bunch of people, I just couldn't believe it. I followed the link that had been e-popped around our office at about 9:30 AM. Sure enough, there was CNN's "Breaking news" story- in the very beginnings of its own inevitable sisyphusian roll. I did not read too much, as I was immediately too shocked and upset to focus on what I knew I would hear and read more about later. I had too much work to get done, and too many other things to do that day. Friday was a super busy day for me, and I just couldn't stop mid-whirlwind or I would lose all momentum. And I needed my momentum. My BFF and I were taking our kids up to Colorado the next day, to ride on the Polar Express. Tickets we had gotten a year ago, and a trip we were supposed to have taken last year- right when my Grandmother died. The Durango and Silverton Narrow Gauge Rail puts on the Polar Express extravaganza, and it really is magical. They were kind enough last year, to hold and honour our reservation for this year. Nothing was stopping me from making this trip happen for us all, and I had alot to get through on Friday. During the course of the day, I heard more and more soundbites of the events in CT and some more details. Eventually, I had heard enough to make me physically ill and I decided right then that I was not going to turn on any TV news, or go and read further gruesome details online. I knew all I needed to know about what happened and believe me, my own brain was filling in enough of the details on its own. By Friday evening, I was so devastated, I was shaking and ill and could not bring myself to go to sleep. All I could think about was the nightly routine. My nightly routine with my own kids, and the nightly routine of all the mommies on that night, in Connecticut. My brain started to voice (as it does so often these days) what would eventually become this post. I have not been anywhere near able to organize any of this inner monologue until today, when I began furiously jotting down notes as the thoughts started coming in full sentences. I got more terrible news this morning that a good friend from college has just passed away, this very morning, from complications from HIV induced pneumonia. Spence was the kind of person who was like a lighthouse. He was a bright focus, around which everyone wanted to gravitate. He was intelligent, funny, wry, and in your face. And he never gave up fighting his illness. He was a hero. Hearing of his death has wrenched me out of my stupor, to start writing all the stuff that's been floating around up there in the old grey matter for the past few days. This is for you, dear Spencer- my new protecting angel.<br />
This is for all 26 of the angels newly created on Friday, December 14 2012 in Newtown, Connecticut. As the media continues to saturate the world with Adam Lanza's name, I wish, tonight, to focus on the children and, because I'm the mother of two 6 year old kids, I cannot help but to be thinking about the moms. As I said, I have not read too much about this, or watched any news reports. What I have read, and what I have heard, and what I know are how this story has unfolded in my psyche. I cannot stop thinking about the kids. Were any of them conceived through IVF or other forms of ART? After years of struggling through infertility, did their parents finally welcome their precious and so wanted little ones into the world, only to lose them just a few short years later? Were any of them adopted? Were any of them a twin? Were any of them Jewish, in the midst of celebrating Chanukkah? How many of them played in bubbly filled bathtubs the night before? How many of them took showers that morning with either of their parents? Had any of them just passed a life milestone? Just lost a tooth? Just started to sleep at night without a pull-up? Just started to read, write, add, subtract? Whose snack day was it? Did that child bring in a favorite snuggly animal from their bed, or a model they built with their dad, or a family picture? Were any of them wearing a beloved hand-me-down sweater, or handmade one? Did any one of them just learn how to tie their shoes, ride a bike, swim? Had any of them just gotten over a cold? Sore throat? How many of those kids had brought their own lunches, and who was going to buy a lunch that day? Who among them was dropped off from their car in the drop-off lanes, parents in a rush to get on with their own days? Who was walked into their classroom by one or more parents, maybe having arrived a bit late to school? Who had a tearful or anxious separation from their parent(s) that morning for one reason or another? Had any of them just had a fight with a parent, a sibling, a friend? How many of their parents had had a rough or rushed morning routine and become exasperated with their child for whatever reason? Who had forgotten to say "I love you" that morning? <br />
And what of the morning routine in the classrooms? Had the school just said the Pledge of Allegiance? Were the lunch counts being collected? Were the kids putting their folders away, having snack, sitting in circle, having free choice, starting a lesson?<br />
Were there special Holiday events happening over the weekend that families had had planned (like I had)? How many Christmas cards had already been sent out with complete family pictures? How many of the children killed were only children, without brothers or sisters for their parents to re focus on?<br />
How did the killings themselves go down? Did he simply walk into the room and start shooting at random like a turkey shoot? Were the kids running around the room screaming? Or did (as I've heard) the teacher shove all the kids into a corner and stand in front of them, trying to shield them before they were all shot in the same pile- more like fish in a barrel? How terrified were those children? Did they cry for their mommies? Did they try to run? One of the many many thoughts that plagues me is that they all died away from the arms of their mothers. They died in fear and terror and violence, apart from their families. I have heard that when someone dies suddenly, in a traumatic situation, their soul doesn't know its body has died, and it gets "stuck." These spirits stick around for a while, until they either realize it's time to move on, or they are helped to cross over. I wonder if any of these kids are hanging around their families? I hope none of them is stuck. I'd like to believe they were immediately made into angels, and the only "sticking around" they're doing is to wrap their new wings around their mothers. Because each of those mothers was denied the chance to wrap her arms around her little one as they died. It's common to say that "losing a child is the worst thing for a parent." Children, after they've grown, are supposed to bury their parents- not the other way around. I think it's even worse for mothers to lose their children. That's not to say that it isn't any less difficult for the dads, the grandparents, the sisters and brothers, aunts and uncles, etc. But for a mother to lose her child- especially at the age of 6 or 7, is like having a large portion of your heart ripped from your body. I can't help but think of that horrible speech given by Hannibal Lecter in The Silence of the Lambs when he talks about amputees feeling phantom pain long after a limb has been removed. And for a mother, where does that pain reside? In her heart. By the time your babies are 6 or 7, you've had enough time to get to really know them. You've had time to know and witness the development of their personalities, their likes and dislikes, their predispositions, their tempers, their loves. They have grown intellectually to a point where reason and logic are beginning to allow them to formulate their own ideas about the world, and to react to situations in ways that border adult deductive reasoning. Having them yanked from the world at this age, is like chopping down a tree right when it begins to flower. It's like removing a too large section from an orange- disrupting its delicate and precarious balance as a whole, perfectly formed sphere. A mother's heart is like that orange. It's a delicately balanced whole. Removing too large a portion will surely endanger its precarious balance. Each of the mothers of the Newtown children had too large a portion of their hearts ripped from them when their children were killed. And my heart, some 2000 miles away, is in twisted pain just thinking about this. Because those children could just as easily have been my own.<br />
I keep saying, "I cannot even imagine." But I can. That Friday night must have been a night from hell for those families. Only earlier that very morning, all of those children had been in their own beds. How many of them had made their beds that morning? How many of them had left their rooms in a mess- laundry on the floor, beds unmade, toys strewn about? How many of them had left things to do for that evening after they came home from school? Who would clean all of this up, and how? How were those mothers dealing with the night-time routine without their children? How were they going to bed, while their children's beds were empty? How were they trying to sleep, or weeping, or hysterical, or tranquilized? Knowing their children weren't there. In their own warm beds. With their snuggly soft stuffed animals, or pets? Instead, they were all in body bags in a large freezer at the Medical Examiners office. All 20 of them. I am reminded of the line from Othello, "The tragic loading of this bed"... the tragic loading of that freezer.<br />
I know more than most about State Medical Examiner's labs. I worked on the design of ours for almost two years. I learned more than you'd ever want to know about autopsies, body freezers, specimen storage, drain systems, poured epoxy floors in a light enough color to contrast blood for efficiency of cleaning. And family rooms. I had to design the two rooms in which families would come to view and/or identify the bodies of their loved ones, through a large window. My task was to make these rooms as comforting and calming as possible. All I could think about the entire time I worked on that project was, "what about children?" How can a mother sit in that room, and view her child's body through a pane of glass and not get to hold and cradle them in her arms? It haunted me and has ever since. I know that the Medical Examiner in CT didn't finish with the bodies until Sunday. I also know that none of the families was allowed to see their children until after they had been examined. Two, three days? I know, too, that each child had been hit from between 3 to 11 times with bullets. Think of how small a 6 year old is. Then think of the damage to a human body one single bullet is capable of inflicting. Then think of 11 bullets. In a 6 year old. It's hard to fathom. And it's too disturbing for anyone to contemplate. But think of the Medical Examiner. PTSD, anyone?<br />
And what of the children who weren't at school on Friday for some reason? Doctor's appointment? Dentist? Early Holiday vacation? Sick? Or of the teacher who had just gone on maternity leave the week previous? Survivor's guilt, anyone? Or the stories that are coming out about heroism? The substitute teacher who hid her kids in cupboards and closets, and told the shooter when he came in that her kids were in the gym, only to then be shot herself? Or the Principal who went out into the hallway to secure the situation, only to be gunned down?<br />
I am the mother of 6 year old (6 next week) twins who are in kindergarten, in different classes. Their school is very like Sandy Hook. Small, rural, close-knit community. When I dropped off the kids this morning, I encountered locked classroom doors. When we were let in, I quietly asked if this was the new policy for safety. Alex's teacher looked up at me, over his glasses in a single expression that said simultaneously, "Yes." "Doesn't it suck?" "I'm sorry" and "What has the world come to?" And tears instantly burst into my eyes. I thanked him. I walked out to my car, and my Architect brain took over, planning the newly secured classroom of the future:<br />
<ul>
<li>Main classroom doors with automatic closers and locks, panic push bars on the classroom side for emergency exit only.</li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li>Secondary exits from each room, whose view is shielded both visually and physically from the primary entrance. This exit preferably goes to the outside of the building or to a protected safety corridor.</li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li>Panic buttons in every classroom which, when activated, set off an alarm system that immediately notifies the police, fire, paramedics, and simultaneously closes and locks all doors from the outside, activates the public address system, and sends a text or voicemail message to every parents' cell phone to be on alert and meet at a pre-designated place for further information.</li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li>Bullet-proof, wired safety glass at all windows and doors.</li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li>Escape and emergency routines and drills in all classes carried out on a regular basis.</li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li>Rotating parent or police patrols of school grounds.</li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li>Lockable cabinets in classrooms with tazers, pepper spray, emergency cell phone, emergency medical kits, etc. </li>
</ul>
It's time to start taking protecting our schools seriously.<br />
I heard one of the detectives, a 30 plus year veteran, talking about this tragedy. He was saying that the awful truth is that right now, there is someone else out there planning something else much worse. I believe this to be true. The media coverage of Adam Lanza only helps to propagate the celebrity of his heinous acts to someone like this. There has been alot of discussion about mental illness in the past few days. About Asperghers and Autism and Explosive mental disorders, and gun control. There was a very excellent article written by Liza Long and published on the Huffington Post website, entitled "I am Adam Lanza's Mother." here's a link: <a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2012/12/16/i-am-adam-lanzas-mother-mental-illness-conversation_n_2311009.html">http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2012/12/16/i-am-adam-lanzas-mother-mental-illness-conversation_n_2311009.html</a><br />
In it, she describes the explosive and dangerous temperament of her own son, suffering from similar mental disorders to Adam Lanza. She describes having to take away and lock up all the knives in her house, after her son became so violent and threatening she got seriously worried he would harm her, himself, his siblings. She describes the lack of systematic assistance and treatment other than prison for these mentally ill people. She describes being so concerned for her son's own safety as well as hers, that she seeks having him committed. I heard today, that Adam Lanza's mother was also contemplating this very thing. Which is, theoretically, what may have set him off. My question is: If she knew he was so sick and prone to explosive outbursts, or potentially dangerous, why ON EARTH did she keep guns in the same house where she and HE were residing? And why IN THE WORLD were these guns not locked up tight? It may seem pointless to speculate on why or how after the tragic events, but I also have to question the ready availability of very violent video games. I have no idea if Adam Lanza was a "gamer," but I do know that these games simulate unbelievable scenarios of gun play, violence, shooting, and carnage. It's my opinion that kids who play these games on a consistent basis become de-sensitized to the reality of this level of violence. To them, these scenes just aren't real. And when you add mental illness into this cocktail, that separation from reality can become deadly. The shooting and death and bloodshed before them, becomes something from one of their games- where they are the hero and the death around them simply isn't real. Except that it was real. I can only think that the moment before Adam Lanza aimed the gun at himself and pulled the trigger, he had some kind of momentary lucidity in which he must have realized the shock of what he'd just done WAS real and could only then take his own life. I think these games need better and more closely guarded control.<br />
The hope, if any, I can render from this horrible tragedy, is this: that there are now 26 new angels out there watching over us. And their names are:<br />
<br />
- <b>Charlotte Bacon</b>, age 6<br />
- <b>Daniel Barden</b>, age 7<br />
- <b>Rachel Davino</b>, age 39<br />
- <b>Olivia Engel</b>, age 6<br />
- <b>Josephine Gay</b>, age 7<br />
- <b>Ana M. Marquez-Greene</b>, age 6<br />
- <b>Dylan Hockley</b>, age 6<br />
- <b>Dawn Hochsprung</b>, age 47<br />
- <b>Madeleine F. Hsu</b>, age 6<br />
- <b>Catherine V. Hubbard</b>, age 6<br />
- <b>Chase Kowalski</b>, age 7<br />
- <b>Jesse Lewis</b>, age 6<br />
- <b>James Mattioli </b>, age 6<br />
- <b>Grace McDonnell</b>, age 7<br />
- <b>Anne Marie Murphy</b>, age 52<br />
- <b>Emilie Parker</b>, age 6<br />
- <b>Jack Pinto</b>, age 6<br />
- <b>Noah Pozner</b>, age 6<br />
- <b>Caroline Previdi</b>, age 6<br />
- <b>Jessica Rekos</b>, age 6<br />
- <b>Avielle Richman</b>, age 6<br />
- <b>Lauren Rousseau</b>, age 40<br />
- <b>Mary Sherlach</b>, age 56<br />
- <b>Victoria Soto</b>, age 27<br />
- <b>Benjamin Wheeler</b>, age 6<br />
- <b>Allison N. Wyatt</b>, age 6<br />
And <b>Spencer Cox</b>, age 44<br />
<br />
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<br />Maggiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08824208780118119332noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4115438618630388648.post-8615393361826091102012-12-12T21:56:00.001-08:002012-12-12T21:56:10.340-08:00Back Story<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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I must tell a bit of back story. Back story, in my opinion, is vital to knowing and understanding the entire picture. And I do have alot of back story to tell. I will be interjecting it from time to time, as you may have noticed with some previous posts (My story- parts 1 and 2) both being pregnancy related back stories. I also plan to infill with things from my childhood and how I was raised. If nothing else, it makes for an interesting read- and you'll get to know me so well. Don't think that this means you can just come over and put your feet up on my coffee table though. I do have some boundaries. Tonight's back story is my birth. My mother loved to tell the story of my birth, especially to embarrass my
Dad. </div>
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Chicago,
July 1968. Saturday. I don’t know the exact reason, but my mother was going in to the
hospital to be induced the next day. The hospital was Michael Reese, on the
south side of the city. My mother, my father, my aunt, my grandmother and
grandfather and both of my brothers had been born there. Because of the recent
turmoil in the city, (Race riots, Democratic National convention, forthcoming
elections, war protests, etc.) Chicago was a powder keg. There were National
Guard soldiers posted all over the city, slinging rifles and machine guns.
Imagine my mother, very sheltered, suburban housewife, VERY pregnant, very independent,
driving herself from the very sheltered northern suburbs into the south side of
the city, with a small suitcase beside her. It’s already an interesting scene.
Now imagine that she pulls into the hospital parking lot, only to be stopped by
two National Guard soldiers with their machine guns at the ready, poking their
noses into the family wood-sided station wagon to see what appears to be a
pregnant woman, with a small suitcase. I doubt either of these well-intentioned
gentlemen was married, or the scene would have appeared entirely differently
from how they perceived it. They made her get out of the car and PROVE that she
was actually pregnant, and NOT, in fact, hiding a bomb under her dress. Now my
mom, although she was an actress, was actually surprisingly shy. I bet she just
loved this. (Not.) Well, obviously, the two guards were convinced, and probably
extraordinarily embarrassed. Mom checked in, and presumably went right to
sleep. A bit of back story here: in 1968, they were still using twilight sleep
medications during many births. Twilight sleep is a basic term for any
combination of medications that cause laboring moms to retain no memory of
pain. It was not a pain blocker in any way, rather, a form of medicinally
imposed amnesia. Women who were given twilight sleep often thought that they
were the “modern” women who didn’t have to experience the pain, mess and
discomfort of childbirth. Paradoxically, they actually DID experience all of
these things- they just had no memory of it. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Consequently, these women often experienced
side effects from the medications which caused their inhibitions to also be
blocked. They were “wild” in their labors, kicking and screaming, and sometimes
doing harm to themselves or to their helpers. More often than not, they had to
be strapped to their beds. Straps lined with lamb’s wool was the norm, so as
not to leave obvious bruising and alarm husbands. Sadly, these husbands were
not allowed into birthing rooms as it was considered “inappropriate”, not to
mention most husbands would probably have yanked their wives right out of there
upon witnessing these barbaric practices. But this was how childbirth had gone
in this country for a long time- beginning around the turn of the century, when
these combinations of drugs were first used and found to be the “modern
woman’s” alternative to painful home births. Birth moved from homes and away
from midwives, into hospitals with doctors and nurses carefully administering
pain-killing medications, and maintaining (the illusion of) completely sterile
environments. Usually, these drugs were any combination of pain killers and
amnesiacs. Commonly, the cocktail was a mixture of morphine and a drug called
scopolamine. Morphine acted as a very strong analgesic, or pain reliever, and
is actually (surprisingly) derived from poppies (ala opium.) Scopolamine is a
drug that inhibits certain neuro transmitters; thus the loss of memory portion,
and is derived from a plant called Deadly Nightshade (which can be poisonous.)
Charming combination, don’t you think? Poison and Opium. Good times.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Both of my brothers had been born while my
mother was in twilight sleep, and she fully intended to do the same with me. To
her and everyone else’s surprise, I had other plans. I was very small (weighed
in at 5lbs 3oz.), and I was also mom’s third baby. When she was given an enema
very early the next morning, she went right into active labor. She bypassed
first stage labor, and went immediately into active dilation. It took her a
total of 3 hours to fully dilate, during which time (reason unknown) no drugs
were administered. When it came time to push, she asked for Trilline- an
inhaled narcotic pain blocker. I came literally flying out of her so fast,
presumably with her very first push, that she said they almost didn’t catch me
and I nearly went flying off of the delivery table. The attending OB/GYN wrote
in my baby book himself that they only used 65cents worth of Trilline on my
mom- barely enough for a single breath, which I’m sure she didn’t even get in
all the excitement. Like it or not Mom, I was born au-natural! I love that part
of the story. A bit more back story: Mom and Dad had already had two boys. In
1968, they were not doing routine ultrasounds (or even had the technology to do
them at all?) to foretell a baby’s sex. Mom spent her entire pregnancy with me
hoping for a girl, and my Dad too. When I was born, the doctor (who was also a
family friend and knew of this wish by both of my parents), decided to play a
practical joke on my Dad; He wrapped me in a towel right away (without so much
as a sponge-off) and brought me out of the delivery room into the “Dad’s
waiting room” and presented me, all bloody and covered with vernix, genitals first,
to my shocked father and declared, “It’s another boy!” I guess my Dad was so
shocked that he didn’t even notice the lack of a penis and just sort of went,
“uuhhh….ooohhhhh” I’m not sure how long it did take him before he knew he had a
daughter, but I can only assume it wasn’t too long.</div>
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Twilight sleep- we've come a long way, baby.<br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
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Maggiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08824208780118119332noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4115438618630388648.post-24236084380278075382012-12-09T23:20:00.000-08:002012-12-09T23:20:18.777-08:00MonsterI have been delinquent in my posts... here's why: I am completely overwhelmingly intimidated by the ACTUAL writing of my story. I know how that sounds. Especially because the whole impetus behind this blog, was to format a way to write out my story- my entire story. Writing out my whole story is a daunting task, to say the least. I've gotten to the point where I am ready and willing to begin attacking the heart of it- starting with when Pete and I began dating and got married. But am I actually able? I had hoped to rely on notes and files and date books, and journals to help me with this. I pulled out all this stuff tonight, in an attempt to begin to organize it and start writing about our very first attempts to get pregnant. And then I saw it all sitting on the coffee table in front of me. Here's how it looked:<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhu8a41KUnh0q-JuSAk8FVZzFY7Cl2EEcMxnFFrxmljqT3QgghhR72qM9sdKacakMfMgZU6dhBlv5KTGpq7mJy-Wl_bZ1uPPjzXyXimcrr9dpPOBsxvbzh8Wd5ON5_4b6t1NE6hU1W-2GuK/s1600/IMG_0776.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhu8a41KUnh0q-JuSAk8FVZzFY7Cl2EEcMxnFFrxmljqT3QgghhR72qM9sdKacakMfMgZU6dhBlv5KTGpq7mJy-Wl_bZ1uPPjzXyXimcrr9dpPOBsxvbzh8Wd5ON5_4b6t1NE6hU1W-2GuK/s320/IMG_0776.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
None of it is in any kind of order. It's a completely chaotic pile. Not to mention an emotional one. I'll attack it a bit at a time. First, I will try to put it all into chronological order. Then I'll separate the medical files from my own research and other writing. The date books already are in order, so I will try to match the files with events recorded in the date books. Then I'll begin writing.<br />
Spaulding Gray made a great film of one of his best monologues called Monster in a Box. If you're unfamiliar with it, see it. He was brilliant. The premise, and hence the title, address his difficulty in getting started writing his novel- which was an autobiographical story about his mother and her suicide. He did eventually write it (Impossible Vacation) but not without many adventures and mishaps and intimidation from the "monster" of paper. I can identify. I'm standing on a precipice.<br />
I will call my files the Monster.<br />
This past weekend was very emotional. It was the one year anniversary of my Grandmother's death, the first night of Chanukah, Sophie's first public Irish dance performance. One really great thing befell me on Friday- I discovered that we now have a Lush store! Albuquerque has "arrived!" If you haven't discovered the pleasures of Lush products, I implore you to RUN to your nearest location, or find them on the web and order one thing. Doesn't matter which one- they are all equally incredible. Beautiful, natural products never tested on animals, proceeds of sales donated to various charities, products so pure and natural they are all actually edible. Scrum-dilly-ishous. Lush saved my butt this weekend. I stocked up. I bought a bath melt that I have previously ordered and received melted. The sales clerk said to me, "it will never be melted again." This, after I literally jumped and ran and did a happy dance ALL THE WAY AROUND THE STORE. I kid you not. They must have thought there was genuinely something wrong with me. The bath melt was everything I knew it would be. And it soothed my soul. Here are some gratuitous pictures of the products, in our very own Lush store:<br />
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Mmmm... just look at all those lovely candy scented re-usable bubble wands, fizzy-lifting bath water tinting bath bombs, and fair trade shampoos made with honey (which I used on the kids' hair today).<br />
Lush-us.<br />
My advice for facing your monsters? Indulge in some products from Lush. Soak. Rinse. Repeat. <br />
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<br />Maggiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08824208780118119332noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4115438618630388648.post-39981830807100657862012-12-04T20:52:00.000-08:002012-12-04T21:18:12.206-08:00DealForgive me, dear readers, if tonight's post sounds a bit terse. But, well, I'm kinda miffed. I'm kinda all kinds of negative today- so again, please forgive and bear with me. I have had two separate family members basically negate all of my emotions about my story, and tell me that I just need to "deal." One of them who said that they "can't understand why I'm worrying about the past when I have two perfect, beautiful children," the other who told me that "I really need to just get over it." <i>Oh, really?</i> Do I? Without intent of offending, Here's what pisses me off about this: I am simply trying to write my story, even if it's in bits and snatches. I cannot very well write my story with any kind of honesty, without including the emotional element, now can I? And it really isn't a matter of "getting over it." It's a very important part of my life and who I am. I am FAR from ungrateful for the children I have- in fact, I'm probably MORE grateful for them because of what I went through to have them. "Getting over it" means what, exactly? That I should just forget about this journey, or diminish its impact and importance because - why? Because that journey wasn't important? Because it was in the past? Because it doesn't matter now that I have my children? Well, I'm sorry, but- um, no. That journey and story is vital. It is vital because it is how they came into this world, and I want them to know and appreciate how they came to be. It is vital because it shaped who I am as their mother. It is vital, because it has altered who I am as a woman. And it is vital because, to negate it or forget it, is to deny it. To deny it is to turn my back on it. Which I am unable and unwilling to do. Does this make me weak? stagnant? stuck in the past? I don't think so.<br />
I want to write my story, in an attempt to better rationalize my own feelings about, as well as to share the amazing journey with others who can identify and/ or find some hope from it. And I want my children to know their whole story. It's my way of preserving the story of our family. It's my legacy to them. My mom never told me a whole lot about her family- and for this, I am saddened. I wish I knew more about my heritage than I do. I want to leave my kids with the full knowledge of how they came to be- and with the full knowledge of how much they were wanted. Writing my story must include the emotional element, or it wouldn't be honest. Or true. Not having carried my own kids and given birth to them myself is the vital and central part of this story. The fact that I still carry sorrow about this is the truth. Take it or leave it. The fact that I still carry sorrow about this is also totally normal and human, and it's not something I'm prepared to defend or apologize for. And I do still carry some sorrow about the fact that I can't ever be pregnant and experience childbirth myself. I just do. And it doesn't mean I don't love and appreciate my kids. And it doesn't mean that I'm stuck or sadly dwelling on the negative or hung up on the past. It just IS. I am simply acknowledging it, which, for me, feels much healthier than denying or burying these feelings. And I am going to write about it.<br />
While I'm on topic, I am having a difficult day today with these feelings. I have so many dear, dear friends who happen to be pregnant right now. For fuck's sake, even Princess Kate has announced she's expecting! Is it totally sick and wrong that I somehow secretly wished she'd have had a bit more of a challenge getting pregnant? Because THAT would really make people pay better attention and sit up and take notice of the infertility crisis? Sick? Mean? Not my intent, but really- I sort of did. There. I said it. I read something today- details about how someone who is newly pregnant after also struggling with infertility for a long time and about the magic and miracle of hearing for the first time, the heartbeat of the baby inside her. She was in tears. I was in tears. Totally mixed and conflicting for me. I'm so happy and excited for her. At the same time, it put me emotionally, right back to where I was before I had my kids. Which hurt so much. Again, I found myself feeling that jealousy, anger, unfairness, "why not me?" feeling which is so awful and ugly and painful. I just feel I got dealt a bad hand. I got cheated. Not pretty, I know. But there it is. I hope I'm not alone in this? Because I know a LOT of women who have gone through infertility, IVF, etc. and who are now mommies. But I don't know ANYONE else who has had their children via gestational surrogacy. I know no one who I feel knows or can fully understand my predicament of exact emotions. I'm feeling kind of alone in this. I guess that's my hand. I'll "deal." <br />
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<br />Maggiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08824208780118119332noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4115438618630388648.post-33447779563471561402012-12-01T23:43:00.001-08:002012-12-01T23:48:45.289-08:00Tar- JayI'm done. And I do mean <i>done</i>. Chanukah, Christmas, Birthdays; kids, other family, stockings- done. <br />
Thanks to the magic of Target, I was able to complete the madness today, and I must admit *bows head shamefully* that once again, I've overdone it. I swore- like I do every year, that I wouldn't. But I did. Oh well. I'll put "Santa" on most of the tags. Blame the fat man in the red suit for the spoiling! Haha! I WILL, however, make sure we do a major clean-out before anything new comes into the house. Damnit.<br />
I was so amused while I walked around the red-bullseye this morning- bleary-eyed and overwhelmed, clutching my Starbuck's cup like it was filled with the most precious nectar of life. Which it was, of course. I was amused because I was surrounded by, and repeatedly bumped into other bleary-eyed, overwhelmed moms clutching lists in one hand, Starbuck's cups in the other. We all looked as if we'd just been released from the same work-camp; Tired, harassed, eyes glazed over with the sheer over-indulgence of it all. Clutching our coffee like it was heroin. And the toys- my G-D some of the shit being sold is outrageous! I've said it before: <i>Can't my kids please just be 5 for a minute, before they know everything about everything in the world!?</i> It was really shockingly difficult to find things for them that weren't either for babies, or somehow electronic, way too mature, just plain weird, or completely in-appropriate. Here are some of these gems, for your enjoyment....<br />
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"Election 2012 Barbie" Oh this one kills me. Look closely. It says "The White House Project" in the upper left hand corner. Is this a new project to put a Barbie in every office in the White House? Is it something the incumbent administration will be implementing in order to restore a few minutes of playtime into every working day? What does this mean? And what is UP with the Secret-Service dog behind her, complete with its own sunglasses and ear-piece!? WTF!? The front of the podium reads, "Stands on her own" Does this mean she can literally stand up in her minnie-mouse high heeled feet, without the aid of that podium? Or does it mean that she stands on her own- as in, she doesn't answer to anyone or anything. Is this a new political party she's forming? Note the button: President B party. The Barbie-party: we stand for fashionable outfits which always include some pink, nice pearls, big boobs, long legs, and no genitalia. Rock the vote.<br />
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Will someone please, for the love of all that's holy, tell me what the hell the deal is with the zombie/ monster obsession? These are from a collection called "Monster High"- Monster high school? Monsters getting high? What? This one is particularly horrifying. It's a "build your own monster" pack. Complete with severed heads, dismembered body parts, come-f-me heels, and detached hands and ears. But only ONE wig.<br />
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This one is called Threaderella. She's quite fashionable. Note that one hand is not attached. And how does she WALK in those whore shoes!?<br />
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OK. I do not have a tween yet. I don't know who Cody Simpson is. I can only assume he's some tween-popular pop star. Sophie did say to me, to my complete horror the other day, that she's a big fan of Justin "Beaver." I nearly shat myself. When has she EVER heard any of his music? Do I correct her, or do I let her go on calling him a beaver? *Giggle.* I said beaver. Here's the new singing Cody Simpson doll- stick your finger through the hole in the packaging and poke him in the penis to hear him sing!<br />
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What. The f-k. Is this? Designer clothing for Barbie. Because these high-brow fashion houses have nothing better to do than to design crap for 9 inch dolls? Oh. Wait. I guess they're really just about the same size as the stuff that's being designed for real-life emaciated waifs. Just a bit shorter. Hey- let's dress Barbie up for a night of clubbing and make sure she looks hot enough to get laid! Look- she's got some CFM heels, and a small silver handbag- comes with a tiny glass vial filled with white powder, a miniature mirror and a teensy rolled up dollar bill to complete the party!<br />
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Meet Bonebasher Bane. With bashing action. Is it just me, or does this guy vaguely resemble one of the Village People? He looks like he just stepped off the set of Pulp Fiction- wearing his leathers and his silencing face mask. Excuse me, but is that a big green dildo on the left? <i>Try me. Squeeze my legs.</i><br />
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This one is a "Brawlin' Buddy." It's a stuffed plush. When I think of a stuffed plush toy, I think of something my kid is going to snuggle up with in bed. Is this what you want your sweet child to be squeezing in his bed when he sleeps? And he talks. What does he say? I'm not sure I want to know.<br />
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I'm from Chicago. I just thought this one was really cool. But where's Hester? He's the one I'd really want.<br />
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Again, with the zombies!? What ARE these things!? <br />
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This is the ugliest thing I've ever seen. It's Ren. From Ren and Stimpy. Are these guys actually still around!?<br />
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Aaaaaand. Here's the Chanukah section. It's about one-eighth of a row. Tucked neatly into the very back corner of the store. Poor little Jewish kids. Let's make sure they feel even MORE different and isolated and forgotten during the <i>HOlidays</i> by sticking their sad little section into the furthest corner of the store. *sad clown face* <br />
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<br />Maggiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08824208780118119332noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4115438618630388648.post-68478095905148129792012-11-30T22:18:00.001-08:002012-11-30T22:18:55.397-08:00Out of the mouths of babesKids just say the derndest things sometimes, don't they? My Grandmother had an amazing wit and very sharp sense of humor. When we were there last year over Thanksgiving, I got together with some friends one night for a girls night out. One of them gave me a small notebook and said that I MUST start writing down my Grandmother's little quips- "Gammie-isms" as I called them. I searched for that notebook tonight, unable to locate it- I suspect it's been tucked amongst my miscellaneous memorabilia in the storage loft. I'll be damned if I'm climbing a ladder to hunt for it now- I'm already snug in my nightgown sitting up in beddy-bye. I do recall, though that I was only able to write down three things in this notebook. One of them was "102 and I can still Charleston" (which she really still could. The woman was amazing.) Another was "102 and still constipated" (no comment), and the third I do not remember verbatim but I know it was something along the lines of "The men my age can't keep up with me. Mostly because the men my age can't stand up in the first place."<br />
My kids seem to have inherited Gammie's wit. I really MUST start writing down their funny quips.<br />
Today, when we drove over a large bump in the road (the kind that pushes your stomache up into your throat if you're going fast enough) Sophie said, from the backseat, "I just love going over big bumps. It makes my 'gina go sour." !??<br />
Last night, we were talking about my Mom. A bit of back story here, my kids are very savvy when it comes to death. They have already lost someone really important to them (Gammie), and witnessed the demise and death of Pete's oldest childhood friend and best man from our wedding, to cancer. They know all about my Mom's struggle with cancer, my Aunt's current struggle with it, and other family and friends all lost to various forms of cancer. In my opinion, they are altogether too familiar with cancer for 6 year-olds. Such is the way of the modern world. Alex asked what kind of cancer my Mom had, and I said, "colon." To which he replied, "OH- because she drank too much cola!" (You must understand that we do not drink soda, nor do my kids, They've never even tried it. I guess in telling them that soda is not very good for them and full of sugar, they must also have assumed that it's something so bad that it has its very own form of induced cancer!) OH- the explanation after this was just priceless. <br />
I will be purchasing a small notebook in which to write down forthcoming "Alex- isms" and "Sophie- isms." Hopefully I will get the chance to break it out in the future and do some serious embarrassing at their weddings. <br />
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<br />Maggiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08824208780118119332noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4115438618630388648.post-78155188065325491442012-11-29T11:23:00.000-08:002012-11-29T11:23:35.110-08:00GlitchWe took the kids to see the new, not very widely advertised Disney movie, "Wreck it Ralph" last weekend. I'm so glad to see that John Lasseter has learned a lesson from Cars 2, and gone back to a kinder, simpler script formula. Cars 1 and Toy Story 1 were such lovely, heartwarming movies- filled with lots of good wholesome messages- and they were fun for grown-ups, too. Cars 2 and Toy Story 3 all started taking very dark turns. Cars 2, especially, was shockingly violent and so far removed from every "nice" theme in the first movie- what happened to those characters we cared about so much in the first film!? Did they all suddenly go off their med's?<br />
And then there was "Brave." Oy vey with this one. Sophie spent most of this movie with her face buried in my lap, sobbing and terrified. What has Disney been thinking lately? have they forgotten their YOUNG audience in an attempt to keep up with other animation houses, appealing to older audiences? I'm not condoning the "Prince and Princess get married at the end and everyone lives happily ever after" every time scenario, by any means. But seriously, explosions and murder and very frightening killer bears, and deception and lying and betrayal all so profoundly portrayed? Really? Can't my kids just be 5 for a LITTLE while, before they know everything ugly about the world?<br />
I loved that Wreck-it Ralph was endearing without being saccharine. I loved that the other main character, Vanellope Von Shweetz was a "glitch." She was borderline saccharine, but she was supposed to be. She was a flawed computer code. And she could also "glitch" at will- meaning she could manipulate herself to go off-center when she needed to, in order to get what she needed. I loved that about her. I often think I'm a glitch. Maybe my code just wasn't written pristinely, or somehow got shifted along the way. But I can alter myself or my own thoughts enough when I need to, in order to stay in the game and remain sane.<br />
I like to think maybe my infertility is a glitch. Or maybe infertility in general, is a glitch. Somewhere along the way, our genetic code got a slight flaw, or at some point, that code has become tainted- and maybe that taint is spinning out of control as more and more families are struggling with infertility. That "glitch" is starting to become the "norm." This is a frightening thing to me. I'm reminded again of the movie "Children of Men" in which our future society has become completely sterile.<br />
In my book, I want to explore the idea that perhaps infertility has become an environmentally elicited thing. I'm also intrigued by the notion that maybe it's an inherited trait. What I really think, though, is that somewhere along the way, there was a glitch- maybe environmentally caused, that then BECAME an inherited genetic marker. It's a big, huge hypothesis, I know. It's so huge, in fact, I'm not even sure where or how to begin even researching such an idea. The only place I have been able to start, is with my own family history. The first chapter of my book, begins by talking about the fertility history of my own family, and how it seems to have become altered with immigration and assimilation. Here's an excerpt from that first chapter:<br />
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When my
great, great, great Grandmother, Bertha, (also called Betsy) and
her husband Seligman came to this country in 1848, they had already had 2
daughters: Rachel and Sophia (Sophia was my great-great Grandmother.) Rachel
was 4 years old and Sophia was two when they came over from Prague, Czechoslovakia.
Seligman had come two years earlier to establish a place in New York
for the family, on Delancey Street. Betsy then had another six children:
Pauline, born in 1849, (who died), Emanuel born in 1850, Fanny (Jerome Kern’s
mother) born in 1853, Julia born in 1859, Moses born in 1861, and Leo born in
1864.<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> </i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span>Eight children. Sophia married Bernard, in 1863. She was 17. Sophia and
Bernard had five children: Jennie, born in 1865, Sidney, born in 1867, Henry
(who went on to become a somewhat famous painter) born in 1868, Elsie (my great-
Grandmother), born in 1870, and Josephine (Josie) born in 1873. OK. Lots of
children, to a family who were immigrants (the “first generation” family), and
to a second generation family.</div>
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Elsie Levy
married Samuel, a dashing gentleman from England, in 1903.
Elsie and Sam would then have been the third generation family. Elsie was what
Gammie called a “big woman”- she was 5’-7”, and a bit plump. She is who I get
my entire body from. (Although I’m short!) Elsie was 33 when they got married:
very old for 1903. They tried to have a baby for 6 years before my Grandmother,
Sophie Jane (Gammie) was born, in 1909. Elsie was 38 when Gammie was
born: that’s even considered an “older” mother today- imagine in 1903, it was
unheard of- and her father was 54! <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I do
not know the circumstances of Elsie’s infertility, nor did Gammie. Elsie died
of breast cancer when Gammie was 7 years old. Elsie was 45. Fertility seems to
have taken a dive by only the third generation family. By the fourth generation
family, there appears to be the start of further fertility and childbearing
troubles in the family.</div>
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Gammie
married Edwin in Chicago in 1927. (They are the fourth
generation family.) She was 17. Her father, whom she adored, died the following
May from pneumonia which he developed from standing in the rain, at a fight.
(This was pre-penicillin.) Two years later, when she 19, Gammie got pregnant. She
had a hard time with her first child, Caryl. When Gammie was pregnant, she was
young and very naïve (having been sent to a convent school by her stepmother). EW
(my Grandfather) insisted she see the “old family doctor,” Dr. Schiller. When
they discovered that the baby was breech, approaching the delivery date, EW’s
half-sister, Lou (who had been like a mother to Gammie), insisted
that she go see Dr. Joseph B. Delee- a famous doctor of “modern” obstetrics (he
had delivered Gammie herself).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Dr. Delee
told her that considering how small she was, she should have a C-section to
deliver the baby safely. This scared Gammie. She approached Dr. Schiller about
this, and, being an “old school” practitioner, he said no. When she went into
labor, Dr. Schiller used forceps to pull the baby out, and he injured the
baby’s head, causing severe brain damage. Caryl never could walk. She could
eventually crawl, but she was never, as Gammie put it, “quite right.” Caryl
died at the age of 19 months from pneumonia, while Gammie and EW were in California
for “a rest.” They had to take the train all the way back to Chicago, knowing
they were coming home to bury their first child. </div>
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Gammie had
another pregnancy, but had a very unpleasant miscarriage. When she got pregnant again, she did go to Dr. Delee right
away. When she started spotting, he immediately put her on very strict bed rest,
“until she feels life.” She was on bed rest for over 3 months. This baby, (my
Dad,) was fine and the birth went well for her. She had one more child, my Aunt
Sue, four years later.</div>
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The women on
EW’s side also had lots of children, in the previous generations before he was
born. Henry, born in Germany, and his wife Rosa, came to the
US @ 1847 or 1848. They had had two children born in Germany; Emanuel and
Samuel. After they settled in Maryland, they had another 7 children. Nine
children. Their daughter, Caroline, married Isaac, and they moved from
Norfolk Virginia, to Chicago. They had 5 children- the youngest was EW’s mother,
Florence. Florence married Isaac and had only one child- my
Grandfather, EW. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s very interesting
to me, that on both sides of Gammie’s family, the first generation families who
emigrated to the US had a lot of children; the subsequent generations had a bit
less, and the generation of Gammie and EW’s parents, had only a single child
each, after what seems to have been struggles with infertility. Could it be
something in the water, in the newly industrialized United States? It really
makes me wonder. I do not know very much about my mother's side of the family, except that her mother, Margaret, had troubled pregnancies and miscarriages between when my Uncle was born and my Mom. Margaret and my Grandfather, Sheldon lived in rural Ohio. Margaret was eventually sent to a specialist in Chicago for treatment and bed rest when was pregnant with my mom. Mom was born very prematurely at a time when these babies typically did not survive. She beat the odds, however and did survive. My mother never had any real problems (at least that she ever told me about) with pregnancies or with getting pregnant. She had a miscarriage between when my brother was born and when I was born, but she never considered it as anything out of the ordinary. </div>
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So when and how did this glitch occur? Has it been gaining speed, like a snowball rolling downhill? Am I simply the glitch? One thing our RE told us in the midst of our journey, was that my daughter could perhaps inherit my infertility trait. I am hoping against all hope that she doesn't. Or at least, that by then, science will have figured a way around or how to fix the glitch. </div>
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Glitch: Fertility Interrupted. </div>
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<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-fareast; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><br /></span>Maggiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08824208780118119332noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4115438618630388648.post-68125103002803216042012-11-25T21:40:00.000-08:002012-11-25T21:48:54.439-08:00Home again, Home again...Jiggety Jig. So glad to be home! It was very nice spending time visiting with my brother and his family, but I am always so glad to come home. I love my home. I love my beddy-bye, and my own bathroom, and my cats and our fireplace, and our yard, and New Mexico. I especially love having a day of flying when my fear seems to be no where in sight. This does happen from time to time, and it's always such a nice change of traveling pace for me. I must admit my kids are a joy to travel with. They are really pros. We started flying with them when they were 6 months old, and by now they know the drill. They help with security bins, they don't have any inclination to wander off, they can figure out their own entertainment on the planes, and they were never "screamers." When our kids were babies, I had a "flight kit" in the diaper bag. It consisted of two bottles, separate from regular drinking or feeding- at the ready for just take-off and landing. I had small amounts of baby cough syrup (yes, I did do this) so they would be just drowsy enough not to have fits. I had toys, coloring stuff, movies and games on both an ipod and iphone. I had snacks, diapers, wipes, changes of clothes, books, gripe water for gas, anything I could think of to handle whatever situation might potentially arise. And yes, sometimes there were flights when I would have to walk up and down the aisle with each one in turn, doing the "football hold" while they cried- but not very often. <br />
On our first flight today, there was a young mom with her almost
two-year old right behind us. She'd obviously never flown with this
child before- she was very ill-prepared. She did not seem to have any kind of anything to entertain, distract, or feed this child. Especially during take off and landing, when his ears must have been hurting. And so- this child would let out the most unbelievable ear-drum piercing shrieks every- oh, 2 or 3 minutes. I kept trying to doze off, then "RRRAAAAAAAHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!" And she would just oh-so-quietly go "shhhhh, honey." I wanted to smack her. I really couldn't believe it when I heard her saying to the poor man sitting next to the two of them, "oh- he's being so good!" Jeez- if that was him being GOOD, I'd hate to see him being BAD!<br />
So here's what I don't understand about this: Why don't people discipline their children in public situations like this? What are young parents afraid of? I would never have tolerated that kind of shrieking from my kids. For a second. That doesn't make me a hard-ass parent. It just makes me THE PARENT. So what's up with this new theory of non-disciplining? Any thoughts?<br />
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Maggiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08824208780118119332noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4115438618630388648.post-55276158145456101722012-11-24T22:43:00.000-08:002012-11-24T23:02:39.695-08:00Grateful<br />
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I think that I would be remiss if I allowed the Thanksgiving holiday weekend to go by without writing SOMEthing about being Grateful. This was the first Thanksgiving since my Grandmother passed away, last December. Last year, we were at her home in Florida- it was the last time I got to spend with her before she fell and fatally wounded her head. Last year, I made the cranberries (the same recipe I've been using for many years), but they turned out very tart- borderline sour. My Grandmother, being 102 at the time, didn't have much left in the way of tastebuds. What she did have, was mostly for sweet. They must have been intolerable for her. When I looked down the table to watch as she tasted them, her face screwed up into the most gruesome pucker I thought she might turn inside out. She turned to my cousin sitting to her side and whispered, "who made the cranberries?" and my Cousin, eyeing me watching, whispered back, "Maggie did" at which point Gammie looked straight down the table to me. As she noticed I had been watching, her face popped out of its pucker and she very graciously lied to me, telling me they were wonderful. Inside I was hysterically laughing to myself- it didn't bother me that she might have hated them. What I loved, though, was that she didn't want to hurt my feelings and let me know they were too sour for her. And by G-D, she choked those suckers down. Looking back on this, I just love this little story all the more. It's so indicative of Gammie- and of how she always made me feel special- no matter what.<br />
We ate Thanksgiving dinner at Gammie's table, sitting on her chairs, with her tablecloths this year. Except the table, chairs and linens all now live at my Brother's house in Utah. For years, I have been the one to order the flowers for her table. I
know the dimensions of the table, and parameters under which to keep the
arrangement; colors, width, height, length, which flowers she liked and
which she didn't. When I ordered flowers for the centerpiece last week, I stopped mid-sentence on the phone with the florist when I realized that I was ordering flowers for the SAME table- with the same parameters and dimensions and preferences. Only now, the table is somewhere else. And so is Gammie.<br />
We went around the table, naming things we were each grateful for. When it was my turn, like everyone else, I stated how grateful I was for family, blah blah blah. But I also mentioned that I was grateful that Gammie had died when and how she did. When I saw everyone's raised eyebrows at this, I went on to explain what I meant by this. Gammie was 102. She was spunky, fiesty, funny, fiercely independent, and truly marvelous. She was also very tired. And, in a way, lonely and sad. Her last husband (number 4) who had been her true life's love, had preceded her in death by 10 years. She had lost all of her friends, her nephew and his wife, and was starting to lose some of her mobility- and along with it, some of her independence. Which she never wanted. Her live-in companion, who was a friend and skilled nurse and who ended up becoming a part of our family, had noted often to me how she felt that Gammie was "slowing down." She was ready to go. One of the things she kept saying last year was, "how old am I?" and when we would tell her, "102 Gammie," she would roll her eyes and drop her jaw, and look up to the ceiling and say, "I think they forgot about me." I think she was ready to move on. She was someone who would NOT have accepted having a lingering illness, or a debilitating injury. She died the same way she lived her life: with dignity and grace, and very purposeful. There was no other option when she hit her head on her marble floor as hard as she did. That was it, and that was going to be the end. And I'm glad for her, that she did not live long enough to have to fall ill, or be removed from the home she so loved, or to have had to lose her faculties in any way. I'm glad that she went out when she was vital and strong and independent. I'm glad that she didn't linger in a coma. I'm glad that she wasn't in any pain. I'm glad she never got to the point of having to have had to depend on someone else to help her walk, or eat, or speak. I'm glad that she went out when and how she did. I'm glad that she lived long enough to know my children, and for them to be old enough to have solid memories of her. And I'm glad that I got the privilege to help usher her out of this world.<br />
When my uncle called at 7AM on the morning of December 7 of last year and said, "your Grandmother has fallen," my heart just sank to my feet. I leaped out of bed, and said, "Gammie is going to die today. I have to go." I got my kids off to school, and raced to make a noon flight. We had just come home from having been there for Thanksgiving, and all of our suitcases were still unpacked and exploded open on the floor of the upstairs hallway. I simply closed mine back up, and brought it with me again. My dad and step-mom were on the flights with me- we changed three times before we got to Florida, at 9PM. We went straight to the hospital, and I went straight to her side. She was and had been unconscious since they had taken her for CAT scans earlier that morning after they had brought her in the ambulance. I grabbed her hand, and told her I was there- and she squeezed. They say that speech is the first thing to go with a fatal head injury, and hearing the last. Although she could not respond with anything other than a squeeze, I know she could hear me. And I know she knew I was there. My oldest brother had already arrived from Chicago that afternoon. He, I and M (her companion, caretaker and friend) all stayed up with her that whole night. The three of us took turns sitting in the chair next to her, or on the bed next to her, holding her hand, brushing her hair, cleaning out her mouth, wiping her face. When her breathing would become labored with fluid, we would call the nurse in to suction out her airway and give her some relief. We hooked up my iPod to the TV and watched movies she loved- funny ones, Jane Austen-ish ones, romantic ones. We talked to her, we laughed, we spent one last amazing night with her life still present in her body, in that hospital room. As the morning drew nearer, we each started dozing off. One of the nurses brought in a roll-away bed for me to curl up on for an hour or so. When her breathing started becoming more and more labored, and shallower and shallower, I went and sat on the bed next to her again and clutched her hand. It became obvious the suction wasn't going to cut it much longer and they gave her an injection of lasix to help dry out some of the fluid gathering in her throat and lungs- in an attempt to give her some kind of ease, or comfort in the death process. In this time, her hands had become really hot and clammy- and I could no longer force her fingers to twine with mine. Her hand wanted to be in a fist, as her extremities were shutting down. So I held her fist. When the much deliberated-over decision was made later in the morning to give her a tiny bit of morphine to further help give her some "ease," I had a few moments alone with her. I put my face next to hers and whispered whatever comfort I could think of- all the time, still hoping she could hear me. I told her that we all loved her so much, but that we would all be OK when she went. I told her how she would see her own parents soon- that they were waiting for her. I told her that it was time for her to let go and fly. After they gave her the morphine, we all sat or stood around her and watched and waited. I hadn't left my spot next to her on the bed, and I hadn't ever let go of her hand. Her breathing would stop for a moment, I'd stroke her arm, and she'd start back up again. At one point, her eyes opened for an instant- I felt her whole body rise up in a moment of complete muscle tension, and her hand in mine jerked- I thought she might suddenly awake- then her eyes closed, and she softened back into the pillows, as the last breath left her lungs in a loose trill, and she was gone.<br />
I have had the privilege of being present when many a baby has taken its first breath of life in this world. This was the first time I had the privilege of being present for someone who breathed their final breath in this world- and I'm so grateful that that person was Gammie- probably the single most important and influential person in my life. After she was gone, and I sat there and had a REALLY cathartic full-belly-anguished cry, I got fully up on the bed next to her body and curled up with her, putting my head on her chest as I had done so often with her in life. I stayed there curled around her body for close to an hour. Other family members arrived from their own long journeys to get there, and I relinquished my spot. She died just a bit before noon. The hospital staff had some lunch trays set out for all of us in a nearby gathering room- which I found to be such an incredibly sensitive and lovely thing. We all needed to eat and drink, and take a breath. For the rest of the day, we all as a family, sat around her room then, I on one side of her again on the bed, her daughter on the other, and told stories. Most were really funny, some were melancholy, others sad. I'm not sure what other patients on the floor must have thought at this site: A family sitting around their deceased matriarch, talking and telling stories and every once in a while the sound of peeling laughter coming forth from the room. It was really wonderful. Gammie would have loved it. We all stayed until the funeral home employees came to take her body at 5PM. She was still warm. And her jaw muscles had tightened, so her mouth had closed- and she was smiling. No shit.<br />
And so: I'm grateful for having had Gammie as my amazing Grandmother. I'm grateful she lived as long as she did. I'm grateful for the beauty of the life and death process. I'm grateful for compassion from amazing health care workers. I'm grateful for incredible friends and loving family. And I'm grateful for having the privilege to BE grateful.<br />
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<br />Maggiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08824208780118119332noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4115438618630388648.post-37205465500260463492012-11-21T20:56:00.001-08:002012-11-21T20:56:16.170-08:00NadaSoooo tired. I don't think I'll be meeting the "30 posts in 30 days" challenge for November. I get a big fat FAIL. Oh well. Too difficult a month to try for a post every night.<br />
I hope to post something wonderfully prosaic tomorrow about gratitude, and more miracles- it being Thanksgiving and all. But don't be surprised if, after having consumed much wine, I'm unable to do so. A post with real substance may be a few more days in coming... please bear with me.<br />
Now I must go make cranberries. I'm soooooooo sleeeeeppyy.......<br />
Night night, world. Maggiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08824208780118119332noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4115438618630388648.post-30387266119377813482012-11-20T22:04:00.000-08:002012-11-20T22:04:15.489-08:00Flight<br />
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Well, we made it safely to Utah- no tears shed on the planes. Both flights were pleasingly short in duration, and otherwise uneventful. Except for the last bit of the flight coming in to Salt Lake City. The sunset as we descended was the most amazing one I think I've ever seen. First, there were the mountains beneath us- snow capped and huge, and well, majestic. Then there was the color of said mountains: beneath the snow they were a deepening shade of purple-turning to deep iris blue. The snow caps were bright fuschia pink. This was below. What was on the horizon was an incredible orange-y white and yellow glowing HUGE sun, tinged behind whispy clouds like spun sugar. Then there was the sky itself. More whisps of clouds in every shade from more deep iris to their underside, tinged with pink and coral. Then we came over the water of the Great Salt Lake- and all of this was reflected on the perfectly smooth glass surface. It was an unbelievable sight, and it just kept getting better and better. Now I've seen some sunsets in my time- some spin around and break into The Hills Are Alive With The Sound of Music kind of sunsets. This trumped every one I've ever seen. This was the kind of sight that makes you believe in G-D if you hadn't previously. This was the kind of sight that made everyone on the airplane gape open-mouthed out their windows and take pictures. This was the kind of sight that inspired the bad comedian flight attendant to get on the speaker and wax rhapsodic about the beauty of the world and how lucky we all are and thankful we all should be. This was the perfect sight to begin Thanksgiving weekend. Flying fear, upon witnessing this glory? Gone. Freaky twitches of nerves and tension about hurdling through the air at 500 mph in a metal bullet? Quelled. Increased sense of awe and wonder at our amazing world? Check. Completed sense of gratitude? Bingo. Maggiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08824208780118119332noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4115438618630388648.post-7602813609277893432012-11-19T20:18:00.000-08:002012-11-19T20:29:47.644-08:00VomitusWe are supposed to get on an airplane tomorrow. Two, actually. The kids and I are going to my Brother's in Utah for Thanksgiving (And no, they're not Mormon. Because I knew that's what you were thinking.) My kids adore their cousins, and they have never been to visit them. Then Sophie started barfing at dinner. Apparently, this stomach bug has been making the rounds in their school. Out came her dinner- I timed it perfectly so she was very tidy about getting it right into a tupperware container I had just handed her- while I held her hair. One really great thing about being a Doula- barf does not phase me in the least. I've been puked on countless times- sometimes projectile, sometimes even getting a splatter in the mouth. Phased? Not a bit. Turned my own tummy? Not a bit. I'm just one of those people. It's just another bodily fluid. No biggie. But when it's timed with an impending vacation? I'm phased. I didn't let her take another sip of anything before bath and bed. She's barfed a few more times- but not much after the initial launch. Now she's basically just dry-heaving. I let her rinse her mouth, but no sips of anything yet. I'm going to starve this fucking bug right out of her little body. Because we are going on this vacation. I need this break. I need to hang with my brother and cook cranberries and put on my eatin' pants and stuff myself silly, then pass out from all the turkey tryptophan. I need Thanksgiving vacation. It's like heroin. Maybe I'll just strap some kind of feed bag around her neck to get on the plane so she can simply put her chin down and barf into it. I hope Alex doesn't get this bug. Or me. I have some eating to do. I'd like to keep Thanksgiving down.<br />
Getting on an airplane is traumatic enough for me. I HATE flying. It terrifies me- and I don't mean, "oh, yeah, traveling is such a hassle, I hate it to.." I mean I'm the one you see saying prayers, holding special talismans, crying in my seat and burying my face into the shoulder of the huge stranger spilling over their seat into the space of mine. I'm THAT one. I have a ritual (many, actually) when I get on a plane- I go to the cockpit and have a little chat with the pilots, and shed some tears so they know how serious I am. We've been flying with the kids since they were 6 months old, and I"ve sincerely tried to diminish this in front of them- I don't want them to adopt this same fear. I can't hide the fact that I'm terrified, though- they know how scared I am. And they're getting to the age where they comfort me- so far, they haven't adopted my fear for themselves. I hope they don't because it's seriously debilitating. It's my worst thing. It turns me into a completely irrational, blithering idiot. When we land, I'm fine. If there are bumps, I freak. If there are bumps in the clouds, I freak. If there are clouds, I freak. I'm better if I can see the ground. I can get distracted when I can see the ground. Not a whole lot else helps. Except having my kids with me. I am also better when I'm with my kids- because I really do know that I should and do try to squelch the intensity of my fear. I don't want them to see it in all it's full regalia. It's not pretty. Add potential barfing to this equation, and tomorrow could be REALLY interesting. Wish me luck.<br />
Oh- did I mention I've had a horrible sore throat all day that's getting worse and turning into a cough?<br />
Because I don't have enough stacked against me for taking this trip tomorrow.<br />
Did I mention how much I hate flying?<br />
Aaaaaaand my Bears just got smashed by the 49ers. Think I'll go vomit.<br />
GOO'NIGHT, FOLKS!!<br />
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Maggiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08824208780118119332noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4115438618630388648.post-49947588638992050952012-11-18T23:22:00.003-08:002012-11-18T23:22:36.610-08:00Outrage FatigueAs a friend of mine said on a Facebook reply tonight, "I have outrage fatigue." One of my closest friends came over last night with her kids- she and I started talking about this blog, and some of the posts I've been publishing. The conversation evolved into a very intense discussion about abortion, women's health, and the latest travesty of justice regarding Ireland's recent lapse of judgement concerning their stance on abortion. Her son came into the room and gleefully asked if they could have a sleep-over. Having had a glass of wine already (she's not used to drinking at all anymore- I'm such a bad influence), she and I both said, "sure, why not." When her son then said, "right now?" we both, once again, said "sure- why not!" We put the kids to bed, set up the bed in the studio for her and the baby, and commenced to pouring ourselves some more wine. (Hence, no post last night- sorry!)<br />
She continued to tell me the story of Savita Halappanavar, a 31 year old woman from India, living and working in Ireland with her husband. She was 17 weeks pregnant, a very wanted pregnancy, when she started to miscarry. She was admitted to the hospital with ruptured membranes, great pain, and a dieing fetus. Because of Ireland's lack of any legislature or policy regarding abortion separate from that of the Catholic church, they remain a country where abortion is illegal. Savita and her husband were told that indeed, she would lose the baby. When they begged for termination, or even induction to help the inevitable loss, they were told, "this is a Catholic country" and that there was nothing that could (or would) be done as long as there was still a fetal heartbeat. When they told the hospital that they were neither Catholic nor Irish naturals, they were simply given the same "we can't do anything" rhetoric. I hope I'm hearing some palms being smacked on foreheads right now.<br />
It took THREE DAYS for the baby to die. In that time, Savita's health declined as she developed septicemia. After the baby died, it was removed surgically, and she slipped into a coma and died 4 days later. More foreheads being smacked? I hope so.<br />
Now my friend, being from Ireland, while being appropriately outraged and disgusted, is also completely disappointed and saddened by her own country's lack of rational judgement, and lack of governmental policy concerning abortion. There was a case in the court system in 1992 involving a 14 year old girl who was raped by her neighbor, and wanted an abortion. It was known as the case of "X" as the girl's name was never made public. She and her family successfully sued the government, with the girl threatening to commit suicide. Since then no incumbent government has been able to implement any real policy that honors exceptional cases, and accepts life-threatening circumstances as grounds for a legalized abortion. Instead, innocent healthy women are at risk of being killed by a government that operates under legislation established in 1861.<br />
I don't mean to get political. Nor do I wish to bash Ireland. But I am outraged.<br />
And why all this talk about abortion? "I thought this was supposed to be a blog about infertility!?"<br />
Well- because, 1. It's a women's health issue- as is infertility. 2. It hits close to home for me, (have you read My Story- parts 1 and 2?)<br />
My friend (I'll call her T) and I were talking about the "My Story" posts I've published, and about how there seemed to be a recurring theme of the lack of respect, and abusive ill-treatment towards me both times I was faced with this issue. In both instances for me, there was a certain doctor who, for whatever reason, decided that perhaps their own personal views on the matter took precedence over their treatment of me. I fear this is a more common phenomena than people know or talk about. If I have been so medically mistreated, I cannot even imagine how women are being treated who come to the issue from other avenues or other countries. What has happened to women's health? Has it always held so little regard for the lives of women!? There is a Jewish law concerning this very thing, and it says, basically, that the precedence is to save the ESTABLISHED life. So Savita died because her already doomed fetus still had a heartbeat (no brain function or chance of survival in any way). I do NOT understand this thinking. So it's OK for mothers to die, but G-D forbid that non-viable fetus be harmed!? WTF!?<br />
OK- I know it's not so black and white, and I know that it's such a huge and complicated issue. I get that. I really do. It's a huge and complicated issue for me and my own viewpoint, and I went through an abortion and an attempt at a second. It's this very set of experiences for me, though, that resonates with my entire history of infertility. Because I will forever be suspicious of that first abortion and second attempted one having somehow caused my infertility. I'm outraged. On so many levels. And I'm tired from the outrage. I have outrage fatigue. <br />
Sleep peacefully, dear Savita- I hope you go somewhere where you are surrounded by loving children, and I hope your death was not in vain.<br />
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<br />Maggiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08824208780118119332noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4115438618630388648.post-91659226015060316482012-11-16T22:38:00.000-08:002012-11-16T22:38:40.245-08:00My Story Part 2OK-I promised "my story part 2" for tonight, so here goes...<br />
In the summer of 1996, I moved out to New Mexico from Boston. I didn't know anyone here, nor did I really have any kind of handle on what part of town to live in, so I rented an apartment in a very new, very large apartment complex right up next to the mountains. It was the kind of newly developed apartment complex in which people rented for short-term, or visiting situations. Not exactly the type of place families were settling for years on end. Generic, white-carpeted places with a central "clubhouse" and pool- sort of a long-term mid-level hotel. NOT my kind of place. A few months after I had been living there, (by this time I had made some friends, and even managed to establish a casual affair) one of my closest girlfriends from Boston decided to "follow me" out west, and moved out here to be my roommate. We switched to a larger apartment in the same complex shortly before Thanksgiving in 1996. In the spring of 1997, she decided it was time for her to go even further west, and she and I drove all her belongings and her cat, out to L.A. That was a really great trip and worth its own post or two entirely, but not tonight....<br />
When I got back from this road trip, I immediately began looking for some kind of small house or condo to buy- this time, in the exact opposite part of town. I wanted something old, adobe, wood floors, in the Valley, surrounded by big trees and cozy. The antithesis of where and in what I currently was. I found exactly what I was searching for- a small older adobe condo which had one shared wall with another- really a "casita" (small house) in a well established adobe condo complex. Lots of big, old cottonwood and elm trees, near the river- perfect. Almost. It was dark and dated, and had awful old brick floors. But it had good bones and I saw its potential. Plus I got it for a steal!<br />
I had some friends through work, who were also good friends with an independent contractor who would do all the work I proposed to bring the place "up to scratch." Which was a LOT. I pretty much gutted the place and started over. One of the workmen on this job, was a cutie-pie who I "took up" with. This was a very weird relationship (and I use the term relationship VERY loosely). It was really more of series of getting drunk in various bars, then going home and having lots and lots of sex. Really stupid, immature and irresponsible. And did I mention really drunken? Sometime in the late winter of 1998, we made a big mistake. We had always used something, but one night (isn't it funny how things always seem to happen the 'ONE TIME' you're not careful!?) when I had a nice fire going in the fireplace, we laid out blankets and pillows on the floor- all very romantic, we decided not to use anything. Well, a few weeks later- you guessed it- preg-o.<br />
When I called to tell him, the immediate response was, "You connived and planned this"... along with a further abusive barrage. Nice. Really nice. I can't even remember what my reaction was. There was a great deal about this time that I do not remember. It was pretty traumatic. I do recall deciding that perhaps I might keep this baby. I had a good job, I owned my own home, had health insurance, and I was going to turn 30 in a few months. Seemed like an OK time to be a single mom- I could do it. I called my parents to talk to them about it, and my Mom (who had been diagnosed with stage 4 colon cancer only a few months previous) sobbed into the phone that "I was killing her." Great. Let's add a large helping of guilt with guilt, shall we?<br />
I do not remember how I came to the decision to not take the pregnancy any further, but somewhere along the road about a week or two later, I did. I never had any sickness with this pregnancy. My breasts became larger and tender, and darker. I developed a very early ligna-negra that stayed for a long time. I never threw up or had any real nausea. I did have a very heightened sense of smell, but no odd cravings of any kind. Somehow, the "guy" (who I'll refer to as TM), decided maybe he should step up. On the day we were to go to my doctor's office for an abortion, I drove over to his apartment to pick him up, as he said he'd go with me. Sitting in his small living room, he looked at me with sheepish shame, and asked if I would drive him over to a clinic "after" so he could get an STD and AIDS test. Apparently, the entire time he had been seeing me, he had also been "taking up" with a woman he had said was "his Ex," who, upon hearing that he had gotten me knocked up, insisted he go get a bunch of tests, assuming I was some nasty Ho. When I heard this, my initial instinct was pure fight-or-flight and I jumped up and ran out of his apartment and into the street. It was like a bad movie. A really bad movie. When I stopped running to catch my breath, he came trotting up behind me, and said to come back in, not to worry about it, that he would figure something else out, etc. He did come to the doctor's office, though I never spoke another word to him. When they did an ultrasound, they would not let me see the screen, or hear anything (along the lines of a heartbeat.) I have no idea what was seen on that imaging. The doctor came back into the room and told us that they couldn't do the abortion that day. That I wasn't FAR ALONG ENOUGH to be sure to "get everything out." I honestly can't remember where I dropped TM off after that- probably back at his apartment. I never spoke to or heard from him again. Good riddance.<br />
My Mom and I had never had a very great or close relationship growing up. Her reaction when I told her about the pregnancy of "you're killing me" was pretty typical of her self-centered attitude toward me. I'm not "mom-bashing" by any means. I loved my mom, and our relationship was really not that out of the ordinary as far as mothers-and-daughters goes. But I called her. Because I really needed her. For the very first time in my life, my mom came out to be with me- just because I really needed her. I picked her up at the airport a couple of weeks later. I had just gotten a new SUV, and I had to help her climb up into it (she was already going through her own cancer treatments.) <br />
On the morning we were to go back to the doctor's for the abortion, I started bleeding. Heavily. I had started to miscarry. When we went in, the doctor confirmed that I was already or had already lost most of the pregnancy, but she would do some precautionary "clean up" by performing a D and C. Right there in an exam room. No novocaine. Of any kind. Mom had to throw her entire body over mine, to hold me down on the table while this doctor yanked my cervix- my non-numbed cervix, open. Open enough to get a large syringe into, to "suck out" whatever was left inside my uterus. <br />
When we got home, I was shaking so badly, mom had to lay on my pulled-out sofa bed with her body mostly over mine again, to help control the shaking. I remember for the next few days just hibernating on that sofa bed, ordering Chinese take-out, watching movies, drinking wine, talking and laughing. It was one of the best times I ever spent with her, after the worst time of my life. <br />
For many months after this, I developed recurring uterine infections and complications- heavy bleeding, pain, passing huge clots, fevers, intermittent periods, you name it. My body was a mess. My uterus must have been a mess. My psyche was a mess.<br />
This experience sparked a time to follow, of intense inner turmoil, along with revelations and epiphanies. It was my bottom. I definitely came out of it much wiser and more cautious. But it was a rough go for a while. Maggiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08824208780118119332noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4115438618630388648.post-23806172312150626972012-11-15T22:45:00.001-08:002012-11-15T22:45:39.921-08:00AloneHalfway, baby!! Tonight marks post number 15 out of 30 for the National Blog Posting Month on the Blogher challenge... "30 posts in 30 days" Can I get a woot woot?<br />
Writing every night has been a serious challenge. Especially trying to write anything I think might be in the least bit interesting for anyone else but me to read. But "a writer writes"- right? Not that I consider myself a <i>writer, </i>more maybe just someone who enjoys writing, and find it a cathartic and mind exercising thing to do every night. Sitting on the couch in the den in my nightgown and sweater with a roaring fire, 4 cats, a good movie (with the sound turned off)<i> </i>and a glass of wine after everyone else in the house is snugly tucked into their beds, I'm sort of finding my bliss.<br />
I'm posting very late tonight, because I got sucked into a movie called "Multiple Sarcasms" with Timothy Hutton, Dana Delaney and Mira Sorvino. (I had obviously turned the sound on for this one). The basic premise of the film, as described in the blurb on DirecTV reads, "Gabriel is a successful architect but, one day, realizes that he hates his life; he quits his job to write a play, a decision that ruins his marriage but brings him happiness." Well- thought I- HUH. Doesn't that sound familiar!? OK- not the hating my life to that extent or ruining my marriage part, but the hating the job, being an architect, wanting to write part- certainly. Haven't quit the job yet- still too terrified with no other employment prospects as of yet to fall back on. My responsibilities outweigh my own mishigas at this point. There was a great line in the movie, which I wrote down:<br />
Timothy Hutton and Mira Sorvino are best friends, sitting in the park talking about what life is like for him a year after he and his wife (Dana Delaney) have split and she and their daughter have moved out. He says, "I loved the idea of being alone when there was someone in the other room. But when there isn't..." and Mira Sorvino cuts him off and says, "yeah. You're alone." The way she speaks the word "alone" at the end of that response sort of hangs like and echo in the air. What a perfect summation of so much! How often I've felt exactly that same way- haven't you? We love the concept of being alone as an abstract, but the hard reality of it is something else entirely. It's an amazing moment as films go, and the whole movie is filled with great writing like that. I want to be able to write like that. I want to be able to convey life in ways that make people stop and think, and say "hmm" to themselves. Writing every night helps... even if it's just a rant, this blog is my only creative outlet right now. So thanks for reading (if there IS anyone still reading) and thanks for sticking with me!<br />
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Tomorrow night I will continue with my story- part 2. Get ready for some good drama...<br />
<br />Maggiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08824208780118119332noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4115438618630388648.post-12708271045514900092012-11-14T21:25:00.001-08:002012-11-14T21:25:27.635-08:00Suddenly SweatingI offer for your enjoyment, tonight, the preface to the book I'm trying to write, called <u>Suddenly Sweating.</u><br />
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
August 30,
2012</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Sitting here
on our back patio, listening to the playlist on my iPod entitled, “samba
lounge,” I’ve had an epiphany.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Why write a
somber, maybe even morose <u>essay</u> about my trials and tribulations with
infertility? I had originally planned on pouring over boxes of notes, medical
files, research, journal entries, online “tips” and other people’s similar
experiences in order to regurgitate it all into a serious expose of “one
woman’s journey through infertility to motherhood and beyond.” When suddenly,
the new book idea presented itself to me through a post on Facebook I made this
afternoon mid-hot flash at my desk at work. I posted my status as “Suddenly
Sweating” with the byline of, “sounds like a good name for an all-girl band,
doesn’t it?” This prompted a slew of responses and hysterical song titles by
friends:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“45 Layers”
by Suddenly Sweating. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Why am I
Awake at 3AM?” by Suddenly Sweating.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Why am I
Awake at 3AM Soaking Wet and Stuck to my Pillow?” by Suddenly Sweating.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Why Did I
Walk to the Kitchen?” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Where is
the KY?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Why is
everything sagging?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Oops! I
sneezed and wet my pants a little”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Please
Excuse me While I Stick my Head in the Freezer.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
By Suddenly
Sweating. You get the idea.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
A light bulb
burst in my brain then, when I looked out into our vineyard and saw a hawk
sitting quietly on one of the end posts, taking in the evening air. Was he sent
here by providence? Was he symbolic of some great endeavor I’m supposed to
embark upon? Maybe. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Why <u>not</u>
write a light, pithy expose- filled with humor, realism, and soul-bearing about
my journey?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Why not
share experiences and stories from so many of the women I know who have become
mothers through varying methods?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Why not
write something that takes a hard look at the infertility crisis in this
country, through personal experiences of me and almost every mother I know?
Certainly women will be much more inclined to read and identify with women who
have been through the proverbial ringer of infertility, who can help other women
going through similar experiences with some uplifting stories, not taking
oneself too seriously while maintaining the necessary HOPE that fills the head
and heart of every woman trying to become a mommy? Perhaps I can find a way to
tell my story and inspire women who have lost some of that hope, or are in any
part of their own journey to motherhood with a bit of humor, and raw reality?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
As I head
into menopause, it seems fitting that “Suddenly Sweating” should be not just
the book title, but the title for the next phase of my life altogether. While I
am struck by the irony of this next phase, after so many years on the
infertility roller coaster, I am also struck by what I can only be described as
an inner smile, a secret chuckle I hold inside. How many years have I spent in
the hope that “maybe this time” I’ll miraculously get pregnant, this round of
IVF will work, or this embryo will stick, only to now find myself at what is
truly the end of my fertile years. Oh the irony. A few years ago, I would have
crumbled at the very thought of it. Even thinking ahead to the time when I
could realistically no longer somehow miraculously become pregnant and actually
hang on to it, would have sent me into a depressive and anxious tizzy. I would
wallow in my hopelessness in those instances. For some inexplicable reason, now
that the next phase of my (fertile) life is actually upon me, I find that I’m
somewhat relieved. How can this be!? RELIEVED- seriously!? Yes. I think I can
finally begin to let go. Halle-fucking-luliah. It’s like a thousand pound
elephant is suddenly being extricated from my back. (Actually, I wouldn’t mind
if a metaphorical thousand pound- well, OK maybe a 50 pound elephant could be
extricated from my ass.) But that’s another story. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
I have asked
myself often why I seem to have this driving force to write my story and to
share other women’s stories of their battles with infertility- and why now? I
think there are probably fifty thousand answers to these questions. Perhaps
because I want to inspire other women struggling with infertility- to reassure
them that there <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">is</b> hope; That there
are many ways to become a Mom; That the very definition of Mom is wider than
they could ever imagine; That their hearts are stronger than they know; That
the process itself is what will make them the strongest women alive; That the
end result of a baby isn’t necessarily their defining moment as a woman and
that it shouldn’t be; That even if a baby or child never actually does come
into their lives, they are still strong, important, loved, worthy, WOMEN. And
maybe, hopefully, to share some laughs and smiles of recognition along the way.
Also because when my husband and I were embarking upon our journey of
Gestational Surrogacy after 5 failed rounds of IVF, I found that there was
virtually nothing out there for me. I found no books that spoke directly to my
situation, no collection of shared similar experiences, no website that was
targeted for anyone going through exactly what we were and no laws in our state
regarding Gestational Surrogacy at all. I vowed then, that I would try to
rectify this. Surely there were other women out there, going through what I was
going through!?<a href="http://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=4115438618630388648" name="_GoBack"></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Maybe now,
because of all the loss I’ve experienced this year. The one person with whom I
had the closest relationship of my life, and who understood me more than anyone
ever has or probably ever will, my Grandmother, died within this past year,
along with numerous other friends and family friends. Devastating. But strength
building, too. I’m suddenly finding myself re-defined in the world. Without the
approval from Gammie for almost every aspect of my life, I am now forced to
change how I think, feel, react, see the world, and discover my own place in
it. My role in my family has changed virtually overnight, from dependent, from
victim, from Granddaughter, from maiden; to independent, victorious, Mother.
Holy shit!? Now I’M the freaking MOM- in every sense. I am the one my daughter
will come to with questions about the world, and about becoming a woman. I’M
the one to provide the answers. I can’t call my Grandmother or my mother. I’M
the one now. I’ve moved up a notch. Shit. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Now it’s
time for me to write it all down, and to share the stories.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Suddenly I’m
sweating. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoAfW1mp2IeleRybVD95K8WaLQyYinQ7vT7RObYRWzB_0bnpVHBKyHc_kmVUNbtpkVOyVo1SRoNc9M0lItu55nqvJslwZJ8n2hl3zVyR3YdMJ8WqGwQVkijqRHWck-vVc8eB8AeoNsHUJL/s1600/hot_flashes.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="217" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoAfW1mp2IeleRybVD95K8WaLQyYinQ7vT7RObYRWzB_0bnpVHBKyHc_kmVUNbtpkVOyVo1SRoNc9M0lItu55nqvJslwZJ8n2hl3zVyR3YdMJ8WqGwQVkijqRHWck-vVc8eB8AeoNsHUJL/s320/hot_flashes.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
Maggiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08824208780118119332noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4115438618630388648.post-73640673158269888912012-11-13T21:53:00.002-08:002012-11-14T10:04:12.924-08:00Jig<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: large;">We watched the movie "Jig" tonight. G-D help me- is this what I'm in for!? Don't get me wrong- I adore the fact that Sophie begs to practice her Irish dance, and is working really hard, bless her little feet. I'm not sure how much natural talent she has, but if she's half as determined a person as I am (which, so far, she seems to be), I'm screwed. Even Alex started to join in. Here's an irony: Alex insists he doesn't want to do it, but HE seems to have natural talent and looks awesome- without ever having taken a real lesson! I'm really glad my daughter (my kids?) have found something she's really passionate about and seems to be really dedicated to- and something she's willing to put in the hard work to do well. My future looks very sparkly, big crazy dressed, large curly-hair wigged and expensive....</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: large;">Please don't let me turn into a Dance Mom. I fear I'm already slipping down that hole. </span></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgSqr43A4i6rp_JXKEZ7A5XagzGllVzB4TgOIpwLvEgLl6-H6TglY9mhb2OJZ_v-Ca-6IoaueTVldjIoByxVwy3e0Zd3hz6o4gPCZifNgXFT0ItAMqIKLoN8hBBLRrd1YIA5oowD2_L5CF/s1600/irishdancer5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="210" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgSqr43A4i6rp_JXKEZ7A5XagzGllVzB4TgOIpwLvEgLl6-H6TglY9mhb2OJZ_v-Ca-6IoaueTVldjIoByxVwy3e0Zd3hz6o4gPCZifNgXFT0ItAMqIKLoN8hBBLRrd1YIA5oowD2_L5CF/s320/irishdancer5.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: large;"> The spaaaaaarkle. Oh my G-D, th<span style="font-size: large;">e SPArkle!</span></span></span><br />
<br />
<br />Maggiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08824208780118119332noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4115438618630388648.post-62413569563025808322012-11-12T23:13:00.000-08:002012-11-12T23:13:16.852-08:00MiraclesThe HOLIDAYS are approaching. fast. I can hear them like an on-coming ambulance, careening down the highway full-bore. And I'm standing dead still in the middle of the road like a deer in the headlights. I am SO not ready. We celebrate it all around here: I am Jewish, though have been non-practicing for, well, all my life pretty much. I go to Temple about twice a year. I was raised in a very religiously confused house, by parents who were both brought up in the time when most middle-class American Jewish families did their best to "assimilate": that is, hide their Judaism or deny it completely. We celebrated Christmas, ate ham on Easter after decadent egg hunts, and did our best not to ever let on. When I grew up, I realized this was sort of messed up. Pete grew up very strict Catholic (he was an alter boy), but does not go to church. When we got married, we had a friend officiate- he is an ordained Unitarian minister- but really, we mixed some of both worlds in the ceremony. I would very much like the kids to have SOMEthing, religion-wise. They ask about G-D, and we talk about talking to G-D. Pete and I agreed that they should have some religious schooling- and knowing that it would be much more difficult for me to veer toward Catholicism, we decided we would take the kids to Temple and have them Bar and Bat Mitvah'd. In reality, there are so many things that I believe in- a smattering from many different belief systems. I guess, like most things for me, I'm a religious mutt. But very "spiritual." If that makes any sense. Going through so many years of infertility certainly tested our faith. During most of that time, we were attending Temple very regularly, praying hard, bathing in the mikvah, being blessed, and having a community of wonderful people adding their prayers to ours in a common goal. It was pretty amazing. Just before we made the decision to make THE phone call, (the one in which we asked our Niece and her husband if their offer to be Gestational Surrogate for us was still on the table), my Dad went to Israel. Pete and I wrote out a prayer and gave it to him, to roll up and put into a chink in the Western Wall. Here's what we wrote:<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
Dear G-D,</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Please help us to be as strong in body, mind and spirit as possible- </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Please help us to be loving and understanding and patient</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
with each other, so that we are able to sustain a happy, healthy</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
marriage, and that we may be the best parents possible.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
We are ready to start our family, and sincerely ask that if</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
it be your will, we be granted and blessed with our own</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
natural children. If this should not be your will, please let us</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
be parents in whatever way you see fit- We want nothing more</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
than to share our love, and to be patient, supportive, fun and</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
very loving parents- Please grant us children in the best way</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
possible for us- Please help us to have a loving, supportive, </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
nurturing marriage and household. We pray for happy,</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
healthy children! We are ready to be parents!</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Thank you for all your gifts-</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
(and we signed our names), Maggie Lukes</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
and Peter Lukes.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
And here's a picture of my Dad putting that small rolled note into the wall...</div>
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About two weeks (maybe less) after Dad came home, Tiff and Tom made what, for them must have been their "THE" phone (the one where they told us that yes, their offer was very much not only on the table, but waiting and ready to be wrapped up and delivered.) Miracles do happen.</div>
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And so- as I said, we celebrate it all around here- Chanukah, and Christmas. And the kid's birthday, two days after Christmas. It is, indeed, a cray-cray time of year. Usually by this time, I have our Holiday card all ready and printed up, address list and postage set up to go, and most of my shopping done. I like to be DONE before Thanksgiving. So far this year, I'm not even close. We do 7 very small (we're talking dollar store small) gifts each night of Chanukah, then one slightly "larger" one on the last night. Then I must pace for Christmas- a few fun and cool things, a few educational things, a few creative things, one really special thing, and stocking stuffers. Then comes the birthday. I have always only done one gift for each of them on their birthday. Coming on the heels of "Mass Greed" as my Dad calls it, this seems to work just fine. We also have a tradition around this time of year: we go through their playroom and fill a number of boxes with toys, books, games, clothing and shoes to give to a local charity. Before Mass Greed, and equaling more than is to be acquired. This year, things are going to go down a bit differently: there won't be nearly the amount of newly acquired things as in years previous, and the kids will come with me to a shelter to do the "give-away." I cannot abide the thought of raising entitled kids- but it's really hard not to with all that technology has to offer all around them, every day- which I have NO control over. They are exposed to so much more than we ever were at the same age as kids-it scares the shit out of me. And they're really smart. I know, and pray, that they will grow up to know how fortunate they are, and certainly to know how fortunate we all are as a family that we were able to do what we did to have them in the first place. But it's really hard not to just shower them with all the things I know they would love- to see their faces light up and hear their shrieks of excitement at each new thing as it gets unwrapped. But I will stick to my plan, and I will spoil them in other, less immediately tangible ways.</div>
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Their one special gift this year, will be an heirloom. Sophie will get my Mom's shamrock charm on a chain. Alex will get - well, I don't know yet. But it will be comperable. He wants a real train set. My brother has kept all of his model trains from when we were kids- perhaps I'll approach him about this....</div>
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In any case, I am going to start a new family tradition this year. I'm going to sit down with the kids and watch their birth video. Because that is the one thing we should be most thankful for- the miracle that brought them to us. </div>
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Maggiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08824208780118119332noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4115438618630388648.post-44689661217434331192012-11-11T21:22:00.000-08:002012-11-11T22:02:14.680-08:00ElastigirlI am NOT Donna Reed. I cannot cook my kids a nutritionally complete breakfast, entertain them with educational playtime activities, assist in their intellectual growth, assist my husband with a floor plan for his new restaurant (which took me 8 hours today), make sure my daughter practices her Irish dance, clean my house, do laundry, change and wash all the sheets on all the beds, scoop cat litters, provide healthy snacks for the kids in the middle of the day, grocery shop, cook dinner, fetch firewood and make a fire, roast marshmallows and make s'mores, give the kids their bath, make sure they brush their teeth, read them books, put them to bed, clean up the kitchen from dinner, write an intelligent and pithy blog post, AND have time and energy left over to give my husband a little nooky all in one day. I simply can't do it.<br />
Here's what I DID accomplish out of that to do list today: I got to sleep in until 9:30 while Pete gave the kids a bowl of instant oatmeal for breakfast. I got to cook my own breakfast, and another one for Alex. And some more toast for Sophie. I got to work on 2 different floor plan options for the new restaurant- (which basically turned my day into a day at work) while Pete got in the hot tub with the kids. I cleaned up the kitchen so that Pete could cook dinner- I have to clean it again, FROM dinner. I made the kids the "best hot chocolate in the world" (lightly boiled milk with Cadbury's cocoa powder, whipped cream and crushed peppermints sprinkled on top.) I toasted marshmallows in the fire that Pete started, made s'mores, gave the kids their bath, brushed teeth, read books and put them to bed. I am writing my blog post because this has become my nightly therapy session. I have to grocery shop tomorrow because we are out of the two most essential things in this house: fiber and night-time pull-ups for Alex. The cat litters are taunting me. They are the bane of my existence.<br />
Ever notice that the mom in the movie "The Incredibles" is "Elastigirl?" There's a reason for this. All moms are Elastigirl. We have to be. Every time I contort my body to hand the kids something in their seats behind me while I'm driving our swagger wagon, I can hear my ligaments stretching like rubber.<br />
I am not Donna Reed. I am ELASTIGIRL!!<br />
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Maggiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08824208780118119332noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4115438618630388648.post-49344843987167695862012-11-10T21:02:00.001-08:002012-11-10T21:02:02.309-08:00Swagger WagonLast night's post has left me somewhat shell-shocked. I think the substantive posts probably won't come every single night. Maybe this is just typical of blogging? Like I said, I'm new at this.<br />
Found out today that Sophie will dance at her first feis (pronounced "fesh") in February! This is very exciting- this will be her first competition in Irish dance- we've got lots of practicing to do before then...<br />
It was also suggested that perhaps I do a mother-daughter dance with her. I think this would be so cute- even if do look like an elephant up there, what the hell- it will be fun,and I can already do her beginner reel right along with her. NO dresses and crazy curl wigs, though- thank heaven. I was searching on Youtube tonight for a two-hand reel that we might do, and I came across the Swagger Wagon ad. Does anyone else remember this? It was an ad- a fake music video, for the Toyota Siena minivan and included a mother and father doing a sort of rap thing all about their "swagger wagon." Pete and I just loved this, and I had forgotten all about it- it is sort of brilliant.<br />
I leave you, tonight, with the lyrics to Swagger Wagon, by Toyota- or by whoever does the advertising for Toyota....<br />
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[INTRO MOM AND DAD]<br />
Yeah<br />
This one goes out to all you minivan families out there.<br />Sienna SE…in the house.<br />Where my mother/fathers at?<br />Where my kids at?<br />
Where my kids at? <br />Where my kids at? <br />Where my kids at? <br />Where my kids at? <br />Where my kids at? <br />
No, seriously honey. Where are the kids?<br />They’re right there, see?<br />Oh, cool beans.<br />
[VERSE DAD]<br />I roll hard through the streets and the cul-de-sacs,<br />Proud parent of an honor roll student, Jack.<br />I got a swing in the front, a tree house in the back,<br />My #1 Dad mug says, Yeah, Im the Mack.<br />
[VERSE MOM]<br />I’m the world’s best nurse when my kids get sick,<br />I make a mean gel-mold, I perfected my tricks,<br />Back when I used to party as a college chick.<br />Now I’m cruising to their playdates lookin’ all slick…<br />
[CHROUS]<br />In my Swagger Wagon, <br />Yeah, the Swagger Wagon,<br />It’s the Swagger Wagon,<br />I got the pride in my ride.<br />In my Swagger Wagon,<br />Yeah, the Swagger Wagon,<br />It’s the Swagger Wagon.<br />
[VERSE DAD]<br />
Check it…<br />
I love hangin’ with my daughter sippin’ tea, keep my pinky up,<br />All the drawings on my fridge sport an A+.<br />I’m an awesome parent, (Right!) and it’s apparent, (True!)<br />And in this house there’s no mother/father swearin’. <br />
[VERSE MOM]<br />Straight owning bake sales with my cupcake skills,<br />I’m better with the money, so I handle the bills,<br />And I always buy in bulk, ain’t afraid of no spills.<br />Every Mother’s Day proves…I’m kind of a big deal.<br />
Daughter: Mommy, I need to go potty.<br />
Bring the beat back, ’cause, yo, I got more to say,<br />You know I’m always front and center at the school play.<br />I kiss their boo-boos, clean doggie doo-doos,<br />Cut the crust off of PB&Js, chill the Yoo-hoos.<br />
[VERSE DAD] <br />
Singin’ “Farmer in the Dell” in perfect harmony,<br />When I’m rollin’ with my posse in the HOV.<br />We rock the SE, not an SUV,<br />And it’s true, if I were you, I’d be jealous of me…<br />
[CHORUS]Maggiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08824208780118119332noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4115438618630388648.post-24459694945902984512012-11-09T23:27:00.000-08:002012-11-09T23:27:29.147-08:00My Story- Part 1: 1990I originally began this blog in an attempt to "tell my own story of gestational surrogacy," infertility, pregnancy loss, AND life with 6 year old (well, 6 next month) twins. Recently, someone who had read a few of my posts asked my why I had gotten so "off topic." My best, and only, response was that I couldn't be "on topic" in every single post- that that wasn't what this blog was. That would be what my book will be- but my blog is meant to be more daily rantings and less one-trick-pony. I must admit, however, that I feel I should probably try to stray closer to the original intent for a bit here and there. So I will share my complete story- starting at the very beginning (cue Sound of Music score, "A very good place to start")...<br />
In the summer of 1990, I had just turned 22. I was living in Chicago, finishing up my undergraduate degree in Theater, following the Greatful Dead around the midwest, generally having a good time. I had a sweet boyfriend, who was a drummer in a band (I had already dated the guitarist) who all lived in "the loft" together. It was such a great time- we were all such close friends (I'm still friends with all of them.) Very 1960's commune-free-love kind of thing. When classes started in September, I was fully entrenched in trying to graduate after having taken a year off between college in Vermont, and having moved back to Chicago to finish up my degree. I remember a few weekends I spent at my boyfriend's apartment, being very care-free about the sex we were having. I think I may have been between prescriptions of the pill (they all affected me terribly), and trying to be somewhat careful about using condoms. I do remember one marathon night in particular, when one of the condoms broke. Ooops. In the beginning of October, I noticed I hadn't gotten a period when I should have (two weeks after I should have.) I took a home pregnancy test and, you guessed it, Preg-o. I immediately puked. And I didn't stop for the next 2 weeks. I developed HG (Hyperemesis Gravidarum), which is severe nausea and vomiting during pregnancy- to the point of danger. I was puking 6 or 7 times a day, and basically couldn't function- all I could do was drag myself out of bed and onto the couch every day. My roomate was awesome and took such great care of me (as did my boyfriend, but he was also dealing with school.) I tried everything to quell the sickness: I kept ginger-ale and saltines next to the bed, and made sure my stomache never got too empty. I ate small, frequent meals, avoided fried food and sugar, nothing helped. After many really difficult discussions, my boyfriend and I decided that it just wasn't the right time to have a baby. (A prophetic decision, as it turns out) We were both trying to finish school, both very young and neither in a position to be parents. So I called my doctor, and scheduled an abortion. She was pregnant herself at the time, and was so understanding and supportive. Because the HG had gotten so bad and I was getting badly dehydrated, she put me on an anti-nausea medication she said she would NOT have put me on, had I decided to have the baby. I knew right then, that that was the turning point for that baby and for the pregnancy. But oh- the relief. I had also made the decision not to tell my parents about any of this drama. I was putting myself through enough hell about it, I certainly didn't need the extra drama only my mom-the-diva would most certainly provide. So I didn't. I distinctly remember one night, sitting in my room in my apartment, talking about everything with my BF just before we had made up our minds about what to do. I will NEVER forget what he said to me:<br />
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"What if this is your one and only chance to have a baby?"<br />
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<i>What if this is your one and only chance to have a baby.</i> How those words ring in my ears to this very day.<br />
I had another doctor's appointment, at which the "chief" OB/Gyn in my doctor's office was to check me out. He was an older, "old school" kind of doc- so pure in his condescension it was amazing. He walked in, and proceeded to ask me some questions, mostly about my choice. He then did his version of an exam, at which point he lubed up two gloved fingers and, without warning or even a single word, bruskly shoved them up my ass. Yep. you read that right- ass. Not vagina. Now I'm a Doula- I've seen a whole lot 'o"stuff" but I've never seen this in any exam situation. Of course, there was no nurse in the room either. To this day, I'm completely perplexed by it. He was a really well known OB. And he was completely abusive. After the exam, after I had gotten dressed, we had a "come to Jesus" sit-down in his office. He proceeded to lecture me all about responsibility, the evils of abortion, and to shove lots of adoption pamphlets into my hand before showing me the door. As if I didn't feel like shit enough. I remember thinking that I wished I HAD told my parents, if nothing else than because my Dad would have pounded this guy. But I was so vulnerable and naive and wracked with guilt. I did not change my mind, however, and made him schedule the whole affair for the following week.<br />
On Tuesday morning, October 16, 1990 my BF and I checked in to the same hospital I was born in. 7:00 am sharp. It was a gross day- rainy, dark, cold. Perfect. In those days, abortions were performed in an OR. I was fully awake during the procedure, and my legs were up and strapped into stirrups. My whole lower half was at such an awkward angle, and so exposed. There were those green blankets, or whatever they were, draped over my legs, I was in a hospital gown, hair up in a cap, as if I was going through surgery. There were other people milling about the room while my hoo-ha was out there for all to see. One of the interns came and took a "look," as others were setting up trays and tools. I'm sure I had already been given something to "take the edge off." My doctor came over to the side of table, with her big pregnant belly, to reassure me and let me know how things were going to go down. I reached out and patted her belly, looking pathetic, and she said to me, "don't worry- your time will come someday."<br />
I won't describe the procedure itself- it's really too horrifying. It was SO painful. It sucked.<br />
Afterwards, we had to go down to the hospital admin. area and pay our bill. Because neither of us had any insurance, we were paying with checks. While I sat in the woman's office writing out my check, I vomited into her trash can.<br />
Among the many journals, datebooks and notes I've kept over the years, I came across an essay I wrote at that time for an exam. It was a class on human sexuality. The "bonus" question was, "Discuss the advantages/ disadvantages to abortion based on your knowledge, readings and any additional information you know about the subject."<br />
Here's what I wrote:<br />
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A month ago, I had an abortion. Therefore, my discussion of the advantages/</div>
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disadvantages will be based on personal experience. Before I ever got pregnant, </div>
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I didn't feel too strongly one way or the other. Of course, being a woman, I felt if</div>
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I were ever in the situation, I would like to be able to have a choice- and that all</div>
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women should, ultimately, have the freedom to choose what's best for them </div>
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concerning their own bodies. Once I got pregnant, it became a much more </div>
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serious issue. It became something that I was forced to deal with- either I could</div>
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have the child, get married, and try to raise it before I (we) were emotionally or</div>
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financially ready and able to do so- I wasn't ready to devote the next eighteen</div>
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years of my life to this child yet. Or, I could carry it for nine months, grow </div>
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attached and bonded to it, give birth to it and give it up for adoption- never</div>
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knowing it, or seeing him/her grow up- I knew I definitely wouldn't be able</div>
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to handle that. Or, I could have an abortion. I (we) opted for abortion after</div>
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having thought seriously about the alternatives. One of my doctors' colleagues</div>
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examined me, and described the procedure- he also told me of the possible</div>
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dangers. The procedure was to be a suction curetage- in which novicaine is</div>
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injected into the cervix, which is then dilated so that a suction tube may be</div>
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inserted into the uterus to suck out the "products of the pregnancy." Then the</div>
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uterus was to be scraped, and that was it. I would experience no real pain, but</div>
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some simple cramping afterward, for which Advil could be taken. I would also</div>
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experience some bleeding similar to a period for a few days- no tampons, though,</div>
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and no intercourse for two weeks- to prevent risk of infection. He told me that the </div>
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dangers were puncturing of the uterine wall, interference with possible future</div>
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pregnancies, or not getting everything out- therefore having to repeat the procedure.</div>
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All these, he said, were quite rare. </div>
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He described the whole thing in a way that made it sound so simple and clean</div>
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and easy- ha ha. But, then again, I suppose it's different for everyone, and </div>
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there's no way of really describing something you're never (or will never) go</div>
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through. </div>
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The surgery itself was a little traumatic- my legs were strapped up at such </div>
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unnatural angles that they cramped horribly. I was completely awake and fully</div>
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coherent- no sedatives, no nothin'. The shots of novicaine into my cervix were</div>
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pretty painful, and didn't really help- when they dilated my cervix, I thought, </div>
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"I am truly in hell"- it was VERY painful. The sound of the suction wasn't</div>
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exactly too pleasant, either- all I could think was "sucked clean." I was a little</div>
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shaky afterward, and actually threw up in this woman's office where I paid </div>
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my bill. I did, however, start bleeding quite horribly- bad enough that my</div>
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doctor had me come in to see her, and she put me on methergine- a medication</div>
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to contract the uterus down and help to stop bleeding. In about two weeks,</div>
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the bleeding did stop, and I started back on the pill. It has been one month-</div>
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I'm through my first pill packet, two pills into the second one, to be exact, </div>
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and just got over the first period I've gotten since August.</div>
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My emotional outlook at the whole thing, is actually pretty positive- my</div>
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partner, luckily, is and has been, completely loving and supportive, which</div>
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makes it all much easier. I truly believe I made the best choice, and that this</div>
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life, and soul, will return when the time is right. Now I honestly believe</div>
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that no-one should have the right to make decisions over anyone else's body</div>
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and future- I can't even imagine the thought of having to have been forced</div>
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to have a child before I was ready.</div>
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This essay hurts me so much to read, on so many levels. I was so young- so naive. How in the world would I ever have known that I did, perhaps, give up my one shot at having a baby? Why did I bleed so heavily for TWO WEEKS and think that that was OK? Why was I so cavalier about the risks- especially the risk of possibly future pregnancies being affected!? </div>
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My views about abortion have changed over the years. Of course I believe in a woman's right to choose- but it's a choice I would never make again. Not just because of my infertility, either- I felt that way about a year after this happened. Every day I spent thinking about that baby that I gave up, and about my BF's prophetic words about giving up my one chance to have a baby, I grew more and more sorrowful about it and knew that it was something I no longer really believed in. When I got the pathology report and learned that it had been a normal pregnancy, I knew I had done something I would somehow regret the rest of my life. Of course, if I'd had that child, who knows how my life would have been different. I would never have moved out here to New Mexico, never met my husband, never had Sophie and Alex. I can't even imagine it. But I can't ever fix that hole in my life left from that baby I never had. Maybe I'll meet him one day in the afterlife.... </div>
<br />Maggiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08824208780118119332noreply@blogger.com3