Wednesday, February 1, 2017

never-ending wait

Time is slowing down in this alternative reality I live in, where my facebook feed is filled with breathless anxiety, while I am stuck.  Literally stuck.

Our attorney has drafted a contract with the donor, and I am waiting to hear back from my clinic on whether she will sign it.  We visited a social worker/therapist to get a required report on our understanding of all of the ways in which this process is well unusual and delicate.

Actually, Viking and I both found the talk with her surprisingly helpful.  I'll write more on that possibly in another post, because really, thinking through the details of how to unfold your child's origin story is an essay unto itself.  The main takeaway, for both of us, was that the origin story of our child should belong to them.  So it's critical for us be mindful about who we tell, who we don't tell, and how we allow it to unfold.

But other than that, I'm sitting here a little anxious.  After so many years, it could be happening, and I feel like the biggest pieces are in stasis:  Putting down the FOURTEEN THOUSAND DOLLARS we have scraped together for the eggs.  Getting on the fuckton of drugs that I will need to be on to eventually undergo a FET.  It's all a little more than overwhelming.

And then there's the fact that I am probably the most delicate snowflake imaginable right now.

Twins Bey?  Really, thanks, I needed that. 

Between George Takei presenting a heartwarming story a few days ago on facebook, featuring a "family who beat the odds" in choosing to carry their little girl who was struck with Celine's birth defects.... and the nice women in my support groups who are sprouting miracle pregnancies, I am wallowing in more than a little bit of unhealthy self-pity right now.

Who am I kidding?  I would probably be best off hiking into the wilderness for a few days.  I don't think I would be triggered by trees and squirrels, right?



  1. I've just rsvp'd to my husband's cousin's baby shower. Am considering bringing a flask. I tried to find the post you were referring to but was unable, probably for the best. My WORST FEAR was getting back the autopsy report and reading OY, he might have been all right you know? Luckily (?!!!!!) that was not the case. Triggers are lame. They need to leave us be.

    1. I have never read the autopsy report for my daughter. There's a strong chance I never will. But mama, Seriously. Bring. The. Flask.