Hormones Rage and Babies Boom, Part 1

I was 39 and wanted babies. I thought I would implode, bleed out and die unless I got myself preggers. So I changed my chameleon self from Wild Child into Mother Most Holy. It was hormone driven, of course. I didn’t want children when I was younger when, according to my mother, getting pregnant was as easy as sitting on a toilet seat. I avoided the possibility of motherhood at all costs. Loved tormenting my grandchild-seeking parents, telling them that I never wanted biological children, but might – perhaps – consider adopting an Asian child. (Okokok. I specifically chose this racial background because I am a brat, and because I knew the barest possibility of a Japanese grandchild would send my father into a paroxysm of residual PTSD. He was at Pearl Harbor when the bombs and planes dropped, which left him with sleep disorders and the inability to allow his children to own Japanese transistor radios.) Adoption, yes. Biology, NO!

Then I hit my mid-thirties and realized how incorrect all this baby avoidance had been. What was I thinking?!?! Hormones kicked into hyper drive and The Quest began. It should be as easy as One-Two-Three … bingo, bango, baby! So I did what seemed logical at the time – I got married. Step One accomplished. Never mind that all (yep, every single one) of my friends told me I was making a huge mistake. Several even pleaded. But how many Scottish/Sicilians do you know who aren’t brick wall stubborn? The Pollyanna prancing around in my brain told me it would all turn out ok. Of course I knew I was being dopey, but you’d be surprised at what a hormone-hot brain can rationalize.

The Quest started immediately – a basal thermometer became my morning best friend. (Odd that rolling over sleepily and putting something hard into your mouth can help you get preggers, but there it is.) I had several minor and major surgeries to ready my rapidly aging nest. I saw so many fertility specialists that I began to think that every time I walked into a 12’ x 12’ white room I should drop my knickers and throw my heels up over my head to let all and sundry have a look.

Precious time passed with no hint of a baby. We finally entered the Invitro Fertilization Program at a shiny, world-class hospital and I let my child’s chosen father-to-be learn to inject me with Pergonal and various other substances the names I which I no longer remember. Better living through chemistry. Step Two accomplished.

One deep winter evening the baby doctor called. Two couples ahead of us had dropped out of the IVF program. (Fear of failure – or of success – can be unbearable.) We could now move several rungs up the ladder of our baby timeline to start the program in two days instead of two months. JOY! I ran to my baby’s father-to-be to share the happy news. [Music swells dramatically here, and changes from a major to a minor key…] After a startled, “Oh?” the intended father paused and took a step backward. A deep breath. “I’ve been meaning to bring this up… I, um, have a girlfriend. I think I’m in love with her and I’m planning on moving out. I don’t think this is such a good idea.”

Really? Which part? The part about the shots, the surgery and the baby, or the part about the girlfriend? Doesn’t really matter, I suppose, since it amounts to the same thing.

So that was that. There would be no Step Three. He left the night we were supposed to buy a Christmas tree.

There’s more to this story, but you’ll have to wait. There will be other words for other times. Come back and see. Things get better – I promise.