ON FORCING TIME'S HAND

The thing about infertility that'll kill a person is all the waiting. 

It's a magical, mystical time, this moment you're waiting for for whatever reason. For some it's because they have to save up first, for others it's a matter of work schedules, when busy season is over, for example. Some people, they get to this stage where they need the help and have to wait, but they can keep on trying on their own, because they're more laid back than me or something. But me, when I realize I can't do it on my own, and the timing isn't right, I sort of shut down. I go into power saving mode. I need a certain percentage of certainty in my life in order to be able to function well, you see. The certainty of borderline-infertility is far better than the uncertainty of borderline-infertility-but-you-never-know, if that makes any sense. And so, I wait.

I'm lucky, in that mine is a simple fix. And I'm the luckiest kind of borderline-infertile, because I've seen it work before. But it's still a hassle. First of all, you can't be traveling. You need three cycles in a row in one place so you can get all your shots and make all your visits and have all the sex and get all the ultrasound wands up yer hoohah. It takes a certain kind of single-mindedness to accomplish this. First of all, to be able to physically withstand the deal, because fertility drugs are sort of the biggest pain in the ass, but also, even more than that, because of the emotional trauma of the thing. Because waiting is torture. Waiting for a pregnancy test to stop blinking that hourglass at you and give you your fate. Waiting for your specialist's appointment because he is always booked a million weeks in advance. Waiting for your follicles to mature. Waiting for your husband to know for sure he won't be traveling for work. Waiting for your hormones to stick around those two extra days you need. Waiting for a basic outline of your book tour to materialize so you know whether or not you'll even be in the right time zone at the time for the baby making.

The right timing.

When the timing is right. 

What does that even mean, "when the timing is right?" 

There is no such thing as a good time to get pregnant. I remember my mom telling me this 10 years ago, and the great thing is, it's totally true. No matter how much you want to get pregnant, actually being pregnant is a total inconvenience. It sucks. And no matter how prepared you are for having a baby, a baby will send everything topsy turvy, and it will always be hard, and really, really frustrating. This is why babies are so ultimately blissful, I think, is because you have to give up so much in order to have them. We were still in the honeymoon phase of life when my mother told me this news, technically speaking, living in Brooklyn Heights with our furbaby Peter Pan, and Brandon was starting to get serious about LAW SCHOOL and my five-year-plan was having to shift to accommodate, and suddenly I found myself wanting to factor in babies into all this nonsense? Because somebody had turned on my biological clock somehow without me noticing? But then there's this "babies in law school" situation, which is obviously not ideal, but my mother is telling me that, yes, babies in law school are a pretty bad idea, but no, because getting pregnant is always a bad idea. Because there is never a good time for a baby. So if you sit down and try to find the perfect time for a baby, the baby will never come. Because there is never a good time. So you just go for it. Right? Because all times are right times when all times are wrong times.

However. If there isn't ever a good time to get pregnant, but in order to get pregnant you have to find a good time to get pregnant . . . do you see where I'm going with this? This lands rather awkwardly, doesn't it.

The first time around, with Huck, the timing was pretty horrible. Brandon was in law school. We had health insurance that covered exactly zero fertility treatments. There weren't any jobs, the economy sucked. But I had figured out what was wrong and had an inkling of what would fix it, and so, we fixed it. We jumped, we got pregnant, we moved in the middle of it, I gave birth without a doctor because I had to use the free clinic because nobody in New York takes on a new patient when she's in her 8th month, and then when Huck was born it was a Tuesday morning in the middle of midterms and Brandon was stressed out of his eyeballs. 

And it was bliss. 

The timing could not have been dumber, and yet I have never been happier in my life. My body has been screaming for that kind of happiness lately, more intensely than I can even stand, because my body is convinced the timing is right. And I'm ready. I'm ready, it has to be now, I'm ready.

See, I got my period on Christmas Day this year. This year, and the year before I got pregnant with Huck, too, I got my period on Christmas Day. (Well, in 2009 it was a chemical miscarriage, potato potahto.) And then there's this: When you're pregnant and you're getting set up with a new doctor--which I did, like, four times--the first question they ask you is "what was the date of the first day of your last period?" which, in my case, was January 20th. 

January 20th! 

So January 20th had started to take on this reverential tone for me. It was on that day that my life had begun to change. I could never have known it at the time, at the time I was cramping and bleeding and more than a little bit bummed out--that was back when every period brought hours of tears--but that made it even more significant to me, this idea that brilliance could be born out of so much pain. 

So, when I got my period on Christmas Day this year, I sort of froze. I thought to myself, yyyyyeah okay, this is a sign. This is totally a sign. It's go time. Forget the book launch. Forget possible book tours. This is happening! THIS IS HAPPENING. 

First thing I did was book an appointment with my fertility specialist. And then I told Brandon to Get thouself tested! ASAP! cause doctors won't prescribe you your cancer-causing drugs unless they know for sure that your dude's junk is working. Common sense I suppose. And then Brandon said, "When is your appointment so I know when to schedule mine?" And then I said, "January 20th." 

And then I shook my head and went---wait. Tuesday the twentieth? Nooooo.... Tuesday . . . the . . . HOLY SHIT. 

That was how I knew FOR SURE for sure that this was REALLY going to happen. This was it. How could it not be? We were in Utah at the time, and I was SINGLE-MINDED. To hell with the rest of it, my date was set, Brandon's date was set, it was all falling into place. 

But then. 

Late at night, I'd start to wonder. Maybe a book tour shouldn't be put off. Maybe this is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Maybe trying to get pregnant while also trying to launch a book isn't the smartest idea. Maybe I'd be happier being patient. Maybe I should wait until the stress of the book dies down. Maybe it should be one baby at a time. Book baby, then human baby. Maybe, maybe, maybe. More than anything else, the timing stopped feeling right. The most right thing in the world, and it had stopped feeling right. But--January 20th! If this wasn't the Universe sending me a signal, what was it? I couldn't let this January 20th go to waste! It was completely confusing. I'd waffle between thinking, "I need to be pregnant, NOW," and ". . . but it's still okay if we wait a little longer." 

Well, today is January 20th. Here we are. Huck woke up with a death rattle in his chest and the Niagara Falls of runny noses. Brandon had a last-minute work emergency and wasn't able to make it to his testing appointment this morning. I grudgingly called the office and confirmed that without the boy component, there wouldn't be any girl component, and anyway, the last thing I needed to do is drag my sick child into a place where perfectly kind and reasonable people are trying to get and keep their pregnancies, and, ugh. We rescheduled. His next opening is in April. Is this the slammed gavel on a verdict that had already been made but that I'd been ignoring despite persistent niggling? Is this January the 20th not for babies? Is this January the 20th for something else? (Maybe it's for Mexican food, I could go for a burrito.)

Being the opposite of sure about the most sure thing in the world doesn't feel good, even though, at the same time, it does feel right. Summer, not winter. Later, not now. Like my feelings on the matter aren't really important, and it's just going to happen when it happens, and not when I decide I'm ready for it to happen. It's an odd feeling, because, if you ask me, my feelings on everything should be important, much more important than some mystical, arbitrary "timing" type of thing, come on now. It's odd, and it's uncertain. I hate uncertain.

Sometimes, even though I know a baby is coming eventually, the waiting and uncertainty will start to hurt so hard it makes me feel utterly empty.

When you're borderline-infertile, and you've had success once, the timing of babies starts to seem entirely up to you. But when I finally got Huck, maybe that wasn't up to me? Maybe it was because that timing was actually right? Even though it felt all wrong? Maybe I hadn't forced Huck against time's will. Maybe time forced me. Clearly my sense of power in this case, as in most cases, is entirely an illusion of my own creating. Clearly this is my human condition.

Huck is in the living room, in his pajamas, watching Mr. Peabody & Sherman. There's a beautiful sequence mid-film where Mr. Peabody & Sherman visit these famous moments throughout history together, going back through time. "Beautiful Boy" by John Lennon plays in the background, it's a total tear jerker. Part of the sequence shows how Mr. Peabody discovered Sherman as a baby in a cardboard box in a side alley. As we watch this for the third time today, Huck pokes his head up from the sofa and asks in a raspy little voice, "Mom, when I was a baby did you find me in a box?" 

No, turkey. I didn't find you in a box. I found you in my arms at the most perfect moment on earth. 

"I am just having to wait."

I don't like it. Not at all.