pregnancy

Letter #4

Published on by Lisa

Dear Veronica,

Your Lolo, my die-hard Republican father, called me this morning and said one sentence, “Obama is my president this morning.” Oh, how we laughed.

Yesterday was a day that I will tell you about someday when your history text books water everything down and sensationalize the wrong parts of what has taken place these days.

Our first bi-racial President came into office yesterday! But everyone calls him our first African-American president. To me, my darling, he’s a man who I see much promise and brings out the promise of others. That’s why he got the vote, and first action as a campaign worker, out of me.

I debated as to whether or not I should stand in the cold in Washington, D.C. to be a part of history, or witness history, or however people are phrasing it. And, I decided, I will go and stand on the mall when I see the first womyn take the highest seat. I suppose it would have been worth it to see Obama sworn in, but I feel that I already experienced the best part of history in November, the election day that got us to the inauguration.

That day – election day – is one you’ll hear me rave about this until infinity But it was a day I’ll never forget and one that I’ll never fail to describe. I was able to drive to local campaign office and be partnered up with another volunteer to go canvassing, door to door, and talk with voters to make sure they had exercised their precious right to be heard. Most already had, but what struck me was the feel of my knuckle on the wood, the rapping sound that I caused in a near empty neighborhood and looking into the eyes of a stranger with a smile to ask if Barack Obama could count on their unconditional support that day. Most said, “Of course!”

There were people of every age, a boy on his bike talking about his excitement, a high risk pregnancy woman describing her willingness/ability to still work the phones despite her condition, the fast paced speed at which the organizers spoke, and the long hours I spent with a stranger who turned out to be a physician at a nearby clinic. Her gentle black face and my young brown face smiled for hours as we walked miles and supported one another that day.

Now THAT, my dear, is called being a part of history. If ever you want to be a part of history, remember something: it takes more than just watching. It means sacrificing something along the way and watching your sacrifice unfold in something unpredictable. Being a part of history is a risk, an action. Don’t ever just be a witness to history, be one of the holders of the pen that documents it. DO something to make history unfold. They’ll always be enough witnesses. Always. Create history instead of witnessing it.

But, still, the majesty and ceremonies was wonderful and the crowds took my breath away on the mall. However, the crowd at Grant Park, the night Obama won, still holds the trophy for wondrous.

Veronica, your father cried yesterday when Obama took his oath and I sprung to my feet and screamed while I jumped up and down in front of our breaking down TV with the largest bunny ears imaginable. No cable choices, we stuck with mainstream NBC to usher us into a new era. I listened as Obama talked about the day you might have children and thought about how your father and I could barely imagine someday having a daughter or son like you to consider, but how the ache to meet you drums louder in our chests everyday.

There are a handful of great days that transpire in life, my love, and yesterday was one of them. Perhaps an even greater day will be the one where I give you a copy of this letter and tell you about this in person.

Love,
Mom

Letter #3

Published on by Lisa

Dear Veronica,

It’s Saturday morning and two days since my surgery to “spiff up” my ovaries to someday have you.  Darling, I feel like someone rammed a spatula into my stomach and starting smacking everything red.
What was supposed to be an hour and fifteen minutes took over two and a half.  Much to my amusement, I learned that your father was devouring any reading material possible in the lobby and then switched to TV when NO ONE came out to tell him why I, his wonderful wife – the mother of his future children – was still in surgery.  Poor guy.  You know how he hates to be out of control.
Alas, Dr. Liu came out and told him these words, “It was complicated, but successful.”  Apparently, there was enough scar tissue to wrap all of eastern Europe in its own casserole and needed to be removed from my insides.  That extended as south as you can go in my uterus and ovaries into my northern stomach region.  The stitches around my belly button are as sore as sore can be.  It feels like they reorganized my entire reproductive and digestive system.
On a funny note, I am passing gas like it is my job.  To see as much as possible through a small camera and light, the doctors blew up my body during surgery.  Some was still in there after the procedure which is why my belly looked like I was 7 months pregnant when I left the hospital, and it leaks out every 20 minutes or so.  I’ll take a teaspoon sip of water and belch like I just ate an entire plate of Italian food goodness.  I’ll take one step and leave a wind of gas behind me.  It makes me giggle, then I grip my belly because it’s painful to laugh.
Your father is trying his best to be everything to everyone these days and I watch him from the couch, or bed, doing laundry, cleaning up, washing dishes, trying to get me DVDs I’d like to watch, and sprinting to Pearl of the Orient for my scallop and shrimp lo mein.  About two weeks ago, I came down with a common bacterial infection that put me in the worst mood. Shortly after that, I was diagnosed with strep.  Then I had this surgery and am farting and burping like a mindless second grader.  All in all, I wonder how your father still manages to sit at my bedside and whisper, “my beautiful bride,” into my ear while I am waking up or how he runs his hands into my hair and looks at me with a longing to feel better.
I wish that for you, my love.  I wish for you a soul who will love you tirelessly and without knowledge of rest.  The way your father loves me is a gift from I don’t know where.  I just know that I want you to someday find it in a person who is endlessly fascinated by your thoughts and post-surgery farting habits.  Someone who looks at pictures of your tender ovaries as if they were pictures of God’s face.  Most of all, I hope your father and I set an example for you of what is possible in this world.  
It IS possible to love someone so much that it feels like a miracle.
Love,
Mom

Letter #2

Published on by Lisa

Dear Veronica,

This has been a week that you must know about.

First of all, my beloved ob/gyn decided to throw me to a specialist five miles away because I am going to need surgery. Dr. David decided that my ovaries need to be “spiffed up” and thus need a laparoscopy. In a nutshell, it’s like Inspector Gadget is going to go in there and remove any scar tissue from my last surgery in 99 and to remove another sprouting dermoid tumor.

All of this in your name, my sweet.

Your father is quite anxious at the doctor’s office. He makes ridiculous comments and tries to make me laugh. I shake my head at him to stop and I feel like a principal telling a misbehaving 10 year old to shut his mouth.

My other doctor, Dr. Liu seems quite optimistic about the surgery and I felt he was nearly giggling at inappropriate times when I asked a question. Your father thought laughter was a good sign; it means we’re not going to be the 12% of couples whose efforts to have a child are saddeningly null. Laughter from doctors, your father contends, means we have minimal to worry about.

My mouth was set in one straight line, unamused. THIS IS SERIOUS BUSINESS, don’t they know that? Of course, I ended up stuffing a smile back when doc was examining me and inserted a strange looking instrument into my vaginal canal and showed me my empty uterus and fuzzy looking ovaries with strange masses around them. He, your pops, and a medical assistant leaned in and studied the screen like the state lottery numbers were popping up and they were going to win a 300 million dollar pot.

It struck me at that moment, my dear, that the world rests on the shoulders of woman who go through extensive circumstances to have a child. I have been thinking through how far in this process I want to go and decided I will give it my all to have you for about a year or two and likely will stop before Dr. Liu suggests in vitro. I think at that point, I’ll look into adoption.

Last night I went to bed feeling sick to my stomach. I ended up sleeping for about 14 hours today and then went to urgent care. Strep throat was my diagnosis. I was so sick and frustrated. It seems the universe does not want me to have this surgery. First, I waited two months to see a specialist and then it was nearly canceled because of insurance coverage and now strep. I’m determined, though. I hope you can someday appreciate what we’re going through to someday welcome you into this world.

But, Dr. David, Dr. Liu, your pops, and I, are highly optimistic that all of this is going to work. I took my first prenatal vitamin on Thursday and nearly squealed with excitement. It tasted like acidic garbage, but the thought of it making you a nice red womb to float around in and feeding you into a healthy body make it worth it. I’m going into surgery in three days and I’m hoping to start the most amazing journey of my life shortly after the new year.

Love,
Mom

The Path to Pregnancy

Published on by Lisa

It never ceases to amaze me how much has to happen for a womyn to become pregnant.

I’ve never been pregnant and decided, after much thought and deep prayer, that I want to be a mother.  My preference for beginning a family would be to have a biological child first and then adopt in a few years.  However, Adonis and I are completely open to all the different ways that progeny come about.
In 1999, I had a surgery that ended with a tumor the size of grapefruit being extracted from my right ovary and another cyst removed from my left.  Portions of both ovaries were removed, but I was told that children were still a possibility.  I was twenty and thoughts of children were frequent, but I wasn’t ready.  Adonis and I, at that point in our lives, were passing acquaintances at college drinking fiestas.
And here we are, going to doctors and wondering what in the world I need to do to contribute to the global population.
Another surgery, apparently, is what needs to happen.
The road to health is a never ending bike path.  Once you think you can close your eyes and enjoy the wind, even for a split second, a bend in the road approaches and that moment of relaxation is put off for another mile or two.  And then another bend.  Sometimes, despite, our healthy habits, frequent exercising, and water drinking, our bodies decide to do things all on their own.  Mine decided to make tumors again and complicate my desire to have life beyond my own.
Two surgeries before thirty.  That’s not exactly what I imagined for myself, but when I think of all the unexpected bends in the road, I accept this road as mine.  I’m hopeful that I’ll be able to get through this time with promise and health.
ps – I am NOT moving my blog to be classified under “infertility” blogosphere or whatever some folks have suggested.  While I certainly appreciate the great resources of those blogs, and I will continue to expand my writing in other areas of the internet, this is my home here – as a radical womyn of color feminist.  I’m just a feminist who wants babies.

Letter #1

Published on by Lisa

Dear Veronica,

Someday you’ll read this and I hope that when you do, my words will make no sense at all. I hope that you actually throw your head back in such laughter that I even got emotionally invested in this moment because in the time that you absorb my words, that period will have come to pass a mentality of such openness and progression, this letter is filed archaic.
You’re only an image in my mind, a daughter who I hope to meet in the future. I think of you often in when I am working for a better place or even making a lousy choice. In either instance, I wonder how my actions will affect you.
Today is November 4, 2008 and these hours rest on the anxious ballots across the United States as we elect a new leader of our nation. You’ll read in history books that all sorts of records were broken – even now, before I know who has won the general election – so much has transpired that has changed the face of this nation and so much is still going to change in the years before you and I officially meet.
You come from a family who supports two parties – Republicans and Democrats – which is why Sunday dinners always last too long with your cousins and Titas and Titos. We have much to discuss.
It’s important to me for you to know why this day is so important. For eight years, I’ve been changing my mind. I’ve been looking for the best and ideal political environment and I now realize that not only is that never going to happen, but that’s not what I should be living for. It’s not the end result of perfection or the ideal outcome I’m looking for, what matters most is what I did in these years to make this place better for you.
I want you to know that I voted today. I voted for a presidential candidate for my third election and I voted Democrat. I’ve voted Republican before, even identified as such. Voting Democratic, however, is not as significant as the lessons I’ve learned about laws, infrastructure and the reality of how the system works in this country and around the world. If you are my daughter, most likely, you will be a daughter of privilege. You will be a person of education, services, healthcare, and choices. With these options, you must apply yourself and learn for yourself how this world will work for those around you. Learning for myself of how this world works changed the way I live, the way I vote, the way I love.
This day, I witnessed an excitement in every kind of person imaginable. I witnessed a respect between folks of difference, across race and party lines. It was the first day of a political event that I felt a part of, not a spectator. Of every ethnicity, religion, ability, I saw people working the voting booths. Pregnant women, men in business suits, the elderly in wheelchairs, families with strollers – nearly everyone showed up today.
And so, my dear, you continue to remain a dream for me. A bright dream which keeps me walking and serving those around me, hoping someday, that you will do the same. And you will tell me funny stories of the people you met on election day. I will tell you the day I worked for the first black president of the Unites States of America and by then you will wonder what the hell the big damn deal was in 2008.
Your father and I bought a bottle of champagne and splurged on a package of gourmet cheese. Your father loves George Stephanopoulos and I love anyone but the Fox anchors. We hope that is one of those nights we’ll remember the rest of our lives and bore you to tears about what we witnessed and lived through.
Love,
Mom

My New OB/GYN is, I swear, Mrs. Potts

Published on by Lisa

My new gynie is the human personification (her smile is DEAD ON) of Mrs. Potts from Beauty and the Beast. So, cheers to this fantabulous womyn who has set the standard for what healthcare providers should be: kind, sharp-minded, thorough, patient, and professional.

Fork in my Life

Published on by Lisa

The first blog I ever read was Brownfemipower.com.  I found it when I began searching for “women of color feminism.”  Since then, I’m thousands of posts in, and I still wonder what the “meaning” of my blog is.  Whether it’s been to inform, vent, or share my life – it’s always been a reflection of what is going on in my mind and heart.  

And so, with this blog, I am beginning new phase in my life and my blog shall be heir to a decision I made to bring new life into the world.
I’m not pregnant, far from it.  48 hours ago, I attended my first appointment with an ob/gyn in Cleveland, my home now for the past 6 weeks, and uttered the words aloud for the first time: I want to have a baby.
I was alone, intentionally.  In this woman’s office, looking deep into her dark blue eyes and she smiled right back at me.  There was an enormous glass window to my left and a windowfull of sunshine poured on my skin as I said it aloud.  I felt amazing, beautiful even.
My reproductive system has always been tumultuous.  An early onset of my period, extremely irregular cycles, and a ovarian tumor and partial ovarian removal surgery at age 20 has decorated my life with frequent visits, medication, pain, and wondering.
I want to a child.  
Adonis and I have been talking about this for awhile and while millions of womyn become pregnant all the time, I can honestly say that it feels like you’re the only one who’s ever been done this road before.  It feels like I’ve had a shot of hypervigilant meds that cause me to worry over my body and become acutely aware of ever pain, however slight.
I’ve heard women, who are in a position of privilege to choose pregnancy, say that there is a line that you cross when you become pregnant.  I disagree.  For me, the line was crossed once I decided that I wanted to have a child and was going to do whatever I could, within reason, to go through a pregnancy.  No exaggeration, I felt different when I said those words aloud.  
I want to have a baby.
It’s funny how I was and am one decision  away from keeping my life the exact same: happy, childless, filled with open moments and a carefree schedule.  Or, I can begin this journey of medical intervention, appointments, evaluations, analysis, research, learning, health, and the emotional rollercoaster involved with healthcare, insurance, fertility, and diagnosis.
I don’t know much more than the average women, average feminist.  I know that prior to Monday I felt the same as I always had for the past 29 years, but then, once I sat in that bright doctor’s office, having a consultation, something changed.
When I left, I cried in my car.  I don’t know why.  The samples of blood, the possibilities both good and bad, the miracle, the chances this may not work, the medicines, THE HORMONES.  It all just coated my body and the steering wheel was the shoulder I had.
Today I went back to the hospital for more tests.  Another ultrasound and a transvaginal test.  A trans-what?  I asked.  As if holding in 32oz of water in your bladder while someone rolls a wet mouse-like contraption over your lower abdomen is not enough, this transvaginal exam (conducted AFTER I got to pee, thank the Lord) was basically inserting an instrument the length of a pen and the width of a medium carrot into your special spot and pressing it in various places for 18 minutes.  (There was an enormous clock, so, yes, I literally watched the minutes go by.)  All the while someone asking you gently, “Any pain here?  Here?  How ’bout here?”  I don’t know, how painful do you think it is to have a e-carrot exploring your reproductive organs all in the name of a hopeful pregnancy?
I left in a trance.
I parked my car in a shopping complex and wandered from store to store, staring past everything and wondering what in the world I was doing.  I came back to life when I realized I had stopped in the cheese section of Whole Foods, where I cannot afford to shop, and was munching on sample cheese with sample crackers with sample pineapple and sample guacamole like I was at Old Country Buffet.  The produce worker was staring at my disheveled state.  
I grabbed an organic spaghetti squash and pretended I was going to buy it to normalize my appearance.
Is this normal?  Wandering around Cleveland in shock after having your whoo-ha examined for 45 minutes and you end up stealing sample munchies from Whole Foods?
Well, for me, it’s normal.
I just had my 1999 surgical notes and pathology report sent to my current doctor, who is, by the way, a human Mrs. Potts from Beauty and the Beast.
Test results back in a few days.

Feminist Mothering

Published on by Lisa

By this time next year, I’d like to be a mother, or expecting biologically or through adoption. Today, a weird day, Mother’s Day, I am thinking about what kind of guardian I will be.

I’ve encountered lots of phrases to describe the experience and effort to parent young souls in a manner that indulges in love, fairness, reality, protection, and forgiveness. “Feminist Mothering” is one of those phrases. That phrase is alright, but a bit inflexible. It’s not like I expect Adonis to say he will be practicing “Feminist Fathering.” It’s just called parenting, and for me, a mindful vigilance and fight against the kyriarchal powers at work in society, school, and our family. Regardless of how much I try to work out my own crap and not project errors onto my children, or heap unfair expectations on them, or push them too hard, or take things too personally, or take too much shame and pride in them – I know that I will frequently stumble.

There are many ways to be a mother, I realize. Feminism, someone once said, is about being surrogate mothers to each other from time to time. While much of my exposure to feminism has been about promoting sisterhood, the idea of being a surrogate mother from time to time is more appealing to me. There are so many aspects of who I am that is mature, wise, and loving, but then there are the bleakly immature and under construction areas. These areas have benefited from the surrogate mothers who have stepped in with their fierce understanding that we all need space to stumble before we get it right, we’re all in this together, and there’s no one right way to be yourself. Surrogate mothers walk the labyrinth of feminism with the knowledge that building another person up outweighs the benefit of tearing anything or one down.

My surrogate mothers have been strangers and friends, relatives and teachers, mentors and lovers. They’ve been editors and writers, co-workers and supervisors, students and young(er) womyn who have taught me grace, when to let go, and how to forgive others as well as myself. Feminist surrogate mothering is not about just giving good advice or showing up when no one else does.

Surrogating mothering is a radical belief that the path we are on to gender equality and liberation, the path to a conscious society, the path to collective transformation is fraught with danger. And surrogate mothering is opening oneself to the possibility of being stronger for the sake of the other, letting someone rest when needing, appreciating what went unnoticed, and celebrating the totality of someone’s natural gifts. It is about moments of divine leadership and self-emptying compassion. It is not about recognizing the convenient moments when you would like to be a surrogate mother, but identifying when someone else is in need.

I can identify more moments when I have been gently corrected or when my fire has been tended by someone else than when I have given of myself. Call it selfishness or my youth. Or greed.

This Mother’s Day, I am quietly vowing to look beyond myself.

What Would Happen If I Were Pregnant

Published on by Lisa

This week I thought I might be pregnant.
This week I thought about what that would mean.

I thought about bringing another life into the world,
and I laughed.

I must be crazy.

Those shoes at Tannery are too expensive so I pass them buy.
Who’s honking at me?
There’s the windsurfer guy again.

What would happen if I were pregnant?

She’s staring at me.
Another CVS.
Free the Jena 6 banner hung on a building.

I can’t fathom a life growing inside me.

My feet are beginning to hurt.
That man acted so annoyed when I asked him for the time.
What percentage of the walkers plugs their ears with white Ipod wires to drown out the world?

Is it true you can’t eat sushi if you’re pregnant?
Everyone would be so excited.
Could I be excited once I get past my fear?

What if I can’t make enough space in my life for a child?
What will this child learn from me?
What if I die?

How will we do this?

I heard sausage is sheathed in animal intestine.
There are many asians on this street.
Down with Walgreens.

I want my body to belong to me.
How can I be so selfish?
This child will be Brown.

What will change?
Everything I know.

I walk further down Boylston and wonder what everyone else is thinking.

Veronica Rose

Published on by Lisa

The idea of birth,
cracking pain,
pulsing rivers of blood
and widening vessels
where
gushing streams are
rushing out of me,
out of my tiny,
sacred cave
Doesn’t scare me.

Whether she’ll be seen
or heard
or even acknowledged
with a nod
is what distresses
me
Not dresses
or tresses
but how she’ll be addressed
causes me
alarm

And whether my maternal instint
will be instinctive enough
to keep her, shape her,
sharpen her
keeps me
up at night

I worry that her father’s height
won’t carry far
because her mother’s brown skin
will communicate
an indigenous freight
about some untrue inferiority
that she’ll start to believe
herself

I worry that her half-ness
will split her into pieces
and drown in weakness
forcing her to spend her
time needling her fingers,
lingering
to sew herself back together
when she was never broke
to begin with

The idea of her is miraculous,
a flickering light yet to be;
but what the world may do to her,
may convince her,
terrorizes me.