Teaching Through Trauma: Sexual Violence and Sex Positive Parenting

You may recall that over the summer I caused a bit of a stir with my article, "Sex Positive Parenting, or, We Don't Touch Our Vulvas At The Table." In that post I talked about sex positivity and not shaming children for exploring their bodies, and how honesty empowers and protects children.

I've done a lot of talking about this in the months since. I've spoken at conferences, gone on the radio, interviewed on podcasts... it's been a wild ride.

But part of what I've been doing has been very quiet. And that's what I'd like to talk about now.

Since that article came out, people have been writing to me to ask advice on how to talk to their children about sex, with massive caveats.

Parents who were victims of childhood sexual assault.
Parents with children who were born from rape.
Parents with adopted children who came from a foster system that permitted gross sexual misconduct.

I had advocated honesty, total honesty, about sex and biology. I talked about explaining IVF and cesarean sections to children.

So what about these questions? What do you tell a child, honestly, when the honest truth is both horrible, and unacceptable?

I spent a lot of time thinking about this.

I always told those parents at least one thing, "Whenever you are ready to talk to your child about this, make sure you know that it is not their fault. Make sure you let them know that, no matter what happened to them, or to you, they are not to blame, and they are not diminished by having this as part of their personal history."

I recognized as I wrote these words, in endless variations, over and over again, how little they could do to heal the gaping wounds their parents have.

But as more and more parents wrote me, I felt more and more the need to discuss being sex positive with children in the context of a world filled with sexual violence.

You see, in addition to talking about sex positive parenting, I'm a member of the RAINN Speakers Bureau. I talk to groups of teenagers about rape culture and sexual violence. I talk a great deal about consent and power dynamics and the reality of rape versus the popular mythology.

And I always explain, when talking about sex positivity, that this is a way to protect children from rape culture. That when you empower children with the correct names for their organs, and an understanding of what is and is not appropriate, you can protect them from becoming victims. And more importantly, you can stop them from becoming predators.

This is little comfort to children who are already, in some way, victims.

So when speaking to a child about human biology, about how a sperm must meet an egg, and how that sperm usually comes out of a penis when it is inside of a vagina, is that the time to talk about rape?

As much as I, as a parent and a human being want to say no, it's not the time, I can't. I think that it is the time.

I think sooner is generally better, within reason. I wouldn't attempt to explain rape to two year old, but when a child is able to intellectualize human reproduction, I think it's not too soon to come clean with the facts.

And the facts are this- reproduction is beautiful. It is intimate and loving, it is a way to show that you care, and that you don't want to hurt somebody. Just like a hug, or a pat on the head. But sometimes, people do violent things that look like nice things. You can hug somebody too tight and hurt them. You can hit, instead of patting. These are things nobody should do, and that all of us must learn not to do. But sometimes, people do these things. And sex and rape are like that. Rape is not sex, it is turning sex into a violent act. The way a slap and a pat on the cheek are not the same, however closely they may seem to resemble each other in their mechanics.

These are comparisons a child can understand. And so long as the explanation of what rape is, and how it is related to the reproductive process, blame and shame for the child can be minimized or eliminated.

The problem is, rape is shameful. Not for the victim, but for the rapist. It is a shameful, awful thing to do to another human being, and yet people do. And because of the profound shame and discomfort regarding sex we share in our culture, the shame and blame is often misplaced onto the victim. This happens not because it is shameful to have been raped, but because as a culture we are all so afraid of sex that we cannot distinguish between an act of affection and an act of violence.

Telling a child that they are the product of a rape is never going to be easy. It should never be easy, because talking about sexual violence shouldn't be easy. But we still need to do it.

We desperately need to do it. Especially with children.

I've heard the advice, especially among adoptive parents, to associate the rape with the birth mom. To make it about her, not about the child. I understand this impulse, but to me it reeks of victim blaming. We should never associate a crime with the victim, always the perpetrator.

I have a confession. Until I began working on writing this post, months ago, I had not talked to my five year old daughters about rape. Not explicitly. I had done it obliquely, in terms I thought they would understand. I explained rape culture in terms of "hurting" rather than "sexual violence," because explaining to my children what rape is was something that I thought could wait.

I don't think it can anymore. Not as I've forced myself to sit down and read letter after letter from parents who can't wait. Who don't have the luxuries that I do.

And so, I told my daughters about rape. The five year olds, not the two year old. We read "Where Did I Come From?" and I paused after we finished the page that describes sex.

"You know," I said, "Sometimes people do that to hurt each other."

SI looked at me like I was insane. "They do. Sometimes, one person will want to do that, and the other doesn't, and it hurts them. The book says it feels good, and it does, when both people want to. The way hugging feels good. But it doesn't feel good if your sister chases you and pinches you, right?"

"I don't like that when RH does that," DD agreed.

"Yeah. So sometimes, people try to do that to other people who don't want to. And that's not okay. That's not the same thing as sex, it's something else entirely."

And we moved on.

I didn't use the word "rape." As I've discussed before, it's a hard word to use. I've gotten better at writing it down, the more and more and more I practice at it, but it's so much easier to write "rape culture" than it is to write "rape." And it is infinitely more simple to write than to say.

I did not use the word "rape," and I did not say that it had happened to me. Although I know if I'd let the conversation linger, the question would have come up, and I honestly don't know if I could have answered it.

I really, truly, genuinely don't know.

But this is important. It is vital that our children know what rape is, and that it is fundamentally different from consensual sex acts.

I can't recommend my script, because it is still full of holes. I still have no idea how I will one day tell my children that I was raped, twice no less. But it's something I've known since before I became a parent that I must do.

I, and all parents who have survived sexual violence, need to be the face of survival for our children. Not because we choose this, but because we are and always will be their role models. Because what we say and do is what they believe is the right way to say and do anything. And if we maintain a silence about being assaulted, we teach them that what is right and proper is to be silent. But it is not easy. It is never easy.

And if I cannot tell them this without the constant weight of my own misplaced shame, what would I tell them if they were born because of rape?

I know I would tell them that it wasn't their fault. I know I would tell them that I love them, and that nothing that anybody did to me before they were born has anything to do with who they are now.

And I know I would try to have those conversations now, while they would simply inform the facts of their existence, rather than complicate their already difficult adolescence when they must somehow correlate the facts of their burgeoning sexual identities with an understanding of the nature of the act that created them.

This is not easy. This is not simple. This is not fun. There is no solution to how to teach your children something traumatic. Ever.

There is no easy way to explain death. To explain that yes, someday mommy and daddy will die. Yes, someday they will die.

There is also no easy way to explain that human beings are capable of profound suffering, and worse, inflicting it upon each other.

The one question a parent asked me that truly haunts me is this, "There was a line in your blog about how only your daughters have the decision to have sex, but obviously that is not true in the case of rape. I know someday I will have to explain that women are supposed to have the right, but they don’t always. Any thoughts from you in this case?"

My thoughts are these- rape is not sex. The act may look similar, but it is not the same.

There are many ways for a baby to come into the world. They all begin the same way- sperm meets egg. But that can happen in so many ways.

Sex. IVF. Intrauterine insemination. Rape.

None of these are the same.

It is not your doing if your were born thanks to IVF. It is not your doing if you were born as the result of rape. You do not carry the weight of that act. You are loved. You are so loved. And when you are old enough, you will know the difference between what is affection and what is abuse, and in that way you are more than anything that came before you. You are empowered and precious.

This is what I would say, my thoughts.

To those parents whose children came from sexual assault, I would say I have no idea how difficult this conversation will be. I cannot begin to imagine how painful it will be. But remember, the fault always lies with the person committing the crime. Not you. Never you. And not your child.

We can be honest, even if it hurts. We must be honest when it hurts.

Especially when it hurts.

Because children are not obtuse. They see us struggling with our honesty, and it teaches them something important. It teaches then that no matter how hard honesty is, it is essential.

When we are uncomfortable, or in pain, and continue on- it teaches them about bravery.

They are watching us all the time, and they are always learning.

Let them learn the unspoken. Let them learn how utterly horrifying rape is by watching us struggle to even say the word. Let them learn how important it is not to use reproduction as a weapon by seeing how repulsed we are by it. Let them learn how much we love them by holding them and loving them through our own pain and trauma.

Let them learn bravery by watching ours.

I will keep trying. I will keep trying to do better.

And keep sending me letters. I will read them. I always read them. And if I think I can help, if I think there is anything I can do to lesson your burden, I will.

I hope someday, that is a lesson I can pass along, too.

Curtain Call

These are your options.

My pregnancy with DD and SI was no cakewalk.

There was the IVF, first of all, which sucks. Then there was the sub-chorionic hematoma, then there was the SPD, then there was the gall bladder disease, and then there was the cancer.  And then there was waking up in the middle of the night, soaked in blood, and rushing to the hospital for an emergency c-section.

And despite all that, I knew I wanted to have more kids.  I was optimistic that my next pregnancies would be easier. That not using IVF would improve things, that only gestating one baby at a time would improve things. That it would be a cakewalk.

Oh, how wrong I was. I didn't have to deal with fertility hormones, or with a sub-chorionic hematoma, but everything else was worse. Worse SPD, because I was aggravating it by chasing children. Worse gall bladder disease. Worse skin cancer.

And then there was feeling a pain in my stomach as I laid in bed in the middle of the night, and realizing that it wasn't "normal" contractions- that it was my uterus about to split open. And rushing to the hospital in the middle of the night, and another, worse emergency c-section.

And despite that, the first time I held RH in my arms, I knew that I wasn't done. I knew that I wanted to have more kids.

But M was doubtful. He was scared. He was scared of all the pain I had suffered, he was scared of the cancer. His fears were legitimate and reasonable. But I held out hope.

Until my OB sat down to give the news. Because of the condition of my uterus, if I ever got pregnant again, we would have to plan on scheduling a premature c-section. We couldn't risk my having even one real contraction- it might immediately rupture. We would plan on taking a baby out early- earlier than the twins.

When my OB left the room, M looked at me and said he thought he ought to get a vasectomy.

I dithered. I hemmed and hawed. I didn't want him to get a vasectomy. I wanted to have more babies.

But... I knew. I knew that we had to be done. Did I want to take those risks? Risk more diseased internal organs, more months of not being able to walk- this time while chasing three kids? Did I want to risk the health of that baby to bring it into the world early, in order to keep me from a potentially fatal complication?

Did I want to risk worse skin cancer?

We got so lucky last time. The mole was so visible right there on my collar bone. The intern was so enthusiastic and thorough. The mole had just become cancerous.

If we'd waited until after the pregnancy, I might still be having chemo right now. I still have half a dozen moles that are funny but without the pregnancy effects to my immune system, remaining somewhat stable.

Melanoma... it's so aggressive. It's a very, very scary cancer. Was it worth it to me to risk a near certainty that it would start growing again, that I might start the engine of my own death machine, to make another baby?

It should be a simple answer. There should be no question. There should be no hesitation.

I should have started singing a Vasectomy Song every day, dancing a Vasectomy Dance, and withholding sex until it was all said and done. Instead, I kept thinking... what if we didn't?

But finally, we had to talk about it. I had a brief pregnancy scare, and let me tell you- you do not know what the words "pregnancy scare" can mean until it involves going over your life insurance to make sure that if it killed you your husband would be able to afford the child care so that he could continue working after you died. Weeping to yourself that the baby at your breast might not have a single memory of you that could last before you passed away. That is a pregnancy scare.

And so, I scheduled the vasectomy.

I tried to be happy about it. No more fear, no more worries. No more birth control- BIG hooray to that. I told myself over and over what a good thing it was, and I wrote M a goofy card, and I stuck it in his Christmas stocking for him to open under the tree- with his family. Because that's hilarious.

And part of me was so relieved. And so happy.

And part of me... wasn't.  I kept fighting these crazy impulses. Insane urges. I kept hearing this little voice in the back of my head, saying, "You could just go off the birth control now... just let things take their course. You probably wouldn't get pregnant... probably... but it's your last chance... last chance... last chance..."

The night before the vasectomy, we talked about it again. We agreed, if it wasn't for the health risks, we wouldn't do it. We'd have more. We'd both be happy just making babies until we couldn't take it anymore. Our children are so good, and we love them so much, why wouldn't we keep a good thing going? But it just wasn't worth it anymore. It just wasn't worth the risks, if another pregnancy would let the cancer run wild in my body for most of a year. By the end of the pregnancy, it could be anywhere. And it could be too late.

One week ago today, my husband got a vasectomy. It didn't go exactly right. When you've got a few rearranged neurological pathways (thank you brain cancer!) sometimes local anesthesia doesn't work quite right.

My poor, poor husband had a pretty rough vasectomy.

But I took him home and I hugged my children and kissed them. And I cried.

My children have never been replaceable. There is only one SI in the world, only one DD, only one RH. There will never be another. But suddenly they seemed even more so. They are my children, and I will never make another.

These are all I get.

I am still certain I want to adopt. I want more kids. M wants more kids. I've always felt compelled to adopt. Honestly, even without the vasectomy, we probably would have tried to adopt before trying another pregnancy. Honestly, we'd agreed to stop producing babies on our own by the time I was thirty. It was our previous standing arrangement. We haven't really changed much of anything.

But it's still a sad sort of thing, for me. Because I know I would love any child entrusted to my care. And I love the ones I have so much, it feels almost as though all the children I ever wanted were just waiting in the wings, and now... I've ended the show, and they'll never take the stage.

This is the end of my baby making. It's over.  But hopefully, so is the story of my melanoma. But stopping now, what we're truly doing is giving ourselves more time.

This is the right thing for our family, and I'm happy about it. But I am also sad.

It's a bittersweet thing. And now, it's over.

Beginnings and Endings

Squishy baby face

As you might recall, ten days ago I was totally exhausted, and totally tired of being pregnant.

Ten days ago, I was doing everything I could think of to get RH out of my uterus and into my arms.

You might recall, things were not exactly going according to plan.  My doctor had started to hint that he thought I was going to be unable to have a VBAC.  That my uterus was... weird.

That was ten days ago.

And ten days ago, I had had enough.

M and I watched a youtube video on accupressure to induce labor.  And we tried it.  We were both dubious, but we figured that moxibustion had worked so well... who knows?

The results were absolutely immediate.  He started squeezing my ankles at around 9pm.  By the time I went to bed, the contractions were 10 minutes apart, lasting for about a minute.  RH was moving CONSTANTLY.  I had gas that would embarrass an eight year old boy.  *Things* were *happening*.  Finally.

I woke up at 5am, still having contractions.  They were more painful.  They were ever so slightly closer together.  They were still regular.  And I promptly lost my mucus plug.

I was thrilled.  I texted my doulas, I double checked my bag for the hospital, and I started snacking.  Strawberries, almonds, cashews, coconut milk.

And the pain kept getting worse.

I'm not talking about the contractions- those were sort of a breeze.  In fact, with my back in as much pain as it was, each contraction was actually a relief.  It took more pressure off of my spine, and I could close my eyes and breathe through it.  I kind of liked the contractions.

The pain, though... that was something different.  It didn't come with the contractions, it came with RH kicking.

Each time she moved, I felt a screaming pain going through my lower abdomen.  And that just got worse.  Stronger.  Sharper.

RH, about fifteen minutes old

I lay down.  I took a nap.

When I woke up, the contractions had stopped.  Completely.  Nothing.  Nada.  Zip.

But RH was still moving like mad, and the pain from that?

They always ask you to rate your pain from a one to a ten.  Ten being the worst pain you've ever experienced.  I've experienced quite a bit of pain.  I've gone into shock from dislocating my shoulder and breaking half of my fingers.  I've spent forty hours getting tattooed.  I've had five day migraines.  I've been dumped out of a dump truck with two tons (literally) of recycling, and compacted a few vertebrae.

By the time I went to bed, I would have called that pain a seven and a half.  As I tossed and turned for the next two hours, the pain just got worse.  At midnight, I texted my doulas.

I told them something about the pain just didn't seem right.

They told me to call my OB's office.

The doctor on call didn't hesitate.  She told me to go straight to labor and delivery.  She told me not to dawdle.

By the time we were seen in the hospital, the pain was easily an eight.  Maybe eight and a half.

Not quite one day old

RH was totally cooperative about being located and monitored.  She was perfect.  No signs of distress, no signs of danger.  Whatever was going on was entirely my problem.

The doctor listened carefully to my description of the pain, when it hurt, where it hurt...

Then she told me about my rock hard cervix.  My cervix that still had not dilated even one centimeter.

My cervix that was apparently much, much stronger than my previous c-section scar.

What was happening, she said, was probably that my uterus was getting ready to rupture.  That uterus was literally about to explode.  Probably.

She didn't use those words.  She was very, very calm.

She told me we had a window.  She didn't know how long the window was, and this wasn't *really* an emergency, but that I really needed to have a c-section.  Because if I didn't, if I kept having contractions, I was going to be in REAL trouble.

She told me we'd have the c-section in an hour, and we started getting ready.

Of course, there were *real* emergencies in the hospital at two in the morning.  My surgery kept getting pushed back, because there was somebody in genuine distress who needed a c-section first.

And the pain just kept getting worse.

Finally, two and a half hours later, the OB on call came in and told me that my own doctor was on his way.  We'd wait until he arrived, and then we would go into surgery.  That was a little before 4am.  The pain each time RH moved was up to a nine.  It was pushing nine and a half.

Numb from the waist down, but not panicking

My doctor finally walked in, clutching a cup of coffee, bleary eyed and awkward as always.  We went into the OR, and they administered my spinal.

It took FOREVER to take effect.  The anesthesiologist kept telling them to go ahead and get started, even though I wasn't "technically" numb enough.  I started to have a full fledged panic attack.  My doctor kept telling the anesthesiologist to keep waiting, that I would be numb soon enough.

The second the anesthesiologist said I was good to go- which I simply couldn't believe- they put up the blue curtain, rushed M in, and started.

If he hadn't been there, I think I would have been screaming the whole time.  But I was basically numb, and M was holding my hand and telling me how everything was going to be just fine.

And then she was there.  Eight pound on the nose.  Twenty one inches long.

Nothing else seemed to matter.  We were all going to be just fine.

The anesthesia took ten times as long to wear off as it should have.  We waited and waited and waited for my legs to start working again, so that we could leave the recovery room and go to sleep.  It took four hours before they decided to just send me up to a room anyway.  Still almost entirely numb from the waist down.

But RH was perfect.  She was bright eyed and beautiful.  She looks like a cross between DD and my Granny.  I was exhausted and overwhelmed and in love.

The next two days were hard.  So, so much harder than my last delivery.  Each time something seemed worse, or harder, or more painful, I would ask a doctor or nurse, "Is it just me, or was this easier last time?" And they'd all say the same thing.  "No, the second c-section is just plain worse."

One week ago today, my OB stood in my hospital room and did what he does best.  He told me the truth.  He didn't sugar coat it.  He didn't mince words.  For all of his flaws, it's this trait of his that has kept me with him through the last few years.

The last baby I'm ever going to have

He told me that my uterus was about to rupture.  That it had thinned severely around the old c-section, and that we needed to operate when we did, or it might have been too late.

Then he told me what to expect if I ever became pregnant again.

What I should expect is for my uterus to split open.

That thin area is still there- still thin, still damaged.  And now there's a new scar.

If I were to ever be pregnant again, we would need to plan on a c-section, and early.  Very early.  Before I could start having contractions, period.

We'd be talking about intentionally delivering a baby prematurely, possibly earlier than the twins were born.  We'd be talking bed rest and "seriously high risk."

Between the pregnancy skin cancer and this...

I'm done.

The baby shop has closed.

One week ago today, I learned that I had just had the last baby I was ever going to have.

My big girls

I didn't know whether I wanted to have more.  I didn't know whether I wanted to be done or not.  It doesn't matter now.  Now it's out of my hands.  I'm done.  That's that.

M is talking vasectomy.  I'm talking Implanon.  We're both thinking... both.

It's strange.  Part of me is totally ambivalent.  We have three babies.  We have three wonderful girls.  What more could I possibly ask for?

At the same time...

One thing I didn't write about doing as we had constant outings and field trips and what-have-yous was the visit M and I paid to our old fertility clinic.  The place were we did IVF to conceive the girls while M was in chemotherapy.

We filled out all the paperwork to dispose of our stored embryos.

Part of me is grieving that.  And now, part of me is grieving my uterus.

My children

There's still time- we had ninety days from the time we filled out our paperwork to change our minds.  I could run in there and scream not to dispose of my embryos, and then I could hold out some crazy hope that someday M and I could afford to get a surrogate or something to gestate another grubling.

But it's not happening.  I need to accept that all of this is over.  That we are done.

I have a ten day old infant.  I have two wonderful almost-three year olds.

This is what I get.

Someday, I still want to adopt.  I still want more children in my family, in my life, in my heart.

I just can't have them in my uterus anymore.

...I am done having kids.

I am not ready for that kind of absolute.

Origin of the Grublings

My uterus- well past maximum recommended occupancy

I am happy to say that I am taking part in The Mom Pledge's Birth Story event!  Rather than simply write the girls' birth story as it stands alone, I have divided the tale into two parts- conception and birth, which are very much linked not only in my mind and in the way I reacted to them emotionally, but also in the way I was made to feel regarding how they came to pass.  I have linked liberally to other posts where I explain some of the details from this story, which is as complicated as it is personal (so personal that it's probably best to link up with Shell's Pour Your Heart Out as well).  This is part one- Origin of the Grublings.

It was inevitable that I would be a woman with essentially naturalistic tendencies.

My parents (at least my father) desperately wanted to be hippies, but they were just a bit too young.  My father was determined to go to jail for refusing to enlist for the draft.  They ended the draft just a few months shy of his eighteenth birthday, much to his adolescent dismay.

They were vegetarians before they met at fifteen.

I was raised with their values- peace, love, acceptance, respect for nature...

I have fond memories of a community event for Earth Day where we picked up garbage, and I discovered that there were companies that made shoes and backpacks out of recycled tires.  Yes, fond memories.

My parents, the hippies

My school lunch box was always filled with things like fruit leather and "Vruit" juices.  My mom was into organic foods before it was hip.  The other kids (and moms) thought that she was crazy.

Of course I grew up to be kind of a hippie myself.

When as a young woman I started thinking about pregnancy and birth, I always envisioned things being as natural as possible.  As organic, as un-medicated, and as fundamentally intervention-free as any other animal.  But my life has almost never gone according to plan.

The day after we got engaged, my husband was diagnosed with brain cancer.  This started a whirlwind of medical procedures... one of which was the storage of his "genetic materials."  After all, who knew what the long term effects of his treatments might be?  He banked sperm, and we started the long and frightening process of fighting an inoperable, stage four tumor that had lodged itself deep in his brain.

As the year progressed, we began to be truly optimistic.  We were winning.   We were beating the thing.  Our lives could go back to... well, normal.

But not quite.  Because under "normal" circumstances, we would have waited to have kids.  We would have taken a few years to establish ourselves, we would have enjoyed a prolonged honeymoon of coupled bliss.  But things had changed.  Now, with this looming over us, we wondered how much time we had.  We wondered how long M might have.  And how would it be if we waited, and then the cancer came back?  If after all of that, we lost him just when we wanted to start a family?  Or when our children were too young to know him?

M's boss gave him a teddy bear with a t-shirt that said,
"My bald head is cuter than your bad haircut" when he
lost his hair to radiation.  That was the same day I got this
awful haircut.  I cried.

Sooner, we decided, was better.  The sooner we had children, the longer we knew we would have with them.  The longer M would have with them.

And so we decided to get pregnant.

We reached this decision in the months leading to the end of M's treatment.  He had already been through radiation, and an experimental protocol involving arsenic that may well be the thing that saved his life, and he was finishing up a full twelve months of post-arsenic chemotherapy.

Now, chemotherapy does one job particularly well.  It attacks rapidly dividing cells, like cancers.

"Genetic material" is also rapidly dividing cells.

It is incredibly dangerous to get pregnant when one party is on chemotherapy.  And the damage caused by the chemo can be permanent.  The doctors told us that we would have to wait between 6-24 months to see whether the "genetic material" would return to normal.  We didn't want to wait that long.  So, we decided to use the stored specimens to make a baby.

Unfortunately, everything happened so quickly after M's diagnosis that we didn't have a chance to store very much.  There wasn't enough to go the IUI route (otherwise known as the "turkey baster method"), so IVF it would have to be.

I can't say I was crazy about the idea.  It was so unnatural.  It was so... clinical.  But I wanted to have children with my husband, and I wanted to do it right then, so I swallowed my dissatisfaction and I got ready.

Our first picture of the girls- the moment of implantation

I've got to say- IVF sucks.  The daily injections, the side effects of those drugs, the constant blood draws, the never ceasing saline ultrasounds... it was awful.  I hated IVF.  It was the opposite of everything I'd ever wanted making a baby to be.  There was no love in that clinic.  There was no romance.  There was nothing but fear, shame, and judgement.  And nearly all of that came from me.

Finally, the day of implantation arrived.  Like everything before, it was unpleasant, clinical, and unnatural.  The doctor explained that since I had at least been pregnant for that moment that the embryos (they insisted on two, as each had a 30% chance of "taking" and didn't want to have to try again if one failed) were implanted, I would probably test positive on an at home pregnancy test whether or not it had succeeded.  So I decided to avoid the stress and just wait for the weeks to pass until I went in for an ultrasound to see what was going on in my uterus.

And there they were.  Two functioning yolk sacs.  I was pregnant with twins.

There was so much joy, so much excitement... 

And then, the judgement began anew.

Nearly every time I told somebody I was expecting twins, they asked if I used IVF.

Two zygotes in with their yolks

I always felt that the question, "Did you use IVF?" was utterly dishonest.  What they were actually asking was, "What's wrong with you?  Why couldn't you get pregnant naturally?"

This was reinforced by the occasional person- always a woman- who would actually ask that.

I felt judged for having used IVF.  I felt that other women thought of me as somehow less than for using fertility assistance.  I was reminded constantly of the fear and the anxiety and the pain that had gone into the decision, that had let me and M into that fertility clinic for the first time.

It hurt.  It hurt to remember those long talks about how old was old enough for a child to remember their father if he died.  How old was old enough for there to be meaningful memories.  How long I would need to prepare myself to be a single parent, how long we might have as a family.

These aren't the usual conversations couples have when they decide to have a baby.

I never knew what to say to women who did have fertility issues that led them to IVF.  I wanted to say that I was sorry, and that I wasn't judging them.  But I also felt trapped by their acceptance of me, like we were a support group for a condition that I didn't actually have.

25 weeks with my twins

I didn't feel superior to them, I felt separate from them.  And I wanted to be separate, to find the other women who must be in the clinic because of chemo or cancer or some other issue that had nothing to do with them.  I wanted for everyone to know that I didn't know whether or not I could get pregnant naturally, that I didn't know what my body did or didn't do all by itself.  All I knew was that my husband had brain cancer, and he was beating it, but that it had nothing to do with my uterus.  Or my womanhood.  Or my ability to be a mother.

I felt bad for the women who had tried and tried to have a baby, and had ended up in the fertility clinic for help.  I felt bad because I knew what it was like to want to have something huge and meaningful in your life, and not to know whether it would be possible.

And I felt bad for them because I knew how it felt to be judged by "normal" women who could get pregnant whenever they wanted.

I experienced other women actually bullying me and other IVF successes for using fertility assistance (ALWAYS online with the aid of internet anonymity).  Because it is unnatural.  Because if God wanted you to have a baby, you would have simply gotten pregnant.  Because medical interventions have no place in the realm of the Goddess.  Because if your body wanted you to be pregnant, you would have gotten pregnant.  Because if you just listened to your body and did what it needed you would have gotten pregnant without any help.  Because you didn't pray enough.  Because you didn't try everything.  Because you just wanted the attention of having multiples like the Octo-mom.  Because some people obviously aren't meant to have babies.

I wanted to punch those ladies in the face.  But it's hard to tell somebody that they're a grade-A asshole when they accuse you of all the things you already feel.  When they tell you you are less than them because you failed at getting pregnant naturally.  When, in some shameful corner of your mind, you agree.

SI - 22 gestational weeks

I didn't fail at getting pregnant naturally.  I did everything I could not to get pregnant naturally.  I succeeded in getting pregnant with two squirmy creatures who would eventually become my practically perfect daughters.

But I felt that I had failed, a little.  Because it was so unnatural.  And it was so clinical.  Because, "when a mommy and daddy love each other very much, they make love and that creates a baby."  And that isn't what happened.

With every complication I had, and there were many, somebody would helpfully explain that this probably happened because of the IVF.  Or it happened because I was carrying twins (because of the IVF).  So everything that went wrong, from my SPD to my subchorrionic hematoma to my gall bladder disease, was happening to me and my babies because I had failed.

I did a good job of silencing that voice- the one that judged me so harshly for how I got pregnant.

DD - 22 weeks gestational age

But every time another woman- who had succeeded- asked me "Oh twins!  Did you use IVF?" what I heard was, "You are a failure at getting pregnant, aren't you?"

So through the whole pregnancy I harbored my dedication to a beacon of hope- a natural delivery.

My babies might have come into my womb in a cold, clinical way, but they were going to come out the way I wanted them to.  In that, I was determined to succeed.

...knowing that my life almost never goes according to plan.  Almost never.

Tune in tomorrow for the second half of the story- the Birth of the Grublings.

Silly Names

No, this isn't about Baby X.  Sorry.

This is not M's nurse.

My husband and I have spent a remarkable amount of time in hospitals, considering that neither of us is anything close to a medical professional.

Shortly before we moved in together, I began having problems relating to my dysautonomia, and spend several days in and out of a hospital.  Then M had his seizure and subsequent weeks of hospitalization (or near-hospitalization).  Then there were the endless treatments and MRIs, and then there was IVF and a complicated twin pregnancy.

And since then, there has been a really nasty gall bladder attack, and then a second complicated pregnancy.

This is not M's doctor.

I have more doctors' names and numbers in my phone than most doctors do.

...but the names.  Oh, the names!  Our doctors have the most absurd names you could possibly imagine.

When M was first diagnosed and admitted to his medical trial, his team of doctors were...

Dr. Raizor
Nurse Burns
...and Dr. Grimm.

We joked and joked about how dark it was, and about what on earth his radiologist might be named.

This is also not M's doctor.

Her name was Maryanne Marrimont.  She was as far from "Grim" as you could get.

I think about those doctors a whole lot.  We've seen so many come and go, so many specialists we never need to see again (we hope), so many nurses who have switched specialties or moved on to become stay-at-home parents...  We've been remarkably lucky to have such considerate and available and WONDERFUL doctors.

So yesterday... when my OB was out of the office and I was having gall bladder issues, when I found out the name of the doctor I had been referred to...  It seemed almost like a little twist of fate.

My new OB for the day?  Dr. Bacchus.

You just can't make some of these things up.

Having only communicated with Dr. Bacchus on the phone, for all I know this might in fact be right.

How I Got Pregnant With Twins (Part 2)

Back in the day, I kept a Livejournal.  It was on this blog that I chronicled the actions taken by me and M to get ourselves a baby.  And here... for all of you... that journey, republished for Becoming SuperMommy.  What can I say?  The girls turning two has made me sentimental.  :)

Warning: it does contain a fair amount of profanity.


How to Make a Grubling, Part II  (2/12/2009)
Part I

Lies, lies, lies!

All that wonderful information I was able to give you in advance? Take everything after the point where I had actually completed the step, and throw it out the window.

Here's the problem. Straight from the nurse's mouth, they don't want to tell you what's coming because they don't want to scare you. Well, I would rather be scared than misinformed.

Injection A for two weeks, then injection B AND injection A for two weeks. Then injection C (variable dose) for one day. Then retrieval. Which is NOT what you had been told it was. No, this is not some "comfortable" abortion-like procedure where they suck out the eggs. Oh no.

Picture, if you will, a futuristic white dildo. Now, attach a few cords and buttons. This is an ultrasound wand. You should be very familiar with it by now, because you've been getting it shoved unceremoniously up your twat every day for the last few weeks.

Now, as it turns out, this machine is actually more sinister than it looks. All those knobs and buttons and whatnot, they hide a secret switch. What does this switch do? It shoots out a big, thick, TEN INCH LONG NEEDLE. Then the NEEDLE will suck up each egg, individually.

This means that once you wake up from the procedure, you will learn that you did not just have a very angry pap smear. Oh, no. you've just had a NEEDLE of DOOM shot through your vaginal walls approximately 25 times. And THAT is why the pain is different from what you expected. And THAT is why you'll be walking funny for a few days.

Oh- and now that you have a bunch of extra holes in your vagina, you've got to stick big freakin' pills in there three times a day. Yes, very comfortable, THAT is.

How do they propose to make this all better? Every day, you are also to take an extra special pill. No explanation why, but it DOES have a little embossed heart on it.

...because you can't make a baby without love?



Getting COMPLETELY Knocked Up  (2/16/2009)
I suppose that now, technically, I am officially knocked up.

Please, no congratulations.

You see, it can take up to eight weeks to be sure that the grublings *take*.   For the time being, I have a minor medical condition for which I am prescribed rest, routine doctor's visits, and lots of ice cream. M will be doing the laundry and cooking for a while.

Oh yeah, best medical condition ever.

A far as I'm concerned, I'm not pregnant until I have some kind of evidence that there's a little person inside of me. Like... it kicks me. Then I think I'll buy it. For the time being, I have a two useless clusters of cells that will make me bitchy, nauseated, and eventually- fat.

When I'm convinced there's a new human life inside me, I'll let you know.

As for the actual procedure, it felt like there was a Vaudeville show going on in my vagina. Lights, curtains, audience... the whole nine yards. It was about ten minutes of actual procedure, and I got to watch! They inserted a small plastic catheter, and then the embryos went through the tube, they showed me on the ultrasound. Then they gave us a picture of my uterus with a little glowing white spot. The spot is two embryos, and the HUGE BLACK MASS above it is my INSANELY FULL BLADDER. Because I had to have a giant bladder to make insertion easier. Honestly, that was the worst part. I had to pee SO BAD during the whole thing. Because no part of getting pregnant should be pleasant.

And now no sex for at least ten days. And then... I can put my pants on!




Down to the wire  (2/26/2009)
Well, today is the day. First thing this morning I went back to the clinic. Not to have anyone shove things into my vagina, no. I had my pregnancy test.

You see, what with all the hormones I'm taking, an over the counter pee type test probably wouldn't be effective. I'd be likely to get a false positive, which- of course- the boxes on those things say is impossible. Not so. There is such a thing as a "chemical pregnancy." You can test positive and be negative. Usually it means that you were recently pregnant for a minute or two. Well, I had embryos implanted. So I was preggers for at least a few minutes. So no over the counter test.

I won't know until this evening.

If I am NOT pregnant, I have to wait three months before trying again. Suck.

Something I've recently learned, though. A few days ago Mike and I were wrestling, and I pulled a muscle in my abdomen. I had a full fledged panic attack. Not only that, the mind altering pain was accompanied by a crazy FLOOD of hormones. I was absolutely positive that the strain had eliminated any shot of staying pregnant. Now, this is EXTREMELY unlikely, but I did come to a realization. If I'm not pregnant, I'll be upset. Very, very upset. This is precisely why I didn't want to think of myself and pregnant yet. Between my extended family CONSTANTLY asking how the baby's coming, some friends getting pumped up to babysit and throw showers, and my father's immoderate excitement, I'm going to feel like I'm letting a lot of people down if I'm not knocked up.

Of course I'll let all of you know if I'm still testing preggers today, but that still doesn't mean I'm actually pregnant. MOST pregnancies don't result in grublings, you know. Most times that people get pregnant their body rejects the fetus pretty damn quick. True enough, if I AM pregnant, thanks to all this protocol I'm likely to stay pregnant. But even so, no excitement, please. I have an obnoxious medical condition where I can't take medications, drink alcohol, or eat spicy foods (seriously) for another few months. Then, either I get to be healthy for a few months, or I go into a second trimester with excitement and glee.

In the meantime, I am NOT pregnant. No matter what the test says. I am merely ill.








P.S.
I'm "pregnant." :)

Also, my hcG levels are nearly double normal. This is fair indication of multiples. So, maybe twins? We'll see.

Feel free to congratulate. I want it now. :) Hormonal hypocrite, that's me!

How I Got Pregnant With Twins (Part 1)

Back in the day, I kept a Livejournal.  It was on this blog that I chronicled the actions taken by me and M to get ourselves a baby.  And here... for all of you... that journey, republished for Becoming SuperMommy.  What can I say?  The girls turning two has made me sentimental.  :)

Warning: it does contain a fair amount of profanity.


Coming Out, so to speak  (1-13-2009)
By now most of you probably know that M and I are planning on having a baby. Not in that, "Oh, someday we'll be awesome parents!" kind of way either. As in, this blog is about to be primarily a log of all the insane crap that goes along with getting intentionally and very technically knocked up.

So, if you don't want to have all kinds of icky, medical, vagina related stuff on your feed, now is the time to mention it and I'll make a filter.

Why am I making all of this public NOW? Here's why. I have lots of friends with children. I have NO friends who intentionally went through the process of MAKING one. I have friends who are married and planning on having kids... someday. I am, unless I'm very much mistaken, the first among my friends to do this procreation thing intentionally. The first person to go through the insanely irritating steps leading to the pregnancy, versus the very entertaining steps of accidentally procreating. I am not casting judgment, I am merely observing. I haven't seen anybody do this yet- this "now it's time to make miniature copies of ourselves" thing. (Note: we do not actually want to make miniature copies of ourselves.) Therefore, if you are in any way curious about what might happen to you if you should DECIDE to have a baby, feel free to keep reading.


M and I knew from the week after we got engaged that we were going to have to freeze some embryos (if you don't know why, read this.). This has resulted in a few inconveniences for me and M. For example, it is now M's job to clean that cat box, never mind that the General is MY cat. It also meant that I basically had to start acting as though I was already pregnant in some other ways. The most obnoxious of these being the new need for pre-natal vitamins.

I had a lovely prescription for creepy vitamins. The box had variously colored women with ethnic babies in their tummies. Green ladies with black babies, purple ladies with Asian babies, yellow ladies with Latino babies... terrifying. Perhaps most terrifying of all was the INTENSE intestinal distress, which naturally led to the AGONIZING endless yeast infection. Needless to say, I stopped taking pre-natal vitamins.

Well, I'm back on now. It seems you're supposed to take them for at least 30 days before you conceive. I've got a new bottle, ones that hopefully won't make me horribly ill. Unfortunately, I've been nauseated since I started taking them yesterday, but I'm kind of hoping that will go away. It's better than the endless diarrhea and yeast infections. So far.

This bottle has a wonderful little phrase on it- "Science Safe."

...I'll give you a moment to ponder that.

Tomorrow M and I get to have TONS of blood drawn so that we can find out what sort of awful genetic diseases we've got. I'm wondering what the chemo will do to his blood work. I also get to have a saline ultrasound.

This is when you get an injection of mild anesthesia in your cervix, and then have your ovaries filled with fluid. The point, I believe, is to get you prepared psychologically for when your water breaks and you go into labor. Other than that, it lets the doctors see if you have any abnormalities in your uterus.

The fun part is for the next two hours when each time you hiccup or sneeze tons of water shoots out of your cooter.

Then, onward to medication! According to the doctors, there's only one way to see if the hormones will make my heart explode.

...Science Safe!

I'll keep you all informed as events progress.






Makin' Babies  (1/22/2009)
The injections have finally begun. Waiting was the worst part.
I nearly had a panic attack. I'm just grateful that M was calm and collected enough to stab me with a needle.

That said, it was not so bad. The injections (at least the first round) are administered in insulin needles, so it's really not bad at all. I still couldn't do it. I hope I get over that.

As for my physiological response to the hormones- I got lightheaded, warm, dizzy, and my heart started feeling very light- as though it was about to start skipping beats. This feeling lasted for about three minutes and then abated. That's the biggest relief. Thanks to my hormone sensitivity, we were worried that I might immediately go into cardiac arrest. I didn't, so, full speed ahead!

Pretty soon I'll get to stop shooting myself up with hormones, and then... onward to grublings!




Ala Dolores Claiborne  (1/29/2009)
"Sometimes being a bitch is all a woman has to hang on to."

I fucking hate medical "professionals."
I'm tired of being poked and prodded, being told that I have no idea what I'm doing while having information withheld and misdirected.

Grumble grumble grumble...
I sure fucking hope having a baby is worth the trouble.



Internal countdown at four hours twelve minutes and counting  (1/30/2009)
I'm done with round one. Moving on to round two. The big round. The gigantic doses of drugs that might make my heart stop.

I am fucking terrified. Every hour I get a little closer to hyperventilating. I'm sure it won't be that bad. I'm sure this will be virtually identical to the initial injection fear. Only this time... well... we'll see if two shots is actually better than one.

...God I'm a wreck.




Grubling goo, round two  (2/1/2009)
Two shots a night.
My stomach is covered in little bruises and scratches.
My lungs and chest hurt and I'm more bloated than I've ever been in my life.
Next assault by the fertility staff is Tuesday morning.


...I am no longer seeing much humor. Hopefully the hormones will stop deadening my sense of humor and I can go back to thinking this is a big joke.

Hopefully.




Step 2: ? (2/8/2009)
It seems I have been misled. I must offer my most sincere apologies. I have passed along incorrect information to all of you, out there in livejournal land.


It is not two weeks on injection A and four weeks on injection B.

Actually, it is two weeks on injection A, two weeks on injections A and B, and then two days on injection C. With daily blood draws and vaginal ultrasounds. Then, six days on patch D and ovule E.

...which you are NOT to put in the refrigerator with the rest of the drugs. Those last two have all gone bad now. You need to spend another $100 on replacing them. NOW. Or we start all over again.

Carry on.