September 15, 2004
September 15, with the brisk air outside signalling that autumn is here, September 15, the day when Japan celebrates a day of Respect for the Aged. The day I get my laptop back. My father's birthday, whom I will call tonight and hope he takes my call. The day of the first new moon. A day I am feeling low.
And the day that my twins would've been 2 years old.
I called them Egg and Bacon, since I thought a name would be too personal and I had just read a book by John Irving, influencing me on the Egg angle. Two little woeful fetilized eggs, two eggs that had divided into 8 cells. My twins, my babies, my Egg and Bacon. I had a brutal round of IVF to try to conceive them, and I got pregnant.
Pregnant. Me. Nutty, skitsy, difficult, temperamental me. I was pregnant, and the wild thing is, once they were transplanted into me more than anything on earth I really wanted to be pregnant.
For a little over a week, I was pregnant. It was no time at all, just a blip in the calendar, a hold-over during the holidays. It was a blue line on a hospital-strength pregnancy stick. A blink of an eye on the global scheme of things, but something that changed my life.
Before Christmas I was pregnant.
By New Years' I was hemorrhaging a red tide, gushing out the thick cushy nest the hormones and I had been building for my babies, rushing out the perfectly balanced hormone levels designed to keep them growing, ripping off the strands and strings that were holding them to the wall of their new abode...and feeling my body out my babies, too.
I remember it all, and I remember it like it was yesterday, instead of nearly 3 years ago. I remember the shots, I remember the nose spray. I remember the vaginal suppositories and I remember the crying jags. I remember the srugery, the ultrasound on my swollen and engorged ovaries. I remember the blue line on the hospital's pregnancy stick and the faint lines on the 10 over-the-counter ones I bought, ripping open the packages with Halloween candy hope. I remember what it was like to be pregnant, and I remember sitting on the toilet in the hardware store, X Partner Unit looking for some paint for the hallway unaware of the lavatory drama, me crying, wailing, staring at the blood in the toilet understanding that, suddenly, I wasn't pregnant.
And I think about babies all the time. When I leave a building in London and see a whole gaggle of gorgeous little schoolgirls, holding hands in matching burgundy cardigans and identical band-aids on the knees. When I watch a tv show and a lonely woman looks out her window, cupping hot tea mug in one hand and the oh-how-I-wish-I'd-had-children look etching out the corner of her eyes. When Mr. Y talks to his children, that paternal hope and love that eases his soul and lights up the air. And when I see a baby on the street, a nestled pink dove in a sleeping duvet, I feel my heart plunge to the floor, my feet on an elevator crashing to the bottom level of a skyscraper.
I can feel happy for others. Simon has a beautiful new baby boy-I sent him a little gift, and little gifts for his other two children (I think older children should always have gifts too, if a new baby in their family get presents. I have always wanted to buy a pair of pinky sparkly fairy wings for little girls, and now I have had my wish. I buy gifts for the kids I know, so maybe my role isn't as mother but rather as a fairy godmother. Maybe I should go get a pair of pinky sparkly wings for myself.). Clancy and his lovely girlfriend are expecting. Gudy's wife is due very, very soon. I honestly am so happy for them.
At the same time, it tears a huge hole in my heart to think that I am not there myself. That I don't know if I will ever be there. That the love of my life still isn't sure how he feels about babies, we still don't know which direction we will take, but in any case, I simply don't want to hear any of that "why don't you adopt, you selfish cow?" or "dump Mr. Y and pick yourself up a 20-year-old fertile Italian boy desperate to have a dozen children." This is my man, and we need to find a way through this together.
Please...if you like me at all, please no advice today. By all means, whistle your support, let me know you care, leave a thought, but please, as my friend...no advice.
Maybe finding that way starts next week. Hopefully we get some answers and some ideas. Hopefully we can see options and discuss thoughts. Next week...when we have an appointment with an IVF specialist here in the UK.
I wrote a letter to Egg and Bacon those years ago, when I was still pumped full of hormones, soft stomach and high hopes. Since I wanted them so badly, I wrote a letter I hoped I could give them someday, some way of showing how much I wanted them. A letter, as I am so fucking pathetic that writing things down is the only way I can find to let things out.
I've attached the letter that I wrote to two tiny cells. The inanity of it kills me. I don't need the calendar to remind me that this was their due date. Somewhere deep inside of me, I will always remember today. I will always know that for a short while I was a mother, and I ache so much to be one for longer.
Happy Birthday, Egg and Bacon. I wish you were here so much.
December 20, 2001
Dear Egg and Bacon,
Can you hear me? Can you hear me when I think or when I talk out loud? Do I resonate with vibrations of sound, can you hear my music, my whispering to you? Sometimes, quite often actually, I have been rubbing my hand across my stomach, to reassure you, let you know that I am thinking of you. I am not sure where you are located inside of me, but I hope you can feel the warmth of my hand pressing down on you, the heat coming inside to reassure you. My hands a re a bit rough right now, winter hasn't been kind to them and I am forgetful with the lotion, but they will be soft if and when I can hold you someday.
If you'll want to stay, that is. And I really hope you do. I want nothing more than to be your mommy.
You are my babies, put deep inside me by cold test tubes and a daunting process. I know it would have been better to try to have you both naturally, when your father and I held each other close in bed at night, but trust me-just as much love went into conceiving you this way. Perhaps even more so-it is a lot of work and trial to go through IVF.
I won't find out for another week or so if you will stay. Please do. Both of you. I promise to love and adore you more than you can imagine. You have several sets of grandparents-all of them, actually-lined up to spoil you. Stay with me, my dear Egg and Bacon. You are my angels.
Love,
Your Mommy
Posted by: Everydaystranger at
06:38 AM
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