Trying (Part 1: The Baby Machine)

Brrrrriiiiinnggg!



The sound of the bell always invoked unrestrained jubilation from the class. Even I, the consummate "rule follower", couldn't help but release the muted squeal I usually reserved for special occasions, such as a Scott Baio mall sighting or when I impressed Suzi Benham after layering six pairs of technicolored scrunchie socks over my pegged jeans. (She dotted her "i's" with hearts, wore Liz Claiborne perfume, and had fuchsia rubber bands on her braces. She was my idol.)

I hurriedly shoved books and a few stray papers into my desk and joined the army of classmates lined up at the door. We waited, impatiently, while our teacher gathered a few papers to grade and fumbled around for her keys.

"OK kids, I'll see you back here in a-"

I'm pretty sure she gave us some instructions, but I couldn't hear a thing. The stampede had begun and we were out the door like a flash.

RECESS!!

We ran every which way, frantically racing to claim our playground territories. You would most likely find the boys over by the basketball courts, a large brick "dodge ball wall", or the tether ball polls. (A few brave girls would beg to play with them- but there was no way I was risking a fat lip or - horror of horrors- a scuff mark on my imitation Sam & Libby flats.)


My friends and I usually kept to a wide wrap-around sidewalk, the swing sets, or a large grassy area under some lofty pine trees. From month to month our activity of choice would vary. Some weeks we were obsessed with jumping rope (up to and including begging the teachers to let us bring a boom box outside so that our double dutch routines could be underscored by Debbie Gibson's "Electric Youth".) Others had us racing to the swings to play "Underdog". But my favorite playground pass time had to be the hours we spent playing games underneath the shady trees.



We had a fairly democratic system in place where each of us had a chance to pick the game of the day- except for those few occasions where Mean Girls decided to strong arm "someone in the group" into changing her vote. (But I'm not bitter.) I can't really blame those girls, though. (Hi Becky and Holly!) I wasn't exactly known for "mixing it up" with my game choice. In fact, if it was my turn to choose, you could almost bet that I would pick the same activity every time:



"Mother May I"



You just ran to play dodge ball with the boys, didn't you?


Don't run off yet! This wasn't your little sister's game of "May I". (Ok, maybe it was. But I was 8 years old! Did you think we'd be smoking behind the bleachers or giving each other safety pin/Sharpie marker tattoos?!?)

At any rate, if you were close enough to the few trees that protectively stood over our grassy playground, you would inevitably hear delirious giggles from a group of silly girls doing their best to make each other laugh with their calls for "One huge hiccuping hippopotamus step" or "Three galloping gorilla steps". It is also a pretty safe bet that more often than not, you would find a certain gawky, hazel-eyed girl adding as many inches to her steps as possible so that she could reach the most coveted destination- Mother!

Oh, I loooooved being the "Mother". I loved being in charge. I loved having the control. I loved seeking out the girl who was farthest behind and giving her a few extra large "kangaroo hops" so that she could catch up. (I also used my powers for evil and held back a few chums that didn't share their fruit roll-ups with me during lunch. I know. Passive aggressive much?) Nothing made me happier than having that most important role.

And it wasn't just on the playground. I looked for ways to "play mother" throughout my entire childhood. I constantly got into power struggles with the sweet babysitters my parents hired to care for us. I can vividly remember dragging my infant brother up the stairs with a bologna sandwich and a bottle of formula and locking us both in my room. "I can take care of him ALL BY MYSELF!" I was completely outraged that this adult would question my 9 year old mothering capabilities. Sadly, even my own mother had to lock herself in the bedroom so that she could have some time with her new baby without a certain pig-tailed daughter hovering over her shoulder, critiquing her burping technique. "He likes to face forward so he can see us!" (I was a delightful child. *nervous laughter*)

I was born wanting to mother.

I coddled all of my siblings (including bossing around my big brother- until he decided that he'd had enough.) I babysat every neighborhood child. I even made play dates with friends specifically to play with their baby sisters/brothers. ( I was a great friend. *more nervous laughter*.) It seemed that the desire to be a mother coursed through me as naturally as the blood that flows through my veins.

And so it was inevitable that almost nine years ago, I would somehow convince my sweet husband of less than 6 months that it was time for us to have a baby.

I wasn't surprised when it happened quickly. I was overjoyed that I was finally leaving my games of pretend and make-believe behind and embarking on the real live journey that is motherhood. We held hands as we walked up the driveway to my parent's house. I didn't even make it past the entry way before I squeezed Adam's arm, giving him the signal to release our joyous news. I knew he had to be the one to tell them, because all I would do is cry.

I was right.

I hugged my parents as the happy tears ran down my cheeks. My Mom followed suit and shed a few tears of her own while the men quickly blinked to clear the mist from their eyes.

It was a happy day.

A few weeks later we found ourselves waiting in the doctor's office. I shifted my weight from side to side and nervously adjusted the paper "modesty blanket" so as to find an angle that looked even slightly flattering. (There isn't one.) Adam flipped through "Woman's Daily" and commented on some article about menopause when the doctor finally came in. Today we would get to see our little munchkin for the first time.

I yelped when I felt the ice cold gel hit my stomach- which sent me into a fit of nervous giggles. We leaned in as close as possible while Dr. F ran the transducer (totally Googled that word) in circles on my belly to show a tiny peanut on the screen.

"There's the sac and there's the baby!" he proudly exclaimed, as if he were responsible for putting it there.

That was all we needed. This little peanut was ours.

Ours.

On the ride home we flooded the car with talk about baby names, nursery colors, and what he/she would be when he/she grew up. This baby was our future.

Another week had passed when I was eased awake by a terrible feeling. I jumped out of bed, ran to the bathroom and held my breath. I sat there for a moment until a voice inside my head screamed at me to get up and call the doctor.

A nurse on the other line did her best to reassure me.

"Spotting is normal in the first trimester. I'm sure everything's fine- but we'll have you come in for some tests just to be certain."

I called a good friend whose sister had recently lost a baby. Her voice took on the same tone as the nurse's while she recounted a similar comforting speech.

"I'm sure it will be fine."

Adam gripped my hand as we walked back into the doctor's office. I watched them remove dark red vials of blood from my arm.

Dr. F grinned through his scruffy beard, "We'll just run these up to the lab and make sure your levels are progressing. Try not to get upset, ok?"

We really did try.

We listened intently as family and friends related similar stories- stories that turned out just fine.

We prayed together for the safe keeping of our little one.

We smiled through our days, hoping that somewhere we were getting points for "good attitudes".

But my worries got the best of me one Saturday morning. I knew the only thing that would make me feel "fine" would be to see our little peanut again. The wait for the ER would be tiresome, but worth it. Surprisingly they ushered us in pretty quickly. Again I found myself draped in paper as the technician gelled up my belly. This time, my nerves outranked the shock from the cold liquid.

"Hmmm...." the tech hummed as he searched the monitor. "Are you sure you didn't miscarry?"

His simple question punched me in the gut. Somehow, I let a string of words escape my mouth.

"Wha- what do you mean?" I mumbled. I knew what he meant.

"Sorry, Hun. There's nothing but an empty sac. You must've miscarried. I'll go leave a message for your doctor."

White hot tears flooded my face.

That was it?! That's how you tell someone they've lost their baby?? "Sorry, Hun?!?!!" He may as well have just yelled,"Psych!!!"

Focusing on Mr. Jerk Face offered me a respite from the devastating truth that was just revealed.

Until I looked over at my sweet husband, that is. He was smiling at me, trying to reassure me that everything was alright- but his pale face and empty eyes let me know that it wasn't.

We were flooded with love. Our families, friends and doctors enveloped us with their kind words and comforting hugs. We were hurt and confused- but hopeful. We wanted to move forward. A minor surgery helped me move on from the physical ramifications of miscarrying. Only one thing would help me heal emotionally-

We needed to try again.

Within months I found myself back in a room with my furry faced doctor, grinning as he handed me iron supplements and anti-nausea meds. We were elated to have this second chance! We were cautious, but certain that our previous experience was merely a false start. We walked on verbal eggshells- careful not to chatter too loudly on the way home about our joyous news, as if the heavens might hear and realize their mistake. But within weeks we found ourselves excitingly sharing the news with our loved ones.

We had only one more visit to the doctor before my body decided to reject our little one for the second time.

Dr. F took hold of my hand as we sat quietly sobbing, listening to our options. Once again any physical traces of that little life were removed and we were back at zero. I began to wonder if this was more than just another false start- if there was something wrong with me- but I quickly brushed it aside. After all, if I was to make this dream come true for us than we would have to try again, and soon.

It was as though my heart had been encased in metal and my mind morphed into the wiry insides of a hard drive. I became some cheesy robot from an 80's movie who's mission was to procreate. "Must have baby" ran through my thoughts on a ticker tape. I could feel my mushy insides being turned to aluminum and all I could do was mechanically forge ahead.

"Third times a charm" was not the case for us. It felt like a cruel joke as we sat in the same office, on the same pleather chairs, hearing the same words, from the same man. The "Christy-bot" had taken hold and I felt myself stiffen when he suggested that we should take some time before we tried for another baby. The very thought caused a short circuit in my heart.

I listened from some far away place as my metallic voice calmly assured our sweet doctor that we were fine to try again.

Just fine.

Our fourth pregnancy was quietly celebrated. We were careful to share the news with only a few family members. Sadly, it was at a family gathering when the dream once again slipped through our fingers. It was too painful and too far gone to leave. Instead, Adam wrapped his big beautiful arms around me and we cried together in the comfort of my parent's bed.

I remember the anguish on my Mother's face as she ran back and forth bringing me water and heating pads.

She brushed the hair out of my eyes and put her cheek next to mine.

" I don't know how to help you."

As those words left her mouth I could almost hear her heart brake. She had been healing me with her love, her medicine and her words since I was seconds old. But this was something she had never experienced- and her helplessness in the situation left a visible wound.

Little did she know that her touch alone has healing power. Her hugs brought us through that night and reminded me why I so desperately wanted to be a mother- to be like her.

It didn't take long after that experience for me to run back to the comfort of my protective shell. Something had broken inside of me. I had completely disconnected from the warmth of emotion, fearing if I let myself feel even the tiniest feeling it might all be too much.

I sent my robotic surrogate out into the world and found that life was much easier to handle. The only Kryptonite to my super strength plan was seeing pain reflected in the eyes of my loved ones.

It was unbearable watching my friends and family tilt their heads when they inquired about our progress.

It was torture running into old friends pushing brightly colored strollers while they schooled me on the in's and out's of motherhood.

It was agony seeing my husband crumble into tears when life got quiet.....

.... and we were alone.

Every warm hug, every sympathetic tear came dangerously close to destroying my perfect plans to feel nothing and forge ahead.

Must have baby.

It was this skewed, short circuited mind that made the decision to continue this journey in secret.

The next two pregnancies were shared with no one.

Not even my husband.

I hid all evidence of their existence.

I sat alone as the pink lines confirmed what my intuition told me days before.

And I cried alone- soft, stifled sobs- as they were inevitably and painfully,

taken.

One day I found myself stopped at a red light, hypnotized by the soft hum of the engine. As I stared blankly into the intersection, my robo-thoughts began to take over my mind.

You're causing everyone too much pain.

I nodded in agreement.

He would be better off with someone who wasn't broken.

I wiped away an involuntary tear.

Step on the gas!

My hands trembled and my knees shook as I willed my foot to release the brake and speed into oncoming traffic. But no matter how hard I tried to relinquish my spirit to this dark, defective armor, I couldn't- I wouldn't let go of life.

I needed help.

It was not easy to admit my failures, but it was necessary if I was ever going to emerge from the iron cocoon I had called home for too many years.

Slowly but surely, I allowed my pain to show through. I cried with my husband and grabbed hold of my family. I spent many a prayer filled with gratitude for the incredible support system we had been blessed with. It was about time I utilized them.

On the morning of our first appointment with a new doctor to discuss fertility treatments, I felt a familiar pang.

I was pregnant.

Before they began the long list of tests they had planned, I told them I needed a pregnancy test. (Which made me look six kinds of crazy since we were there for fertility.)

The news was positive, as I knew it would be. But we had been down this road before, and it was bleak. I felt my body rejecting the baby as it had many times before. It seemed our life had become some horrible, twisted version of "Groundhog Day."

Until our kind and trusted "Jon Denver look-a-like" doctor came into the room with a box of tissues....

.....and a kernel of hope.