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Monday, December 15, 2008

Skeleton in the Closet

I've been on many a date with a guy who pulls a skeleton out of the closet that knocks my socks off. This usually occurs at precisely the moment when I'm thinking, "Wow, this guy seems really normal." It is right then that the floor is pulled out from under me and I end up in the dunking booth. Again.

I've heard everything. Guys who claimed to be single admit they're divorced. Guys who suddenly remember to mention that they have a 12 year old daughter. Guys who find this the opportune time to tell me they're married (after kissing me on the mouth). Guys with ultra funky penchants for demonstrating how far certain bodily fluids can fly (no, not kidding). Oh yes, my friends, I've met more skeletons than you'll see at on Disney's Pirates of the Caribbean.

And now Ladies and Gentlemen, stand aside, for a delicious twist of irony: I've got the biggest skeleton in the graveyard. Try these bones on for size: I'm trying to have a baby on my own. And I'm using a surrogate.

Insert deafening silence here.

I pulled this bag of bones out of the closet this spring after dating a guy for about 2 months. He was 41, said he wanted children and a serious relationship, and had dated women with children in the past. So, I said to myself, if anyone can handle this, its this guy.

After telling him the news, he was shocked. I know this because he kept repeating, "Wow, I'm shocked." He took the time to have an extended make out session with me (more on that later) before burning rubber out of my parking lot.

He took two weeks to 'think about' how he felt about my situation before calling to say it was over. He explained that although he was 41 and dating a 39 year old woman, wanted to have children someday, didn't mind dating women with children, and would welcome dating a 'single mom by choice' - my situation was too much, too soon. Okay, fair enough.

He shared that he wants to date a woman for several years before having children. I pointed out that if he wants to subscribe to this action plan with any woman over the age of 32, he had better select someone who flunked biology.

As soon as we got off the phone I realized that this relationship was never meant to be. Nice guy, but I can only talk about American Idol and plasma televisions for 12 minutes before slipping into a coma.

Its never fun to get dumped, but I must admit it was truly amusing to be the person hauling a deep secret out of my closet. Can you imagine how fun it must have been for him to tell THIS story to his buddies? My skeleton wins. Rock on.

Sunday, December 14, 2008

White Bean Soup

I'm not a man-hater. Or a man-eater (although I must admit I really do love that song, esp. when my instructor plays it in spin class).

In fact, I like men. Not all men, but a lot of men. Then why have I made it to age 39 without marrying one of them? Well, thats a long story (which is another way of saying, "I have no idea").

I was talking on the phone to my mother today and saying that I'm grateful to be going through this fertility journey solo, rather than married to my 'Close Call' -- who we'll call Glenn (get it?). I explained that Glenn would not have been supportive and would have made me feel defunct because I can't carry a pregnancy to term. "And that", said my mother, "is exactly why you're not married to Glenn." Mom always comes up with the good points.

A few weeks ago I was at the Farmer's Market sampling an organic apple when suddenly I heard someone call my name. I turned around, with my mouth full, to see a guy who used to date an old friend of mine. They broke up after dating for 10 years and she moved away and married someone else. And divorced. And remarried. He also married someone else. And is now getting divorced. It was clear that he was going through a hard time and needed to speak to an old friend ... so we went out for a drink.

I spent several hours listening to the intimate details of his relationship, marriage, and break-up. Like most stories of this ilk, it was painful. He paid for my drink, walked me to my car, and we promised to get together again soon. As friends. I drove home thinking how nice it is to have a male friend with no strings.

A few weeks later I got an e-mail from him on a cold, rainy Saturday afternoon inviting me over to his house that night. To eat white bean soup. In front of a fire. Saturday night + homemade soup + fire = could it be?

No. Of course not. I'm imagining this. I called my friend Debbie to get her read. She hummed the theme song from a generic porno film. This is not a good sign. She then asked her husband who said something like, "Yeah, he wants sex".

Ah, transition sex. An understandable desire, but not one I can grant at the moment. It would be one thing if he was serving lobster bisque, but I certainly don't put out for white bean soup. A girl has to have standards.

Friday, December 12, 2008

Prom Queen

I've been thinking about my life a lot lately. Maybe its the holidays. Maybe its because I'll turn 40 next year. Maybe I've been reading too many O magazines.

What I've realized is that up until the last few years, I've been living on easy street. I wasn't the prom queen, but a lot of things were handed to me on a silver platter: loving parents, a close family, plenty of money, good health, good grades, good friends. I always fit in, made the cheerleading team, had a boyfriend and a date to the prom, and got into a good college. I got good grades, had good times, found my calling, went to graduate school, and landed a job in my field. Of course, at the time I thought I had all sorts of problems; but in retrospect, I had it much easier than many of my peers.

A few years ago I dated a guy who never wanted to see his relatives or friends from the past. He hated the holidays, family gatherings, and most of all --- answering questions. I didn't get it at the time, but looking back I realize that he wasn't happy with himself or his life. This made updating people on his progress thus far pure torture.

Now I kind of get it. Its harder to speak to old friends and acquaintances when the newsflash is that you're parents have separated, Mr. Right turned out to be Mr. Wrong, you're trying to have a baby on your own and are even struggling with that.

And so, many of us answer the question, "What's new?" with the much easier and less honest, "Not much."

When I was in high school I thrived on rebellion and irony. I wore hiking boots to school with my cheerleading uniform, ripped the label off my Guess jeans once the brand became popular, and ate lunch at the counter of Woolworth's with my friend in hopes that someone would see us and think it was zany. I need to channel my 17 year old rebel self and find the strength to view the path less traveled as unique and beautiful. I need to be the Prom Queen with a nose ring and a smile.

Thursday, December 11, 2008

My Stork

As I've mentioned before, I like a plan. Which means I like to be in control. Which means I like to be the boss whenever possible.

Can you imagine a loss of control greater than asking a complete stranger to carry your tiny embryo in her uterus for you and pop out a baby in 40 weeks? Is it possible to lock this stranger in my basement so I can monitor her input and output, ensure that she is getting enough sleep and exercise, and not using prescription or recreational drugs? The answer my friends is Hell No. And luckily, even I don't feel the need to do this. Why? Because I've actually lucked out in this journey. I've hired a gestational carrier who is just as Type A as I am. Organized, on time, checks her e-mail all of the time --- OMG I think I'm in love.

Let's call my gestational carrier Vanessa. Vanessa is amazing. She has several small children of her own, a husband, and a career. On top of this, she is an experienced gestational carrier and knows the lingo, the meds, and the protocols. She is a pro at 'everything pregnancy'.

A friend of a friend of mine hired a gestational carrier who grew their microscopic embryo into a healthy baby boy. This woman called this carrier 'The Uterus' and spoke of her with obvious disdain -- apparently because this woman could do something she couldn't. The Uterus threatened her femininity and her feelings of womanhood.

Maybe I've got this all wrong, but I feel completely differently --- I've found a woman who is good at pregnancy, has a certified Grade A uterus, and she is willing to go through IVF, morning sickness, weight gain, water retention, hemorrhoids, and labor & delivery for me??? I call this woman My Hero.

Don't get me wrong, I'm disappointed that I apparently cannot carry a pregnancy to term. I've thought about being pregnant all of my life and even considered if I would have natural childbirth (no), be disappointed with a C-section (no), or breastfeed (yes).

But in the long-run, it was never about being pregnant -- it was about being a mother. And Vanessa, my stork, is going to help me achieve that aim. And so, a true Plan B-er, I march forward with what feels like Plan K at this point. Onward and upward (and hopefully outward, soon).

Tuesday, December 2, 2008

Desperate Housewives

Its not particularly reassuring to realize that your life story has more plot twists and drama than Desperate Housewives.

Okay, now I need a surrogate. Or, as I've been educated, a gestational carrier --- my embryo, her uterus. And I thought it was time-consuming to redo my kitchen.

And so the journey begins. We are no longer on Plan B --- I believe we are now up to Plan G. I researched attorneys, agencies, insurance, and talked to other parents who'd been through the process. What I learned is that you can spend a BUNDLE just trying to find a carrier, and that doesn't cover any of her medical expenses, medications, or costs. I decided at this point, because I didn't have enough to do, to take on some of these duties myself.

Where to begin? That's right, Craig's List.

ISO a healthy, loving surrogate who can hatch my frozen embryos into babies. Healthy, normal babies. Without colic. Who sleep through the night. And rarely throw up. And, oh, can you help me care for them too? And perhaps do some light cleaning while I'm at work?

In the interest of space, I settled for the first line. And I posted this ad on a specialized message board for surrogates. Within days, I had several responses. One from an experienced surrogate who lived in the next town!!!!!!!!!! Surely, she must be a nutball.

We met for coffee before work and I found myself drawn to her. She was not a nutball. She is an intelligent, reliable, professional woman who is also a wife and a mother. My first thought was -- you're juggling all of this and now you want to carry my baby? Damn, I can barely walk and chew gum.

But, she did want this. She likes being pregnant, is really good at it, and wants to help other women become parents. The altruism of the act struck me. Yes, she's being compensated, but I'm not sure there is enough money in the world to make me go through all of these invasive procedures, alter my body's chemistry with injectable medications, and stretch my body to the size of a medicine ball for 9 months. Not to mention labor and delivery. Geez, I thought I was a nice person for telling the cashier at CVS that he'd given me back an extra 25 cents in change.

And so, onward and upward. The next episode of Desperate Housewives has begun. Marcia Cross, move over --- I just took your story plot, your personal fertility story, threw them in a blender and added a dash of Steven Spielberg.