Our Story: Part III

This is Part III our journey through infertility and IVF. Click here to see Part I and Part II

 “Things Have To Change”

Our personal hell continued through the summer of 2009 and into the holiday season. Christmas is so kid-centric, and for a couple suffering from infertility, it is equal parts frustration and disappointment. I don’t want it to sound like every waking moment for us was awful, it wasn’t. And we had a wonderful Christmas in 2009, but we were both so tired of being let down. Another Christmas passed without kids. As we looked for gifts, hung stockings, and received holiday cards adorned with smiling kids, we were routinely reminded that something was once-again missing from our life.

The head-in-the-sand approach we had taken had to come to an end. We couldn’t continue down this road without finding out what was happening physically, regardless of what we may learn. The hope-and-despair cycle we had been in for 18 months had taken a visible toll on us individually and as a couple. I was 38, Jess was 34 and neither one of us wanted to wait any longer. Furthermore, it was all paid for by our insurance company. It was time to take control of the situation. After New Years we called our insurance company and set up an appointment with a fertility specialist. It was so scary, but it finally felt like we were in charge of the next step. Maybe it would work, maybe it wouldn’t. But at least we knew we were going to put this in the hands of people trained to fix the problem.

I’ll never forget the first trip to the fertility specialist…it started with frustration.  Perhaps we were overly sensitive, but we found the waiting room to be a source of sadness. Before each meeting, we waited there with other folks experiencing their own fertility obstacles. Just by looking around the room, you could tell who was pregnant and who was not. The pregnant couples smiled and playfully chatted. They looked at ultrasound photos of the child inside the mother’s belly. Meanwhile, the infertile couples---like us---held hands quietly. Or they were independently despondent. Eyes wide and staring deep inside themselves, lips pursed, and exhaling heavily through the nose. Anger? Check. Jealousy? Check. Our people.

Almost every time we went, a couple was met by the fertility specialist at the edge of the waiting room, with a wide smile and a hearty “Congratulations!” It was like a dagger.  We hated that. Of course, the purpose of such a public display is to instill hope in those who don't have any. God, how we wished we were that couple. And each time we weren’t it got harder to witness.   I’m still torn about the public congratulations. I get why they do it, but for us it just reinforced what we assumed to be true: other people get pregnant, we get screwed by fate.  And when your fertility treatments don’t work, it’s even more unbearable to watch.

“First Brave Step”

Our fertility specialist is a great man. He was aggressive and had a full plan ready to go. But before we could start any kind of treatment, Jess and I had to undergo some tests to see if there was an identifiable reason that impeded our ability to conceive. They checked my sperm count which was OK. Not great, but certainly sufficient. I won’t go into the details of my particular test, but it wasn’t unpleasant or intrusive.

The same could not be said for what Jess had to go through. She had to undergo an exam to see if there was blockage of any sort in her fallopian tubes. This required inserting a tube, vaginally and squirting a liquid that the doctors would track via ultra sound. This process was incredibly uncomfortable for Jess and it killed me to see her so distressed. The procedure didn’t take particularly long, just a few minutes. But it seemed like an eternity as we waited to find out if the dyed liquid made it all the way.  Both of us were anxious, but it was Jess on the table, naked from the waist down as strangers hovered around. Finally, the doctor gave us a play-by-play and said, “It made it all the way! Perfect! No blockage! This is great!”

With those words, tears flowed from Jess’ eyes and I followed suit. For the first time in ages, there was  clinical proof that it was possible for us to have children. Maybe we weren’t doomed, after all.

“Unexplained Infertility and IUI”

After a year and a half of trying to conceive, we were finally on a defined road towards doing something about it. It felt empowering. This isn’t to say we weren’t struggling---we were. But at least we were moving forward, instead of laterally or backwards.  Yes, we were experiencing infertility, but we weren’t infertile. We had “unexplained infertility”, which is a double-edged sword: There was no reason we couldn’t conceive, but since it was “unexplained”,  there was nothing to fix or reverse. 

Our fertility specialist had his druthers, we would have started in vitro fertilization immediately. However, IVF is an expensive procedure (about $15,000-$20,000 per pop). Insurance companies in Massachusetts are required to cover fertilization treatments, but they have requirements they put upon their patients. You have to do three rounds of what is called intrauterine insemination (IUI) before you can move on to IVF. This procedure is costs about 1/10 of IVF, so if it works the insurance company saves a great deal of money. If not, it still only cost them a fraction of a single IVF treatment. Makes sense, but still frustrating.

Here’s what the IUI treatment consists of: a sperm sample is collected, “washed”, put into a tube, which is inserted into the vagina, and released. Or as our fertility specialist put it, “Think of it this way, we’re throwing the darts a lot closer to the board…and with only the best darts.” We really liked this guy!  The success rate for this procedure for women in their early 30s is around 20-25% per cycle. Not great odds, but we figured it was better than our current batting average.

We started our first IUI cycle in mid-February of 2010 and spirits were high. Despite knowing the relatively low odds, we allowed ourselves to do something we hadn’t done in a long time: we believed. As the ice of pessimism began to melt just a little, openly talked about kids names, and birthday parties and walks in the park. We allowed ourselves to embrace positivity and feel good. A little more than four weeks later, we were on pins and needles. Jess’ period was a couple days late and she said she just felt different. This was it! We just knew it had worked.  But…..

Jess got her period. The emotional weight we chucked away in the previous month was now back on….and heavier than ever.  Yes, we would continue because it’s what we had to do. Yes, we would hope because we were in one of the best fertility clinics in the nation. But no, weren’t going to talk about what could be until it actually was. We would do everything within our power to make this work, and trust that these folks knew what they were doing. But we weren’t going to get roped into talking about things that weren’t actually happening. Entertaining fantasies is for fools.

To make matters even worse, for Jess were the side effects of the fertility drug, chlomid. She was left with splitting headaches that practically debilitated her some days. There were days she was so spent, all she could stand to do was lay motionless in a dark room. So to go along with the disappointment and sadness, she felt like her head was going to split open.

Up next was the second round. What can I tell you about it? Same old story. No pregnancy, tears, frustration, less optimism, deep breath, let’s do it again. We had one more round of IUI, before moving on to IVF. We weren’t sure how much more we could take. We were about to find out.

“Of All the Days”

As we entered our final round of IUI, our fertility specialist met with us to design a plan for the next step, should the cycle not result in pregnancy. If this attempt wasn’t successful, he suggested we move on to IVF as soon as possible. IVF, in its simplest terms, consists of mixing a sperm sample with eggs extracted from the woman’s uterus. The two are fertilized in a lab and reinserted into the woman a few days later. Our biggest question was, whether or not we’d be automatically approved for IVF after the third round. I called our insurance company and was told over the phone that situations vary, but in most cases the doctor’s recommendation held a lot of weight.  

It was great to have a plan laid out just in case, but we still had our final IUI round to get through. Maybe it would work. Maybe.  Let’s go! To say were impatient was an understatement, and that impatience was equaled only by our frustration. The four weeks passed and, like the first round Jess was a couple days late. Please, please, please let this be it! IVF is so much more difficult and we were tired of waiting even one more day. Like the first time, she said she felt different. Despite a negative pregnancy test, we were still hopeful, as more days elapsed without a period. We didn’t have a lot of hope, but weren’t giving up. This had to be it!  

In what can only be described as the most horrible day of our infertility, Jess got her period on a Sunday morning. But not just any Sunday.  Mother’s Day. God damn, Mother’s Day.   Does it get any crueler than that? Jess was as lost and sad as I’d ever seen here. There was nothing I could do or say to ease the pain. Even more challenging, we had to drive an hour and put on happy faces for a Mother’s Day lunch at her mom’s house. How she sat there listening to Mother’s Day cards being read aloud and Mother’s Day presents being opened is beyond me.  Inside she was ripped to shreds. Of all the days, it had to be this one?  What kind of perverse thrill was fate getting out of our misery? Fuck all of this. Every little bit.

“You Gotta Be Kidding”

Mother’s Day took some getting over and the mood around our household was grim. The prospect of starting IVF was the lone bright spot going into the work week. However, that too, wouldn’t be easy. Not that we hadn’t suffered enough, another haymaker was about to land on our jaw.  Jess called me at work early that week crying, “We didn’t get approved for IVF.”

This had to be a mistake. Had to be. There’s no way this is happening. No!! What about the conversation I had with the person who worked for that very same insurance company who said all we needed was the doctor’s approval? You people are screwing with our lives! What part of “we can’t have kids” don’t y’all understand?  To this day, I still don’t understand what happened. The insurance company wanted us to try two rounds of injectable IUI before moving on to IVF.  

The setbacks were taking a toll. The prospect of having children seemed dim because of physical and bureaucratic obstacles that we had zero control over. By this time, I had wrapped my mind around the fact that we may never have children and was trying to be OK with that. I was with the woman I wanted to be with for the rest of my life and if it was going to be just us, then so be it. This news only pushed me further in that direction. In my mind, I was just being realistic…or that’s what I convinced myself of. In reality, it was just easier to give up, and go through the motions. Then if we did get pregnant, it would be a pleasant surprise. However, Jess never reached that point. As heart-wrenching as this experience had been, she wasn’t ready to emotionally submit to the possibility of a childless future. Can’t say that either one of us were feeling optimistic, but our levels of hope against all odds were not equal.

“Unexpected Good News”

When you get used to bad news---and we got plenty of it---you come to expect it. But soon after the insurance company gave us our next round of challenges, our fertility specialist intervened on our behalf. We don’t know what took place, but later that week we found out that the original denial was going to be reversed!! We would start IVF soon! Much like the moment when we learned Jess was fine inside, we started to see a crack in our wall of defense, protecting us from optimism. Forget the fact that we shouldn’t have been denied in the first place…it was something that was actually going OUR way! You take your victories when you get them, I suppose.

“IVF Ain’t No Joke!”

As we prepared for this next phase, we learned more about the process. Like most fertility treatments, women get the absolute worst part in the play. Before the actual procedure can take place, she must undergo a series of daily injections of drugs that stimulate egg production. In essence, the drugs completely take over the menstrual cycle in an effort to produce as many eggs as possible in one month. Afterwards, the doctors will see how many are viable. It’s quite an interesting numbers game.

Each morning at 6:15 I went to the kitchen and prepared a syringe for Jess, while she prepped her stomach with rubbing alcohol. Neither one of us are wild about needles, but she couldn’t see giving herself the shot. So I did it. Some mornings I made a clean stab, other mornings I didn’t. On those mornings I was not the most popular human being on the planet. Then after a few weeks, there was another shot added to the morning mix. It was bigger and also went in the belly. After a while, the challenge became finding new places to insert the needle, as her stomach was getting hole marks. Poor thing was like a voodoo doll.

By the end, we were up to three shots a day, culminating in the final shot. This was the big mamma jamma. It was very, very long and had to be done at an exact time, based on when you were going in for egg retrieval the following day. For us, the shot would be administered at 11:45 PM. We were absolutely exhausted, but stayed up late to do it. The shot had to be in an area between the hip and the butt. I was so nervous for my wife. This was not going to feel good, and expert as I had become in giving shots, this thing was huge. Jess was visibly nervous, so I couldn’t show any signs of doubt. If I appeared calm on the outside, I was freaking on the inside. I steadied my hand drew it back and plunged it into her backside as quickly as I could. I released the medicine and pulled it out. Whew. Done.

When all was said and done, Jess endured 54 shots over the course of four weeks. In addition, she made dozens of trips to the doctor’s office; IVF requires constant monitoring. It also requires numerous blood samples. By the end of the treatment phase, nurses had a very difficult time finding a place on her arms---yes both---to successfully draw blood. Both arms ached. The emotional toll of all this prodding is one thing, the physical toll is yet another. This damn-well better work.

“Here We Go…”

On Friday June 25, 2010 Jess and I went to the hospital for egg retrieval. Unlike other procedures she underwent up to this point, retrieval would require anesthesia. Having never gone under before, Jess was understandably nervous. The doctors explained that it would be painless and that it would only take around 15 minutes or so. Meanwhile, I went off to the so-called “men’s lounge” and produced the sample needed to fertilize the eggs that would be retrieved. It really cannot be stressed how inequitable the gender-based tasks in this fertility treatment are.  She required anesthesia, I required “Girls of the Big 10”.  

Jess came out of the procedure like a champ. After about 90 minutes or so, we were released and we went home. The doctors would now see how many eggs they could fertilize. On Monday we would go back in to have, what we hoped to be, fertilized eggs put back into Jess’ body.

Under normal circumstances, we probably would have spent the weekend hoping, praying, thinking, and worrying about Monday. But we didn’t have time for that. The day after retrieval, our nine-year old niece arrived from Idaho for a 16-day visit. No, we don’t like to do things easy. The scheduling of our two big events of the summer could not have synched up more poorly. But we learned early on in this process, few things in our life go as planned. So Jess recovered as best she could, and went with me to the airport to pick Hailey up less than 24 hours later. What a trooper.

“The Final Step”

On Monday, June 28, 2010, we went back to the hospital for implantation. After fertilization, we had only two eggs that were strong enough to be implanted. Both would go in on this day. If there are several, those eggs can be frozen for future implantation. That wasn’t the case for us; it was all or nothing. If it didn’t work we’d start the whole process---shots and all---over in a couple of months. With no guarantee of success.

We arranged for Jess’ mom to watch Hailey while we returned to the hospital for implantation. Obviously, this was a concept too confusing for a kid her age  to consume, so we made up a story of some sort explaining our absence. She seemed a little confused, but OK with it. Years later, I think Hailey will be pretty excited to know that she was with us when her two cousins were created.

The implantation process didn’t take very long, but like everything else in this ordeal, it required Jess to be physically exposed. I was there, by her side as our children were put into their mommy. It was a bizarre scene, and certainly not the one I envisioned years ago, but it was amazing. If there was a moment of levity, it came after the procedure. She was asked to have a full bladder. She took this order to heart and guzzled water like she owned stock in Evian.. By the time the procedure was over, she was about to burst. However she didn’t want to go to the bathroom right away, for fear she would somehow pee the embryos out. What? I’m gonna argue with her?

At this point, there was nothing we could do but wait for the results. In 15 days we’d get the news. That’s a long-damn time.

The fourth, and final, installment of “Our Story” is coming soon…

Our Story: Part II

This is the second part of our path through infertility. Here's Part I.

OUR STORY: PART II

Daily Sadness and Bad Thoughts

The summer of 2009 marked the beginning of a very depressing period of our lives. For a year Jess and I tried to conceive and nothing worked. We did everything we were supposed to do and the one thing we wanted more than anything else escaped us. I couldn’t give you an exact date, but it was somewhere around the year mark where our attitudes shifted dramatically. Instead of hopeful thoughts, we were asking and pleading, “Why us? What did we do to deserve this? We’re good people! Why them? They appear to be awful people. Look at how they're acting! They’re probably ruining their kids’ lives? Why do teenagers get pregnant, but we can’t?”  And on and on and on and on. Our emotions turned dark, ugly, jealous and resentful. We were judge and jury.  

I am not proud of those thoughts, quite ashamed, actually. But they were very real. I was bitter and mad at the world. I judged strangers, people I knew, people I loved. None of them, in my estimation, deserved a child until Jess and I could have one. Jealousy is not part of my makeup, but it became the driving force of my outlook on parentage.  Not healthy and certainly not conducive to conception. Even worse, we began to resent those who openly displayed any affection for their children. My irritation was much greater than Jess’. She was more saddened, where I was just angry.  Didn’t they realize how inconsiderate that is? Didn’t they know that someone who can’t conceive may see them hugging their child and be ripped apart inside?

Now let’s think about this: a mother or father is holding their child’s hand as they cross the street, and somehow I’ve molded it into the epitome of flaunting your riches. The purest thing in the world was now a slap in my face.

“Why Would You Say Such a Thing?”

It was also during the 1^st anniversary of infertility that we both started to notice and scrutinize some of the things people say to childless couples. Below is a sample of actual things people said to us, with what we always wanted to say in parenthesis:

• “What’s taking so long?” (Uncontrollable circumstances that sadden us each and every day)
• “What are you waiting for?” (An egg to be fertilized)
• “You’re not getting any younger.” (Nice. Gotta go, you just destroyed my wife inside.)
• “Don’t you wanna have kids?” (Yes, but apparently we’re destined to be miserable)
• “You’re SO lucky not to have any kids!” (If by “lucky” you mean having our hearts broken every four weeks ….then you are correct)

To be fair, I’m sure I’ve said less-harsh versions of the above to friends who were married and didn’t have kids. But having gone through this, I wouldn’t dare broach the subject again. You just can’t realize how hard it is to hear some of this stuff when going through infertility. It consumes you.

“Wellstock 2009”

The most difficult bout of our new-found jealousy and sadness came during an event we look forward to every year. Over a designated summer weekend, Jess and her best friends from their alma mater, Wells College, hold an unofficial reunion called “Wellstock”.  The women, along with spouses, partners, and kids meet at a rotating destination for a weekend of pure fun. It’s always a perfect weekend: everyone gets along, there’s rarely any drama, and we just laugh continuously.

By 2009 Jess and I were the only childless couple in attendance.  Much of the talk centered around parenting, kids, and stories of conception. Now, chances are, this is what happened every year, but we never noticed. When you’re fine with where you are in the parenting journey, people can say whatever they want and you don’t think much of it. But here were with some of our best friends talking OPENLY about getting pregnant. And how they PLANNED it. And it worked. The ”nerve”, right?  It’s important to point out that we weren’t upset with our friends…they did nothing wrong. They are amazing people who would do anything for us, but our heads were not in the best place for a lot of the conversations that weekend. All we wanted to do was change the subject.

And the kids. They were running, playing and laughing together. Having fun, making bonds that they’ll remember forever. Some babies and some as old as nine or ten. Where were our little ones to add to the group photo? As much fun as it was that weekend---and it was fun---we felt somewhat empty, knowing that we weren’t able to add to our family of dear friends. Jess and I both spent extra time with the children at Wellstock 2009…just trying to feel like everyone else. As wonderful as some of those interactions were, it wasn’t exactly what we wanted.

On Friday and Saturday night, Jess and I held each other in bed. We didn’t say much; we didn’t have to. And quite frankly, we didn’t want to. Talking about it didn’t change anything. But not talking, as we’d learn, created a whole new set of problems.

“What’s There to Say?”

The first year of infertility came and went. Jess and I were, predictably, going through a horrible phase of our life together. We were well aware that the next step was to seek medical attention. It had been a year of unsuccessful attempts. But we didn’t seek help. What a stupid, stupid decision. Insurance companies in Massachusetts are required by law to cover fertility consultations and treatments. By all accounts, meeting with a fertility specialist should have been a no-brainer for us. Get the help we need for no more than the cost of a series of $15 co-pays. But a weird thing was happening between us. Our communication about what we were going through became non-existent. It was so sad to think about, let alone talk about it. What was there to say that we hadn’t said a million times? We were sad, disappointed, and didn’t deserve this. As a result, we never put a plan together. We just tried to conceive, hoping it would just happen. How is it they describe insanity? Doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results. That was us.

Not only were we not talking to each other about it, we weren’t talking to anyone else. Jess and I decided early on—well-before we had any idea of the troubles that lay ahead---that we would keep our decision to have kids to ourselves. Once you open up that discussion with others, the 500 lb gorilla is firmly planted on the couch of every conversation you have. It was a personal decision that we’d share with others when the time was right. So after a couple of years of marriage passed, there was a vacuum of silence about the topic…specifically with our parents. Early on in our marriage, I mentioned to my family that we planned to wait to have kids, but didn’t give a date.

Parents are naturally curious as to when they may have grandchildren, but we didn’t want any of that discussion. I know for a fact that I bit my mother’s head off a couple of times for either asking me about kids or hinting at it. Looking back, I realize how crappy I was to her. She had no idea what we were going through because we opted to keep that information to ourselves. But at the same time, I resented the fact that she didn’t act like she knew. How unfair is that?  

Looking back, I think we should have reconsidered our code of silence. Sometimes you just have to talk about this stuff with other people just to get it off your chest.  But  when you’re living this, the last thing you want to do is spend  time chatting about it. But from time-to-time, you need a release valve with this stuff. Perhaps someone you trust can offer a perspective you hadn’t considered that may change your outlook considerably. Instead, we kept it to ourselves….and our perspectives weren’t particularly positive.

“A Cruel, Sick Joke”

There were a number of reasons why we avoided the topic of seeking medical help to deal with our infertility. The most obvious reason? Simple:  we were afraid of finding out that something was wrong with one of us and we were unable to have children. By remaining intentionally ignorant we could continue to pretend that the best news of our lives was never more than 28 days away. But that news never came. We just repeated the horrible routine, month-after-month.

Jess’  menstrual cycle started with dogged optimism, having just gotten through another reminder that we were childless. We were usually OK during the first ten days or so because we’d gotten over the few days of sadness, and we were a few days away from thinking about scheduled sex.  As we entered week two, we had to get serious about conceiving. But as we talked about, doing that was often forced and less-than-intimate.  But we did it, then waited. And waited. And hoped.  But that hope was always fleeting.

The worst moments came when Jess was a day or two late. We allowed ourselves a nibble of optimism and held our breath. I cannot tell you how many times Jess went to the bathroom in a fine mood, and returned in tears.  It was like a cruel, sick joke that replayed itself every four weeks.   And without a communicated plan, we were destined to remain miserable.

Part III coming soon....

Our Story: Intro & Part I

INTRODUCTION

For a while, this corner of the blogosphere has gone silent. Summer has been crazy, I’ve switched careers, and I’ve been working on a pretty intense blog project. I knew it would be long, but I had no idea how long. So any time I had to work on the blog, which was limited at best, was spent working on this project. What is it?

     

     The next few installments of “Tales of Twins From the Frontline” will be a bit of a departure from the tone you’ll normally find here. A lot of the folks who read this young blog know at least a little piece of our story. Jess and I, like a growing number of parents of twins, have them as the result of in vitro fertilization. For so many who suffer through infertility---and suffer is a vast understatement---IVF has graciously given hope, when it seems all but exhausted. The moment a couple learns that they are finally pregnant tops all other joys up to that point. And that joy is so pure because of the unimaginable pain and frustration you have to experience to get there. 

     So for a little while, I’d like to take you through one couple’s journey, warts and all.  What I hope to accomplish by talking about this very personal part of our lives is three-fold:

•  Shine a light on the curious struggle of infertility

• Offer an informal “do” and “don’t” guide for those who may know a couple going through infertility

• Most importantly, give hope to those who are going through infertility themselves

To do this story justice, honesty is crucial. In this case, it means opening things that only Jess and I have ever talked about and putting them out there for anyone to read. Jess tends to be much more private than I am, so a tip of the cap to her for green-lighting this open window to our worst moments together. We both went through hell, but women always have it worse. There are things in here that I don't feel she's 100% comfortable with, but, like me, would like our experience to give comfort and a ray of light to those who are going through this joy-absorbing condition.

We’ll get back to the laughs in due time….

OUR STORY: PART I

 
 

“Let’s Wait a Year”

July 14, 2007 was one hell of a day. In front of 100 of our closest friends and relatives, Jess and I were married in a beautiful arboretum, followed by a ridiculously fun reception, and drinks til closing time at the hotel bar. And from what we heard, there were some epic after-parties.  Jess and David Sprague began their legal life together and we were excited to spend the next year having fun as newlyweds.

There was never any doubt in either of our minds that children were in our future, but the plan was to wait a year. We didn’t want to jump right into parenthood. And the next year was pretty damn fun. We went to Mexico for our honeymoon, back to Mexico to attend a wedding, then to Las Vegas for my sisters’ 30^th birthday. We also partied it up at a college football game, had a nutty New Year’s Eve, had amazing dinners and explored Boston. It was a selfishly fulfilling year, and now we were ready to focus efforts on a more important cause. 

"Here We Go" 

In June 2008 we started trying to conceive.  Our thoughts drifted to how fun the next summer would be, followed by apple picking in the fall, Christmas cards, etc. We didn’t do much research, figuring the species has been successfully propagated for a pretty long time without homework. We just conducted a handful of Google searches which all pretty much said the same thing: keep it romantic, don’t put pressure on yourself, and let things happen. So we did.

June, July, and August passed and our First Response sticks didn’t produce any “+” signs. I wouldn’t say panic set in, but we wrongly assumed that this would only take a few months. Disappointed as we were, Jess and I considered our next move. We went to Barnes and Noble one afternoon and picked up a few books about overcoming it naturally.  Everything we read said not to worry until after a year of infertility.  

Through our now-intensified research, we learned about “The Rhythm Method”. For the uninitiated, here’s the quick of it: Essentially, the woman’s body spikes in temperature as she ovulates. During that spike, the egg is most-ready to be fertilized and couples should attempt conception. There is a less-than-two-day window of opportunity that only seems to apply to folks who can’t conceive. Teenagers on the honor roll, people who find excuses not to work and couples with drug problems can get pregnant at will.  And quite frequently, it appears.

It was at this point that our sex life became less romantic. Our intimate encounters were now something we had to do…at a specific time. It wasn’t intimate, it usually wasn’t sexy…it was a task on the schedule. “So let’s take a look at the schedule. Hmmm. Dry cleaning, run to the bank….oh crap. Sex.” The lessening of sexual intimacy is one of the many frustrating symptons that infertility subjects upon a couple.

But we kept on.  Waiting. Waiting. A few more months passed with no good news. Were we doing this right? Was it my fault we didn’t get pregnant this month? Was it her fault? Our minds drifted to unhealthy places and we had a handful of blame-game arguments.  For the first time this process was having a visible affect on our relationship. Our frustration with the situation morphed into frustration with each other, and we weren’t talking to anyone about our problem. So inevitably, we took it out on the only other person involved.

"New Year...Same Results"

Having a child became our obsession and nothing we did seemed to matter. On New Year’s Eve of 2008, six months into our infertility, we went to Maine for a big party with great friends. The hostess, Jess’ best friend, was pregnant with her first child. As happy as we were for them, her pregnancy was another reminder that we were childless. Jess hoped the two of them would be on track to have children around the same time. This probably wasn’t going to happen.

As we hit the one-year mark of trying with no luck, our friends welcomed a gorgeous baby girl to the world in early June of 2009.  That night Jess and I lay in bed and reassured each other that some day we would also make “good news phone calls”.  But I don’t think either of us truly believed it. A year of infertility had passed, and the seeds of doubt took root. And it was only going to get worse. The erosion of hope was the next, and possibly the worst, casualty of infertility. 

Part II coming soon....

Planting Seeds---or---Hope I Haven't Screwed Them Up

If you’re a football fan, there are few things as annoying as listening to someone who started following the season the morning of the Super Bowl espouse his or her opinion on who will win and why.  Even worse, are the comments during the game that indicate this person doesn’t even have a rudimentary understanding of what’s happening: 

“Can’t believe the kicker missed the field gold!”

 “Why didn’t he just tackle him?”

“Ohhh, Zinfandel!”

With that disclaimer, I admit that the following should be considered for what it is: observations of someone with less than four-months of experience. For old pros in the parenting game, these may ring naïve, or uninformed. I understand. Just skip this altogether. Or fast forward to the comments and type “Tsk, tsk, tsk…” I’ll probably re-read this in five years and vomit.

This evening I had deep thoughts about seemingly throw-away actions that could impact who these kids are. First, a little back-story: Jess prepared bottles for the dudes in the kitchen, as I stood over the bed where they lay and did what I could to keep them from spiraling into hunger-fueled dissatisfaction.  It should be noted that Jackson and Logan, even at this early stage, exhibit very different personalities. Jackson is more outgoing, loud, funny, whiny, and moody. Logan tends to be more gentle, sweet, calm, and introspective. In other words, if there is ever a scheme to sneak the cars out of the garage after Mom and Dad have gone to bed, Jackson will be the one to steal the keys, do donuts in the Wal-Mart parking lot, and yell at girls walking down the street. Logan will figure out how to reset the mileage on the odometer to where it was earlier in the evening…for fear that his younger, smaller brother will slug him.

"You made me like this, dad!"

So over the bed I stood entertaining them in VERY different ways. For Logan, I held these really cool black and white cue cards of animals. The kid is absolutely captivated by these things (strongly suggest these!). It feels like real learning is going on when you look in his eyes. Meanwhile, Jackson partook in his new hobby: blowing spit-fueled air through his lips to make fart sounds.  So while holding the card for Logan,  I egged Jackson on with my own mouth-fart sounds. He responded with cooing, laughter and more "Phhfpppsstttss". Both kids were having fun and all was well. Until this concerning thought came over me: Was I simultaneously encouraging Logan towards intellect and discovery, while leading Jackson down the road of a drooling idiot?

It’s clear to me there is a certain portion of one’s personality that is woven into your DNA. But how much of that is exacerbated and accelerated by the world around you?   All I was trying to do was keep them chill, but it felt  I was encouraging two very distinct and opposing thought processes.  Was I molding the first pieces of clay that would someday reflect their personalities? It seemed innocuous but was it more than that? Was it actually really impactful?   Was I doing Jackson a disservice by playing into such silly behavior? Was I doing Logan a disservice by molding him into bookworm?  I really don’t have the answers to any of these questions, other than I’m pretty sure neither kid is ruined for life at this point. But it did make me consider the possibility that playing to the obvious parts of their existing personality may be a short-term answer, but far from a long-term solution.

I opted against making any more noises and held separate cards for both of them to see. Jackson gave it a good look and responded with a fart sound and hearty giggle. Clearly this is a work in progress…where are the car keys?

All Good Parents are Humiliated

I’m not easily embarrassed; self-deprecation has gotten me through more than a few awkward moments. That being said, no one likes being thought of as a weirdo without having some say in the matter. For example, if I pull my pants down at a party, I can manipulate the experience. First off, it’s at a party, I can wait til folks have had enough emotional lubrication this might be the highlight of the evening. I can control how much I show and how I set it up.  Depending on how I handle the situation, I could find myself with invitations to the grandest events in my area. But let’s say, I’m at Bed, Bath, & Beyond browsing through their glorious selection of floral-print shower curtains, and an associate named Hernando jumps out of the curtains and rips my Levi’s right off my lower parts. The situation is not right, I have little time to react, it may scare my fellow shower-curtain explorers, and God only knows what the hell Hernando is gonna do with my trousers. Time and place. (For the record, I’ve never been pantless in a home goods store voluntarily or involuntarily…)

But as most parents will tell you, sometimes you just have no choice but to let your children sabotage your dignity for the sake of the greater good: silence. And as has been pointed out here on numerous occasions, the obstacle of twins makes most tasks a bit more challenging. About a week ago, Jess, the boys, and I traveled to Maine to visit friends who recently had a baby boy. This represented the longest trip---about 80 minutes---that they’ve taken one-way. The trip there was grand. It represented, as the “Welcome to Maine” sign indicates, “The Way Life Should Be”. Quiet, minus the moose.  They slept most of the way, and didn’t do anything that required one of us unfastening our seat belt and slithering to the midsection of the van at 75MPH. The way back, was “The Way Life Should Be If You’re In No Hurry And Don’t Mind Being Pointed At”.

Your children are scaring the wildlife!

I’ll do my best to recount the exact details of the trip home, but my memory is hazy. A lot happened quickly and I’m probably blocking some of it out. We were just crossing into Massachusetts, when the rumble of one of the kids began. We knew we’d be cutting it close to a feeding when we left, but figured Logan and Jackson would fall asleep and hold off until we got home. No such luck. Logan started to cry, then Jackson chimed in. Sometimes you can wait these storms out, but this had escalated to the point of no turning back until food hit their bellies. We were lucky enough to find a diner and a hotel that shared a parking lot off the highway. It was a pretty good sized parking lot, and we went to the back of the restaurant for a little privacy.

Both of us settled, each with a rugrat on our laps and fed them their bottles. Things were OK for a while, but I’m pretty sure Logan’s foot got caught in a steering wheel or some such thing. Anyways, he was pissed off and didn’t want to eat. Jackson, not to be outdone, also started yelling like he needed medical attention. Well ain’t that great? Clearly these two weren’t going to eat, so the secondary mission was to get them to calm down. Problem was, they were still hungry….but wouldn’t eat.

Let me point out how selfish and illogical babies are. They are hungry and refuse to eat, yet they expect ME to fix their problem? Take the nipple, you screaming freak! I know this isn’t a popular opinion, as they are innocent and cute and helpless. But in moments of weakness, I will apply adult-related expectations that they do not display and hold them fully accountable. I come from a long line of assholes…it’s in my blood. Where was I?

So at this point, Jess and I decide to divide and conquer. Both of us are at our limit…and we have already growled at one another. I put Jackson in the stroller and started walking a 20-foot stretch back and forth. Jess held Logan in her arms, swaying and baby talking. What a scene.  At this point, restaurant workers taking trash to the dumpster started to notice the odd family of four taking up the space normally reserved for their joint-smoking privacy. Sorry to harsh your mellow, Cheech, but we got issues. After a good 45 minutes, we finally had them settled enough to try to move on. Since we were at a diner, we figured we should order something to go…we were absolutely starving. I ran into to order, explained the situation to the woman at the counter and begged for the quickest possible selection. I was informed that fries, pulled pork sandwiches and a chocolate frappe wouldn’t take more than five minutes. Perfect! I ran to the bathroom, then back out to the van to relieve Jess who also had to use the facilities.

Ladies weep, babies sleep!

I saw the van driving around the corner. This meant only one thing. They started screaming again, and Jess got the van in motion to hopefully quell the insurrection. She met me, threw the van in park, opened the door and the cacophony of infant rage wafted out. She practically ran past me and said she’d wait for the food. Great. So we started to drive around. To one end of the parking lot, u-turn, back to the rear of the restaurant, u-turn, repeat. After my third lap, I turned on the Sirius/XM hoping music would sooth the savage beasts. Let me tell you, I am no friend of John Mayer. Not that I don’t think he’s talented. He is. But I don’t find that he uses that talent to make the kind of music he could be making. Then again, he shits in a mansion and sleeps til noon on Tuesdays, so who am I to dictate what kind of music he puts out?  All that aside, the acoustic channel was playing “Daughters” by JM, and wouldn’t you know those boys shut right up? God bless you and your sweet alt-pop sensibilities. Now at this point, I could have pulled over figuring the music was enough to calm them down. But that was a risk I just couldn’t take. Furthermore, Jess would be coming out of the diner any second now with our food. (That’s called foreshadowing, kids!)

The five minute deadline had passed, with no sign of my wife or the pulled pork sandwiches. Five minutes turned into ten, which turned into me chalking up the delay to one of two possibilities:

1.    The young lady I talked to had a less-than-accurate pulled pork-to-reality timer.

2.    Jess decided to start a new life as a waitress in this diner and didn’t have the goddamn decency to tell me.

It turned out that, despite the horrible incident around back, my wife was indeed going to remain a part of our family. After the 15-minute mark, I saw her standing in the window. I mouthed the words “What the fuck?” and she volleyed with her famous simultaneous eye roll-jaw drop-head shake. So now my loop-to-loop of the parking lot officially reached weird status. The people dining next to the window, and folks who were loading and unloading luggage at the hotel had seen the bald guy in the van with tinted windows pass a number of times. Mind you, they can’t see that there are two kids in the back. They just see a lonely man in a mini-van. Not an image you ever want for yourself. I could never move to this town…word travels fast in these parts, no doubt.

I’m not exactly sure how much longer it took for Jess to finally emerge with the food, but I can say that the boys remained silent for the duration. She came out of the restaurant and let me be the passenger. Not out of kindness, but because she feared the effect my eating a barbecued pulled pork sandwich while driving would have on our safety and the van's resale value. I reminded her that the menu selection was based on speed, not accuracy.

I urged her to do a couple more loops around the parking lot, so folks could see that I was actually with someone. But she was in no mood to help restore what was left of my good name in this tiny hamlet…she just wanted to get the hell on the road and get home.

"Tell them kids to kiss your grits!"

After scarfing down the sandwich---which was so good that under normal circumstances would have been worth the wait---I sat back contently. However the good times would only last so long. Yep…about 20 minutes later the inconsolable crying made an encore performance. Again, we found a place to pull over and worked like hell to get them into some semblance of calm. Luckily we didn’t have to run laps in the stroller or wait for food, but we did encounter folks who were wayyyy to interested in our lives and not enough in their own…blogged about this earlier this week. About another 20 minutes had passed and we were back on the pavement.

You know how if you’ve been punched really hard in the throat, that you really only need to be grazed in the throat the next time to drop you to your knees? (I’ve seen “Roadhouse” more times than I’d like to admit, so please don’t think I gathered this info firsthand.) Well, that 20 minute stop was the grazing. It wasn’t the worst experience, but for the love of all things holy, couldn’t these guys hold off? It just added to an already miserable experience.

When we finally got home, three hours had elapsed…or an hour-and-forty minutes longer than it should have taken. And because it took so long, we had to prepare the next feed the minute we were done unpacking and settling in. It was a horrid end to what had been a wonderful day. But I suppose, like all things, this was a learning experience. Another rough road any parent has to travel.  Whether feeding in the van, strolling around the dumpster, or attracting the stares of people just trying to enjoy deep fried food, we sliced and diced our personal pride for these kids. Worth it? Sure. But streaking at Bed, Bath, and Beyond sounds like a lot more fun. 

Even with John Mayer music playing over the intercom.