Stacy Bolt - Breeding in Captivity: One Womans Unusual Path to Motherhood

Guilford, Connecticut

An imprint of Globe Pequot Press

skirt! is an attitude... spirited, independent, outspoken, serious, playful and irreverent, sometimes controversial, always passionate.

Copyright 2013 by Stacy Bolt

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying and recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, except as may be expressly permitted in writing from the publisher. Requests for permission should be addressed to Globe Pequot Press, Attn: Rights and Permissions Department, P.O. Box 480, Guilford, CT 06437.

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Project editor: Ellen Urban
Layout: Maggie Peterson

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Bolt, Stacy. Breeding in captivity : one womans unusual path to motherhood / Stacy Bolt.

pages cm
Summary: More and more women today are waiting to have childrenwhether intentionally or due to circumstances beyond their control. But when they do, the desire to have a child at an advanced maternal age can be both overwhelming and intimidating. Breeding in Captivity illuminates the experience of infertility and adoption, offering readers an inside look at the process while simultaneously captivating them with an extraordinaryoften hilariousstory of what it means to become a mother Provided by publisher.
E-ISBN 978-0-7627-9929-9
1. Bolt, Stacy. 2. Middle-aged mothers. 3. InfertilityTreatment.4. Adoptive parents. 5. Motherhood. I. Title.
HQ759.43.B65 2013
306.874'3dc23

2013017647

Note to Reader: The names and descriptions of some characters have been changed to protect their privacy.

For Xander

C ONTENTS

P ART O NE: P REGNANCY

CHAPTER ONE

Advanced Maternal Age

It started at the rehearsal dinner. The freaking rehearsal dinner. We werent even married yet and Daves Uncle Larry was shouting from one end of the long banquet table to the other, Whenre ya gonna pop out some babies? I was always a big fan of Uncle Larry. He was equally adept at drinking and dancing and, as a result, I always had a great time with him at other peoples weddings. But at that moment, I wanted to punch him in the throat.

Turns out Uncle Larry was just the nosy canary in the rude-question coal mine. Over the next forty-eight hours, Dave and I would be asked some version of that same question a dozen times. And why not? People had finally gotten an answer to their previous punch-worthy question: When are you getting married? Now it was time for the sequel. Dave and Stacy, Part 2: The Breeding.

The answer to the first question hadnt come quickly. By the time we walked down the aisle, Dave Helfrey and I had been together for seven years. Wed met while working together at an advertising agency. He was a thundering nerd and proud of it. He read comic books, clung to his beloved 80s music, and sported a healthy thicket of dark, Irish curls. He was a cross between Lloyd Dobler from Say Anything and Duckie from Pretty in Pink . Perfectly imperfect. The only hitch was that he wanted kids someday. And I didnt. Or at least, I thought I didnt.

I was the last of five, born seven years after my closest brother. So my mom had seven long, luxurious years to settle into the idea of never having to be pregnant, give birth, or change a diaper ever again.

And then I came along.

I was the surprise child whose nickname was Whoopsie, and whose existence caused my parents to sever all ties with the Catholic Church and their old-fangled rules about birth control.

So I grew up knowing I wasnt planned, which is different from being unwanted, but only a little. My parents made no attempt to shield me from the knowledge that theyd rather be doing just about anything other than raising yet another child. My father joked about it, because thats what he did. Well, thats the last time Ill ever have to do that! hed laugh when he successfully taught me how to tie my shoes, or ride a bike, or drive a car. My mom just chain-smoked and sighed a lot. That was what parenting looked like to me: exhaustion, exasperation, and benign neglect. Call me crazy, but it didnt sound like much fun.

Years went bythree, four, five of themand Dave and I were still together. I had all but given him permission to go. But he stayed.

Im not in a hurry, hed tell me when I openly wondered why, if he wanted to be a father so badly, he was still hanging around.

This was, of course, a relief to me. When I tried to picture my life without Dave in it, I couldnt. There was just no other reason to end our relationship. I loved him. He loved me. And the thought of walking away made my insides turn hard.

So I changed my mind. Not immediately, but very, very slowly. Like a bad haircut finally growing out.

I assumed that he would propose immediately. But Dave is a man who needs to come around to an idea. He doesnt jump on bandwagons for the sake of progress. He has to think about it. A lot.

So I began the first in what would turn out to be a very long line of waiting periods. Its worth noting at this point in the story that I am very bad at waiting. When I want something, I want it now. I have no patience for delay. And even after all thats happened, Im no better at it now than I was then.

In the end, it took him about a year to propose. He promised it would never happen on an obvious day. Youll never see it coming, he told me, making me wonder if hed bought a ring or hired a hit man. So when I looked down at my dessert menu on Valentines Daythe most obvious day imaginableand saw the words Queenie, I love you. Will you marry me? I was indeed surprised. But more than that, I was relieved.

It was finally time to get on with my life.

When I visited my ob-gyn a few months after the wedding and told her I wanted to get pregnant, she delivered one of the least-effective pep talks ever.

How old are you? she asked, as I lay splayed out in the cruelly lit exam room, shivering under a thin paper sheet.

Thirty-five, I said.

You know thats advanced maternal age, right? she asked as she warmed a speculum under the tap.

Im sorry? Is that, like, an official thing?

Yes. Its a thing. After thirty-five, your fertility starts to decline. You dont have as many eggs, and the ones you do have are less viable, she explained, as if to a third grader. Try to relax. This might be a little cold.

I have to question the humanity of a doctor who delivers this speech while simultaneously giving you a pap smear.

And if you do get pregnant, you have a higher risk of miscarriage. Down syndrome, too, she continued, peeling off her latex gloves and casually tossing them in the garbage.

But I just decided to have a baby, I said. My therapist cleared me and everything. Now youre telling me I cant?

Of course not. Im just telling you that it might take a while. And that it would have been better if youd decided when you were twenty-five.