Tuesday, June 23, 2009


11 years ago yesterday, I reluctantly went to meet a stranger at the Wroclaw train station, fully equipped with an excuse to bow out early and a "chance" encounter from a friend to "save" me should the task be too awful.

Two days later, M moved in (much to the chagrin of my Polish landlady. That is putting it kindly). 11 years later, multiple countries, many many adventures later, here we are.

I can still remember what I was wearing, what he was wearing, the flower he held (bird of paradise. what?) which made me assume he wasn't the American I was supposed to show around town. What American thinks to bring flowers? I can remember that by mid evening, I was interested enough to get slightly ruffled when he called my friend Jowi (yes, the first one) "baby" even though we were all more than tipsy and he was promptly and sweetly rebuffed.

I remember the strangest feeling of inevitability I have ever felt. I wasn't quite sure whether I even liked this dude, but I KNEW that this was the person I would be spending the rest of my life with.

Never mind it took us 4 more years to get married and that was done, really, on a whim because we both assumed I was going to get a foreign service gig that I didn't. We joke that I totally scammed him into it.

Sorry dude. Dinner was nice though, wasn't it? The honeymoon too.

Our relationship is a wonderful one. But, as Angie said so well about a different (but related) topic: "It is not fucking easy. And it is not fucking luck." We work hard every day to love and be loved. And actually, it was the latter that I had a hard time with in the beginning of our bond. "That guy that hurt you? That's not me." Was nearly a daily mantra for M.

And now, we work hard every day to keep each other from falling into the abyss. Because it is right there. Right. There. Sometimes it feels as if our toes are slipping and the other person's shirt is sliding out of our sweaty hands and perhaps in trying to save one of us both of us are going to fall, but so far, we are ok.

And here is some mercy:

Yesterday, we finally received a call with the results from the endometrial biopsy.

Shockingly, I was in phase.

Which doesn't erase the fact that my lining is thinner than they would like and its not the trilaminar beauty you want to see before going into a transfer. It does not take away the fact that my odds of miscarriage or pre-term labor and delivery are high, IF we even reach a BFP. It does not give us more than the 3 embryos we have. It does not make things all better.

But it sure as hell helps.

We now have the green light to move forward with an FET.

Which we will do. Right after a spur of the moment vacation.

Thursday, June 18, 2009

Called It

My GTalk is filled with words from a man who is now doubting his self-worth, his value and the meaning of everything.

Thanks, fates. Thanks a fucking lot. Could you at least point me towards the words to soothe?

Where is the mercy?

Dear Powers That Be

Dear powers that be:

Today is M's birthday. Please let it be a good one. Some surprise presents this morning softened the start but I can sense he's apprehensive. Slightly unsettled. Putting on a brave face.

The first words out of his mouth this morning were, "I'm sorry I don't make so much money."

He is finally in a place where he enjoys what he does, is invested in the things he creates on a daily basis and somehow that's not enough? Now somehow funds are an issue, when they have never been? Ever? We are in a far better fiscal place (still not great but at least we have a plan) than ever before and cash is his concern?

I seriously doubt it.

But with fatherhood on hold, Father's Day looming and ESPN playing that fucking wiffleball-kids and dads in the backyard-these are priceless moments-reminding men to play with their kids promo Every Fucking Minute when the remote is nowhere to be found, well, I am guessing an existential crisis could be brewing.

Dear ESPN: Please stop acting like you care, you Disney shills.

Dear powers that be: Please cut my honey some slack.


Tuesday, June 16, 2009

Searching: Jersey Girl

Dooooooods, I am from NEW JERSEY.

Did you know that? I didn't. But now I do. I am a North Jersey girl through and through (ok, the north part is pure speculation at this point, but we are pretty good at geography and ethnic communities and by process of elimination we are pretty certain its north Jersey.)

Wait. Stop. Let me back up.

I received my first little packet of info from CSS today. The one that contains my non-identifying information. Most of which I already had, but some that I didn't. So, a lot of good news there: 1. nothing was inconsistent with the birth story I have always been told (parents = super young, family = super Catholic) 2. I now know more about my birth grandparents and aunts (2) and uncles (2) and WHERE I AM FROM.

Can you imagine what this means to me?

I have been on cloud 9 since I ripped open the envelope yesterday after work. I have been composing this blog post in my head since then (although its all coming out in a jumble now). I went to bed and woke up this morning HAPPY. Can you believe that? Happy. The happiest I have been in over six months. My soul feels lighter. I feel physically lighter. Because I know where I am from.

This could not have come at a better time. Our infertility and loss and continued bad news on the future fertility front has all been culminating into a pretty substantial identity crisis for me over here. Who am I again? What did I do before trying to trick my body into things it doesn't do on its own? What will I do with my life if it is one that doesn't include children? What was the focus of my life all those years before we even thought children were a possibility? Who am I again? Surely I am more than my lady parts, but what is that more?

Dudes, I am a Jersey girl. That is a start.

Now, I know there is still a loooong road ahead. One that may or may not lead to communication with my birth parents. And based on what I am reading, my prediction is that my birth mother and father will probably want to talk with me (I hope), my birth families, not so much. Now more than ever I am fairly certain that my birth parents had little say over my adoption. My birth mom was shipped off to her grandparents until I was born.

Which is how I ended up here.

So much more to say about all of this, but its going to have to wait. The work emails and skypes have started, two of my co-workers are out of state and freaking out about various things (M! L! Relax!) so I should probably begin my day.

Just know that I am starting it with a smile on my face and a peace that is entirely new.

Tuesday, June 9, 2009

Which One Will It Be?


Have you ever gotten yourself so worked up as a kid that all of a sudden you are sobbing/sniffling/gasping/hiccuping and trying to talk at the same time? Like when your best friend got six cabbage patch dolls from all of her grandparents on her 6th birthday and you didn't have even one and she was a spoiled snot and didn't even deserve them and you were just incensed at the injustice of it all and you ended up getting spanked by your mom because you were being such a brat and embarrassing her and then got yanked out of the house all the time screaming/sobbing:

"Bu-ut (wheeze) it's (gasp) just (SNORT) not (hiccup) FAAAA-IIIIIIII-YERRRRRRRRR......." as you were dragged down the driveway to the car.

Hypothetically, of course.

Well, um, ahem. Maybe I had one of those days yesterday. (insert embarrassed face here).

Yes, I am fairly certain I suffered an anxiety attack of my own making but thankfully the story by S. reminded me that perhaps going to the emergency room is not the best plan of action. So I didn't. But honestly, the panic attack was small peanuts compared to the snot-fest I was when M. finally got home.

Poor M.

He just walked into it.

And after a few moments in his arms and on the couch, he wisely led me OUT of the house. Because he knows I can't stand crying in public (far too vain) and I'm guessing he couldn't figure out another way to get me to stop.

And he listened and he tried to sympathize and then he finally said,

"Look. It is not your grief or your sadness that is consuming you. Because I have that too. It is some kind of raging anger and hate that is eating you up. m., you are hurting yourself with your hate! What is going on here???"

I mean, he said a lot more than that. Some of it nice. Some of it not so much. Some of it that started the tears up all over again. But that is the part I remember.

and then he said,

"You can't hold this kind of hate and be happy at the same time. You need to decide which one you want. You can't have both. So, which one is it going to be?"

And then, we both sat down to watch TV and took a high powered ibuprofin (left over from the last hysteroscopy. holla) because we managed to collide heads when giving the PIO shot last night. (don't ask. I am still shocked M. doesn't need stitches) and promptly fell asleep. Exhausted.


This shit wears me out.

And so, today is a new day. And today I am trying, trying, trying to choose happy.

Monday, June 8, 2009


What does an anxiety attack feel like?

Because I think I very well could be having one.

This is ridiculous.

Sunday, June 7, 2009

Searching: the forms are filled

How would you describe yourself? Generally fearless. Curious. Eager to get as much as possible out of life. I am married to my best friend who shares my interests, my humor and love of life. The recent birth and death of our daughters continues to cast a shadow. We are still grieving.

Why are you choosing to search? I know what it is like to lose a daughter and to live with that loss every day. I would like to bring some peace and some closure to my birth parents, if I am able.

What do you expect your birth parents to be like? Thoughtful, intelligent, wise, funny, sarcastic.

Is there anything else you would like to share? I would like my birth parents to know I have never had anything but love and respect and admiration for them. That is still how I feel. There were times in my life when I was angry - not because I was adopted - but because I often see things so differently from my adopted family. Now that I am older, I think I understand this can be the case in any family.

When our daughters died, all I wanted in life was to see them again. If they (magically) appeared at my door 30 years from now I would simply be overjoyed at knowing they were ok.

I want my parents to know that I am ok.


Six full months after Isa and Jovi were born. Nearly six months after I requested the forms. Months after I had a painfully frank conversation with the woman from C*tholic Ch*rities who called to check to see if I had received them and if I had an questions ("maybe I just have a problem giving you more of me than you already have. Maybe I don't want you to know anything about me. Wasn't having the power over where to place me enough for the organization?") Poor woman. She got an earful. She shouldn't have asked.

After all of that, I realized that not starting with the place that actually does have names on file (even though they won't give them to me) made no sense. Principles be damned. Why am I making this harder than it already is?

I filled out the damn forms.

Adoption records in my state are sealed and despite the hard work of many advocacy associations, there is no ability for adoptees to pull up their records besides working directly with the agency that have them up in the first place, or a court order, and even then, judges are testy and will only allow non-identifying information out unless you've got a helluva good reason for more. (I have a right to know who I am and where I came from does not cut it.)

We won't talk about the forces that were behind closing the loophole that existing until the early 80s that many adoptees were able to use to get their birth info. We won't mention the conflict I feel writing a check to the place that produces nothing but bile and resentment from me. And we won't even mention the existential crisis and tear-fest the first question caused yesterday. (Describe myself? I am a mother who is mourning. I am someone who used to be happy every day and now I am sad and get even sadder thinking about how much I hate to be sad. I am a shell of the person I used to be.....) No, best not to talk about that.

Let's talk about the fact that after all my talk, I finally put the wheels in motion.

I filled out the damn forms.

(and yes, I mailed them too. Smarty pants)

Monday, June 1, 2009

More Than

Ok. That was helpful.

After I wrote the last post I went where I should have been earlier today - to my calendar - and let out a sharp "OH FUCK" (kind of like the one M yalped when he realized at 6:59 am this morning that he had a 7 am dentist appointment) because I too saw a handful of things, one of which required actually dressing and leaving the apartment, that I didn't want to deal with today.

But I did.

And it was fine. Not fine as in the lunch was delicious or the speaker said things that were really great, but it was fine in that I ran into a colleague I really, really like and she sat with me and another very smart person sat down with us and just in conversation threw down a ton of great grassroots lobbying ideas that I am so eager to try out. And was, in general, very kind and mentor-ly and treated us like professionals even though we were decades his younger.

Because I am a professional. (professional bullshitter, heh heh. shnooka shnooka. Sorry. sorry. that's one of my inner voices sneaking through.)

But since she's hear (ooh freudian typo) I mean here, why don't I just try out some of the things that I would like her to say to me today:

I am MORE THAN my womb.

My uterus is a piece of me. The WHOLE of me is MUCH LARGER than that ONE piece.

There are things I can do and do WELL.

They are not discounted nor minimized nor erased because there is ONE PART of me that is not working well right now.

I am MORE than the sum of my PARTS.

Even the lady parts.

NOTE: I am truly not schizophrenic. Not that there's anything wrong with people who are schizophrenic or hear a cacophony of voices in their daily lives. But I do, like so many of us do, have a pretty nonstop (and loud. and opinionated) series of internal monologues that I seem unable to disable.

So I might as well try to reprogram.


I seem to be spending an inordinate amount of time thinking about what I might blog this morning. Obsessing, almost.

No matter how the conversation begins, or what stories of the weekend or last night or this morning I share, whether they are good or sad or silly or poignant, it all winds up in the same place.

This morning, I am hurting. Just. Hurting.