Star in My Heart

Swim Up.

During the holidays our midwife was out of town. For us that meant there was no one to spin the swimmers for our IUI, which with deep breaths and very steady hands, we perform in the privacy of our own home. I love that. Among other reasons, we do our own IUI’s because we have a known donor. He and his partner are considered part of our family. They are The Papas. In the state that we live in, clinics will only inseminate fresh sperm from the partner of the woman. Which means in a situation like ours, we would have to lie and My Lady and our Papa B would have to present as a couple. We’re not above it, but we’d like to avoid it. Plus, there is something nice about being able to take a relatively low tech approach to the process. Well, as low tech as you can be anyway.

So, with our midwife out of town and us not wanting to miss an opportunity to try to make a baby, My Lady hit the internet and we found out we could actually do this ourselves. Whoa. So, we ordered a kit and six days later, Fed Ex dropped off the package that would revolutionize the way go about the business of trying to grow our family. This is what we got: http://www.zdlinc.net/productcart/pc/viewPrd.asp?idcategory=38&idproduct=76  .

 We inspected the contents of the package and pieced all together. There is medium, a column, a catheter and a syringe with a needle for aspiration of the medium after it has had an opportunity to incubate for one hour. Wait, we don’t have an incubator. Oh but wait we do. It’s called the palm of my hand. Here is the catch. You can’t move the column while the medium and the sperm are becoming acquainted. Not even a little bit. Luckily, (in this case) My Lady saves everything. She left the room for a minute and came back with a little red plastic egg full of Silly Putty. Silly Putty! We fastened a good amount of silly putty to the bedside table and nested the column inside of it.  I wrapped my hand around it, we set the timer and I sat there for one hour. I felt a little like sitting on an egg. Maybe this feeling was influenced by having recently watched March of the Penguins. I really can’t say.

The whole process of doing this at home is absolutely empowering. Overcoming the nervousness that comes taking a bold step such as this is well worth it. Two weeks later, we were elated to find it had worked! Between My Lady and I, neither of us really knew how we would feel the day we learned she was pregnant again. We were thrilled, which was an amazing relief. We found out right before a long weekend at a ski house in the mountains. On the drive there, My Lady and I had felt like telling everyone. A couple hours later when the The Papas arrived we told them. The four of us jumped around. Ecstatic. Then, they instinctively said “Tell No one!” I have to say, a few days with no cell phone reception and no internet access meant that we all just sort of sat with the reality of the pregnancy and took it in. We stayed up late talking about everything and getting ready to step off onto another big adventure of parenting together. By the time My Lady and I left, we had both simmered down to some degree about spreading the news far and wide. 

The day after we arrived home, we learned that the pregnancy didn’t take.  We broke the news to The Papas and the four of us took a collective breath. And although we were disappointed, we took such heart in knowing that it is possible, that we can do it, just the four of us, in our two separate houses on different sides of the bridge. We had ordered a kit from the internet, took matters into our own hands and made it happen. Our determination had paid off if only for a few days. And it had been so sweet to sit in that excitement, joy and promise of our next baby. There is something so satisfying and hopeful just in the knowledge of that alone. 

And so we go back to the drawing board but as a good friend said recently “what a beautiful board it is.”   

Trying again.

Trying again. I wrestled with this term for a while and have just recently found that I am comfortable using it. It hung heavy for me, implying that we tried once and failed. Didn’t succeed. The truth is, we succeeded. We had a beautiful pregnancy. My lady was radiant, beautiful, healthy. And by many accounts so was our baby. 8.7 lbs, 21″. Why her heart stopped beating 15 hours into labor is unknowable, but while she was with us, she was active, responsive and presumably healthy.

The desire to try again came instantly. While we were still in the hospital, in shock, bleary eyed and confused. We both just knew. We had become parents. That’s just who we were. We were ridiculously prepared. We were ready. Even in the sad, heavy boned and hearted moments of our summer, it never occurred to either of us that we wouldn’t bring another baby into our family.

We began that part of our journey a few months ago, tentatively and gently at first. I have to be honest in saying it wasn’t easy at first. I feel that there is a certain amount of intention that is set forth when you step out onto the path of trying to conceive. There is so much at play. It seems the stars of biology and chance and faith have to be aligned just so.

When we started talking about getting pregnant again, My Lady and I had many conversations about all it would take. Proceeding with  our desire to build our family and bring another baby into our lives while honoring our grief over Addison, sometimes at the same time. In the same moment. In the same breath. Beautiful concept. In those early months, it was easier said than done. During our first attempts, it was impossible for me not to cry. It was just so hard not to feel haunted.

I’m not sure what happened. Right before the end of the year, something shifted. I began to really feel the presence of our next pregnancy and our next baby as their own new things, belonging to the present, filling my imagination and heart with excitement.  I still think about Addison everyday and seeing parents with babies who are the age she would be now, always gives me pause. Also, I’ve begun to become more and more exultant and hopeful about our efforts to become pregnant again, to walk down a path that holds the hope of the future and memory of Addison together in same step or at least the same stride.

Sometimes there are no words.

It’s been months since I’ve looked at this blog. In fact, I’ve spent a lot of time during these past months imagining that I would take this whole blog down. Start over. Somehow. At some point.

Instead, these pages have hung out here as some sort of ghost town of anticipation, hope, excitement unbridled joy, and sometimes most painful of all, innocence.

Our daughter, Addison, died during labor on June 2, 2007. The cause of her death is a mystery. I have to say that I don’t know how I would feel if there was an obvious reason. I can’t say how satisfying it would be to know that something had gone wrong with her cord, or that she had a heart defect, or any other blasted thing that could have gone wrong. What would that knowing change? As I’m knee deep and wading through the muck of a grief I never imagined, the answers I am interested in go beyond what could be covered by the findings in an autopsy or a pathology report.

Entering into relationship with Addison, I promised myself I would do my best. I’d look at myself, I’d work hard to unravel the places in myself where I can get tangled up. I’d work at not letting myself get in the way of showing up, of loving. I welcomed the opportunity for further inherent to partnership and parenthood. I’m wired that way. I know it.

I started this blog as a way to document our emerging family. I also wrote because I was inspired by some of the parents whose blogs I stumbled across when the news of our pregnancy was new. There was a smart, well written and incredibly big hearted conversation taking place and I couldn’t wait to join in and be part of. If I’m being honest with myself, I have to say that I still can’t.

manly advice from a well-meaning neighbor walking his dog

Coming to you directly from my front lawn in Oakland, California.

it’s sometimes the same for uh, gay families you know,
always be there to try to ease some of the stress
and be careful about the post maternal stuff
i mean, there’s always depression
and now she’s like, you know…
and make sure she’s into nursing
and don’t treat the baby like a vegan
but um, yeah, otherwise it’s great.
so, yeah, give her a lot of time to ease out and not think about having a little one for a little bit.
so, how much longer? A few months or something?
Oh really? Any day now?
Yeah, well I thought she big.

The Waiting and Jumping Place

I stopped by our midwife’s house today to pick up some homeopathic remedies for my lady in our ongoing quest to open things up and remind the baby girl on the inside that we are ready to meet her. After a brief conversation about my lady’s vacillating spirits and increasing general physical discomfort, her parting words to me were something along the lines of “get her out moving and jump around.”

For someone who loves the good old-fashioned metaphorical meaning in things, I can also be quite a literalist. I’m sure this is in no small part due to my Virgo nature with a whole bunch of Scorpio thrown in just to keep things interesting. At any rate, I did what any near desperate sometimes literalist would do; I convinced my lady to let me bring home a trampoline from our local sporting goods store. She reluctantly agreed. So reluctantly in fact, that she could barely bring herself to stand in line with us while we were purchasing it.

When we got it out to the car we soon realized the box was too large to fit into the rear compartment of a Subaru Outback. My lady, who is quite the problem solver and who can generally get anything to fit anywhere may have actually suggested at this point that we bring it back into the store and return it. As we fastened the trampoline securely to the roof rack of the car with some shiny glittery ribbon that we found buried under some books in the back seat, my lady was mildly amused, but mostly she just wanted to get in the car.

We rushed (as rushed as you can be with a trampoline secured to the roof of your car with ribbon) home and our friend and I quickly assembled the trampoline in the backyard while my lady conversed with one of our neighbors in the front yard. We found the perfect spot and there it stood, ready for the jumping fun that was promised on the packaging.

I climbed up and she joined me. After her initial jumps, she began to beam with delight. It was a glorious thing to behold. My beautiful jaunty lady was jumping and laughing in the sunshine on the last day of her forty-second week of pregnancy.

The Waiting Place: Part 2

At 6:00 AM, my lady opened her eyes and said, “She just bit me. Her teeth have come in.

The Waiting Place

I can’t seem to do much of anything these days. Except yard work. I have become relentless and obsessed. In the past week, I have planted and transplanted. I have pulled almost every last straggly weed on our property. I replaced a broken sprinkler head. I sprayed for whitelfy. I spread compost and mulch on all of the garden beds. This morning I unearthed an old sickly rose. After that, I tried to find the origins of a rusty pipe that is sticking up out of the ground with the full intention of digging that up as well. As I’ve drawn closer to finishing a list of projects in our yard, I’ve started to hack away at some ancient weeds on our neighbor’s property as well. It’s okay; nobody lives there, the occupants passed away, so I doubt that they will mind.

Ten days ago, I felt poetic, nearly nostalgic but certainly reflective about the impending arrival of our baby girl. It’s obvious to say that her birth is more imminent now than it was that morning when I lay in bed imagining she could decide to make her way into our world at any second. Now, I can’t sit still long enough to daydream or imagine much of anything. It’s only in the spirit of keeping a record of this anticipation that I am sitting down long enough to write any of this down.

Time does a funny thing when you are waiting. It becomes loose and elastic. It almost seems to damn near stop.

My lady and I decided to go out for a little adventure today. Strolling a well-populated neighborhood with plenty of opportunities for window-shopping, numerous snacking options and a pedicure had the promise of a good distraction. We didn’t go for more than ten minutes at a time without someone asking my lady when she was due. She answered faithfully and patiently every time. May 15th. It was entertaining to see people calculate the math and realize that was ten days ago. Though it would probably be more accurate to say that it was only entertaining the first half dozen times. There was a moment toward the end of the day when I actually believed my lady might throw down with the next person who looked at her or in the general direction of her belly.

There are many common bits of advice that follow when people learn that you are waiting for labor to begin. We have tried a lot of them. We have tried vigorous walking, sex, spicy food, root beer, hiking up hill and then back down, acupuncture, acupressure, bouncing and massage. Tonight I made macaroni and cheese with Worcester sauce for dinner.

There are some suggestions we are (thus far) decidedly shying away from. Pony rides, motorcycles, jumping jacks, castor oil, camel rides, carnival rides, booze and vigorous nipple stimulation are all on that list. Granted, I am not a woman in her forty-second week of pregnancy, but with the exception of the castor oil and jumping jacks, some of those things don’t sound half bad.

There is a part of me that understands that all of this waiting is somewhat of a quality problem. We’re waiting on a baby. The house is quiet. I have the time to sit and ruminate and write this post. I embarked on my day after a full night of sleep. I had time to shower before I left the house and there isn’t one article of clothing on my body or in our house that looks or smells like it came out of the body of said baby.

Our baby girl has an experience of time that is uniquely hers. She’s hanging out, waiting to feel ready for the world while not having any idea of what that means. I can’t begin to imagine what that feels like. A friend of ours pointed out that deciding when to make her first appearance is the last decision she’ll get to make on her own for a while. She’s right about that and we aren’t planning on rushing in to get her and my lady isn’t trying to chase her out. With all of our efforts, we’re just trying to let her know that we are ready, in case she is wondering about that. In case she cares.

We know that sometime soon, the stars will align and she’ll come to us. We’ll meet her when she’s ready. In the meantime, we’re doing our best to put down a big beaming. hand crafted, welcome mat. We are doing what we can to keep one another amused in the process and reminded that timing is everything.

Expecting.

It could happen any day now, really. The woman that is sleeping next to me, curled around and dreaming, could go into labor. She’s pressed up so close that I can feel the baby move, squirm and kick against my hip. I turn my attention to the sensation knowing that even if baby stays inside for another week or so, these are the last moments that I will feel these mysterious movements that have become so familiar in recent months. These are the last times I will touch her feet through the barrier of her mama’s skin, wonder what she looks like, pray for her safe passage into this world.

We’ve been engaged in a process of preparation that began in early September, when my lady realized she was pregnant. We’ve read. We’ve talked. We enrolled in and completed a childbirth prep class. We supplemented that class with three consecutive Sunday afternoons in a yoga studio, easing ourselves into positions that may help relieve the pain of labor while facilitating, infusing and reinforcing the power of this baby’s birth. We have sat in the living room with our midwife asking question after question, eyes closed listening to that strong fast powerhouse of a heartbeat. We’ve spent nonsensical amounts of time at our local baby gear retail stores, debating thermometers, monitors and every thing else that they sell. The car seat has been installed and inspected. I wrestled with a Diaper Champ and lost hands down. We’ve collected all of the items from our homebirth supply list. The birth tub in inflated. Towels, sheets and blankets have all been washed and folded. We’re ready to welcome this baby into our home.

I’m the type of person who thrives on being prepared. I study. I research. I generally like to know what’s coming next. Before I go to a restaurant for the first time, given the opportunity, I will always read the online menu and then devour as many reviews of the place I can find. My lady and I are very compatible in this regard. Hence, the books, the classes, the birth videos stacked on top of our media center, the basket of diapers at the ready, and so forth.

In the last week or so, I came to the realization that I am as prepared for the birth of this baby as I am ever going to be. But how to prepare for what comes after?

The woman I love is about to become a mother. My own identity is shifting to accommodate the reality that I am becoming a parent also. My lady and I, and a person we are yet to meet, are about to enter into something together and alone that is simply unknowable. This plain fact presents a challenge for someone who has to struggle from time to time not to read the last sentence of a book while the plot is still unfolding.

The path of pregnancy, expectancy, is a path of simple uncertainty. It’s also a path of brilliantly stunning revelation. It’s a continuous practice of setting forth intention, placing one foot in front of the other while stepping headlong into the life of this new family and all of the contents there within.

The other evening, I walked an 11-circuit labyrinth that is painted on the grounds of a local middle school. It was the first time I had visited that particular labyrinth. Most of my labyrinth walks have been partly measured by a profound encounter with the ancient labyrinth at Chartres Cathedral. I hadn’t counted on or anticipated any sort of magic or personal transformation there in that schoolyard. I was walking because I needed to. However, I found myself moved by the youthful creativity present and bursting forth in the bountiful vegetable garden and the hand painted signs that peppered the school property. On that very private and solitary walk, I was encircled by the energy of kids. As my walk wound down, I realized that I had become flooded with hope. It was an internal commotion that was breathtaking, staggering, heartening.

I came away wondering if this whole endeavor of making family isn’t an exercise in surrendering to that hope. A surrender to the fact that the landscape of my soul will be changed right in front of my own open eyes from falling in love with the ever emerging mother in my partner, and the baby that has been growing inside of her all these months. It’s a surrender to the acceptance that in all likelihood there will be moments when that love will bust me wide open and put me back together in ways I can’t predict. Simply put, it’s giving admittance to that chance.

My expectation for the morning was to have this piece completed and posted before my beloved girl opened her eyes. It didn’t happen. She stirred and nuzzled into me, soft with sleep not far behind her. She placed her hand on my chest and we stared eyes to eyes for a moment in the still light this cool May morning. I wanted to tell her everything. She asked if I’d felt the baby move while she’d slept. We had a brief quiet conversation about plans for the rest of the day and evening. Within moments, she was up and out of the bed. I hear her moving about the house, stepping into the shower.

There are things to be done. There is furniture to build, gardening to do, and errands to run. I’ll get out of bed and enter into the business of the day knowing this may have been last Friday that we both stayed in bed until mid-morning, deeply breathing, one of us dreaming, skin to skin, expecting.