Cheryl Dumesnil - Love Song for Baby X: How I Stayed (Almost) Sane on the Rocky Road to Parenthood

Love Song for Baby X

Love Song for Baby X

HOW I STAYED (ALMOST)
SANE ON THE ROCKY ROAD TO
PARENTHOOD

Cheryl Dumesnil

Brooklyn, New York

Copyright 2013 by Cheryl Dumesnil

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without written permission of the publisher. Please direct inquires to:

Ig Publishing
392 Clinton Avenue
Brooklyn, NY 11238
www.igpub.com

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Dumesnil, Cheryl.

Love song for baby X : how I stayed (almost) sane on the rocky road to parenthood / Cheryl Dumesnil.

pages cm

Summary: "While poet Cheryl Dumesnil suspects she'll confront some formidable obstacles on her path to parenthood, she is nevertheless unprepared for what she actually encounters, including navigating the maze of the high-tech fertility business, the emotional conundrum of pregnancy loss, and the gathering steam of the marriage equality movement"-- Provided by publisher.

ISBN 978-1-935439-70-7 (e-book)

1. Dumesnil, Cheryl. 2. Pregnancy--Psychological aspects. 3. Parenthood--Psychological aspects. 4. Lesbian mothers--United States--Biography. I. Title.

RG560.D86 2013

306.874'3092--dc23

[B]

2012044169

"In these matters the only certainty is that nothing is certain."

Pliny the Elder (23 AD-79 AD)

For my babies X, Brennan and Kian

December 2002

Leaning against a tiled kitchen counter, surrounded by the thick jazz of Christmas party conversation punctuated with laughter, I talk with a man Ive just met, about my wife Tracie and my plans to get pregnant soon. I can see youre ready, he says, as if the magnitude of longing inside me has telegraphed itself out. Maybe it has.

Okay, I know this sounds ridiculous, I confess, but I feel like Im already pregnant, and we havent even tried yet. Almost like I could get pregnant just thinking about it. The minute I release those words into the room, I want them back. Those are fate-tempting words. The kind that return to haunt later. Say, eight months later, when Im still not pregnant.

The mans voice, all smoke and bass, confers: Yes, because your soul is pregnant. I look closely at this oracle: deep lines carved in the clay of his brown face, gray fuzz curling at his temples, exhausted haze in his eyes. Behind him, tiny white lights glimmer in the darkened window.

Though it feels transgressive, vaguely dangerous, I speak the truth again, fate be damned. My voice hushes, Thats it, I say. Like a spirit is fluttering around me everywhere I go, waiting to enter.

Then it will happen quickly, my prophet nods. Youll get pregnant right away.

I want to believe him.

Faith, fear. Faith, fear. They will rehearse their Paso Doble across my dance floor a million times in the coming months: believing that I will conceive a healthy baby, then fearing that I wont; trusting that life happens exactly as it is supposed to, then trying desperately to control every outcome. Yes, armed with a couple books on Buddhism and a fledgling meditation practice, this recovering control freak is about to commence project parenthood, in which meticulous planning and hard work guarantee nothing, in which my sanity is dependent upon my ability to let go.

* * *

Salmon swimming upstream through a river of procrastinating holiday shoppers, Tracie and I thread our way through the local malls gadget shop, my imagination pregnant with our baby-someday-to-be. From a wire rack, I select a miniature, red felt stocking embroidered with a vibrant green pine tree. In it, I tuck baby names chosen way too soon: Emma for a girl, Aiden for a boy. Tracie lifts a tool kit off a wrought iron table, unveiling a mosaic top embellished with a childs handprint and the letters EMMA. A spark of recognition exchanges between us. I swallow the sign: Shell be a girl. Of course. Shell be here soon.

Back home, decorating the Christmas tree becomes an impromptu ritual, each ornament casting a spell, calling baby toward us: for welcoming, the tiny stocking we bought; for protection, a corn husk angel; for fertility, wheat woven into a Celtic knot; a carved wood heart for love; two gold doves for peace. Tracie plugs the lights in, and we curl up on the couch, breathing in the wish the tree has become.

Later, falling asleep, I look for our baby through the murky vision of my minds eye. I see a silver fish circling an alpine lakes algae covered rocks, darting away when my touch ripples the surface.

* * *

Is this some kind of illness? In this baby quest, as in all new endeavors, I fear I will fail until I prove otherwise by succeeding. Illness or not, for three months I have put my body through every homespun fertility test I can find, hoping for results that will silence my fears. I have noted changes in my bodily fluids, used a speculum and hand mirror to assess the opening of my cervix, analyzed my ovulation predictor kit results, and recorded my morning temperature on a fertility chart. Each month, when my period has arrived, signaling the end of my cycle, my temperature graph has looked just like the sample in the fertility book. Supporting evidence has corroborated: my body appears to do exactly what it should. In the contest between faith and fear, trusting my fertility has scored a point. Still, Fear nags: Will I get pregnant? How long will it take? Can I carry a baby to term? Will I ever be a mom?

* * *

Sperms expensive, Dr. Grain says when I talk to her on the phone, so I want to run some blood tests, to make sure everythings working right. Though it took a while to find hertwo days wandering the phone maze our HMO has constructed to shield doctors from their patientsI like this woman: practical, proactive, matter-of-fact. I bare my arm for her needle.

Two weeks later, in Dr. Grains office, she leans across her desk, opens a manila folder in front of Tracie and me, and reads the results. Glucose, normal. TSH, normal. Rubella, immune. Hemoglobin, normal. Hematocrit, normal. Progesterone, 9.7. Here she pauses, Now this, she says, pen tip tapping the number, this Id like to see a little higher. Usually 10 or above is normal for this point in your cycle, but 9.7 is close enough, so Im not worried.

Im worried. I say, Really? Its okay? Should I take supplements or something?

No, its fine, she says, unmoved by the concern staining my voice.

So I make another go of it: The first time my sister got pregnant, she had a miscarriage. Her doctor diagnosed her with low progesterone and gave her supplements. The next time she got pregnant, the baby was fine.

Dr. Grain sighs, drops her pen on the desk, folds her arms across her chest, and looks at me over her teardrop glasses. Im starting not to like this woman with the tired brown eyes and bowl-cut hair dyed copper orange. Gestational progesterone levels dip only when a pregnancy is already failing. Your number here, 9.7, is not that low. You dont need to worry.

I nod my head. I worry.

If you have trouble after you get pregnant, we can talk about supplements, she concedes, as if a first pregnancy is like a first batch of cookiesburn them and its no big deal, youve got plenty more dough in the bowl.

I push harder: May I get a lab order from you, so I can test my progesterone once I get pregnant?

Tracie, silent until now, shifts in her chair, clears her throat. Is she uncomfortable with my tactics, or am I projecting that?

Dr. Grain holds eye contact with me for a long second. I dont blink. Im new to this gargantuan HMO, but Ive learned a few tricks: find the back door and sneak through it, demand what you want until you get it. Okay, Dr. Grain says, pulling a requisition off a tray on her desk, scribbling her orders, sliding my golden ticket toward me.