Identity Crisis of a Pre-Mother

By: Lex Jacobson

 

I find out tomorrow if I’m pregnant. I don’t know how people do this again and again and again for more than the nine months that we’ve been at it. This nine-month mark marks the due date of the first child had we gotten pregnant the first month we did an IUI. It feels like forever, yet it’s flown by as well.

I am struggling a bit with my identity right now. I’m not yet a mother, but I don’t feel completely childless. I feel as though we have a son or daughter, because we dream about them and put energy into them daily. They are in my every thought and almost every decision I make is for them.

It sounds silly, but one of the hardest things is during the two-week wait to find out whether you’re pregnant or not and saying no to things like brie cheese or alcohol or medicated cough syrup, the latter of which I’ve really, really needed this month. While about half of women have the luxury of not realizing they’re pregnant until after they miss their period, I have this awkward two weeks of maybes and best-be-safes. It’s maddening. It’s two weeks full of hope and double guessing and doubts and fears and planning for this baby that you just hope to god is going to evolve this month.

While my partner, Devon, does get excited when we may be pregnant and sad when it doesn’t work out, she doesn’t get that strong urge of motherhood – that ridiculously powerful feeling that I imagine starts in the uterus and overtakes every single nook and cranny of my brain. It’s so hard to explain it to people, and though Devon does get it more and more, I imagine it’s tough when I can’t turn off and move on quickly. She’s been amazing though and puts up with my obsessive personality. I drive myself nuts, so I can’t imagine how she feels.

I don’t think you can talk sense into a woman who wants a baby so incredibly bad. While it’s comforting to know there are many others like me out there, it’s also disheartening to know that there is no way to turn this feeling off until we get a new life out of this whole experience. Here’s to hoping again…

A Different Kind of Crazy

By: Lex Jacobson

When you mix mental health issues with fertility hormone treatments, sometimes you get a bit of a mess, which equals me. I imagine hormone treatments to get pregnant aren’t nice for anyone who has to do it, but I really feel as though it’s poking at old wounds. Crazy wounds.

I really wanted to make an omelet the other day, so chopped up some onion, garlic, bell peppers, and mushrooms and grated some cheese. I went back into the fridge to get the eggs. We had no eggs. I don’t usually lose my head, but I got so angry I almost punched a hole through the kitchen wall. Devon came out of the bedroom to find out what was going on and once she realized I was mad, she held up her hands so that I could use them as punching targets. When I wouldn’t hit her, she called me a pussy and I cried. Yup – crazy wounds.

My depression was never the tearful or weepy type of depression. In months and months of living in different psych wards, I rarely cried. I was numb more than anything else. It was an internal battle that I kept very private and couldn’t stand the thought of showing weakness through tears. So the effects of fertility drugs are tough to deal with. And I know that this is absolutely nothing compared to what I’m going to have to face when I’m pregnant with all of those different hormones, so this should be a good test, if nothing else.

This whole process – fertility drugs or not – is crazy. My days are filled with peeing in cups, taking my temperature at 4:00 am, obsessing over calendars, cervical mucous, and how the opening of my cervix feels. Then add the negative results month after month. This process is not for the weak (nor for the poor, but that’s another story for another day).

For now, I just need to go through with the insemination this week and remember to stock the fridge before I lose my shit again.

Another Childless Holiday Passed

By: Lex Jacobson

The holidays are especially hard when you’re trying to conceive and haven’t had any luck. Whether it’s watching your nieces and nephews on their egg hunt or dodging questions at the dinner table about how our process is going, it’s exhausting.

Which is why we boycotted Easter this year. For the first time in a long time, didn’t want to hang out with our family. Just wanted to be with our little two-person family that we are now.

I can’t wait until we have our child and it is old enough to believe in the Easter Bunny, or Santa or the Tooth Fairy or hopefully all three. I love the excitement, the early morning rise to see what’s been brought to the house while everyone has been asleep. I want that kind of magic in my house. And I know eventually it will, but it’s really tough not to have a timeline of when we might finally get to grow our family.

As much as I appreciate the constant “it will happen soon” (or rather, I should say I appreciate where it is coming from, not the actual words), it drives me absolutely nuts. Part of me wants people to just ignore the fact that we are even trying to get pregnant. But part of me really does appreciate the interest. I know people care and I know people want me to be a mum so very much.

There was a time where I decided I didn’t want anyone to know we were starting the insemination process. I only told one friend for the first little while, but it’s become the #1 most important thing in my life and I’ve ended up telling quite a few of my friends – close friends and acquaintances, actually; nothing in between – because it seems as though I’m holding so much back from them if I don’t (and it’s just easy to tell acquaintances because they have nothing invested in it).

I will see all of my best friends tomorrow. We are celebrating my friend’s daughter’s first birthday. I am not the only childless member of the group, though it is just me and one other person, who is getting married this summer and plans to try for a baby in September. While I wish her luck, I think my heart would quite possibly break if she got pregnant before I did.

Although we boycotted Easter, tomorrow is another kind of celebration with kids. One of my best friends will be there with her three-week-old son. Another with her three-year-old. And yet another with two kids. And as always, I will feel empty handed and a little out of place. But this is our life right now, and whatever we need to do to get through these tough days, we will.

Interview with Lex Jacobson

An Interview with Lex Jacobson by The Next Family

TNF: How is your family like every other family and how is it different?

My family is small right now. It’s myself and my wife and we are trying to add to our clan. I believe our family is like every other family – straight or LGTB – who struggles with infertility. Our family is like every other family that has to face the obstacles of not fitting to the “norm” (if there is even a thing). Our family is like any other family who has to deal with mental illnesses and all of the stigma that comes with that. Our family is like every other family that struggles with money, and doesn’t have enough time in the day. Our family is like any other family that has ups and downs, laughs, cries, dreams, grieves and learns. Our family is inclusive. Our family is blessed.

Our family is not any different from others than one person is to another.

TNF: Did your family accept you and your lifestyle? If yes, explain and if not explain what you have done to help them to accept your decisions and your lifestyle.

I am lucky enough to say that my family accepts both my lifestyle and me and I am blessed with a supportive, loving network of people who I can trust. My parents are quite liberal, though it was not always that way. I think when I came out to them and they had to deal with a daughter who would marry another woman and potentially give them grandchildren, they worked through a lot to get themselves to a place where that was acceptable and, dare I say, encouraged. I think after the hell we went through as a family when I was very sick with a mental illness and addiction problem, having a gay daughter was a breeze!

TNF: How do you juggle the work at home with your jobs?

Right now the work at home does not include caring for a child, but it is still busy. My wife and I work full time long hours, commute to the suburbs everyday and don’t get enough sleep. We hope to move to an urban center, close to work and close to other alternative families, before our baby is born.

TNF: What lessons do you feel are the most important to teach children in this day and age? Are there any lessons they, or perhaps we as parents should unlearn?

I think we really need to push the idea of tolerance and acceptance. We live in a world where there is so much diversity that is often seen as a bad thing. I want my kids to grow up choosing their friends based on compatibility and not color. We need to teach generosity – or at least encourage it. We are responsible for all humans and if we can teach our children that it is not okay for children to die of hunger, gay teenagers to commit suicide, cultures to be seen as less important, then the next generation will hopefully do a better job than we’ve done.

TNF: Any words of wisdom to pass on to our readers?

No wisdom. Just be nice to each other.

TNF: Anything you want our readers to know about you or your family?

­We feel really blessed to have found a community of people at TNF who give us hope in humanity. We look forward to introducing our child to this community.

A Lesbian Walks into a Bar

By: Lex Jacobson

When the lab at my fertility clinic had to close down suddenly for contamination reasons, I realized how little control I have over the process of conceiving a child. After hanging up the phone and getting over my initial shock that we would not be able to inseminate this month, and that we may have to go somewhere else next month, it hit me just how much I have to rely on other people – and other institutions – to make my dream come true.

Yes, I could get sleep with some random dude that I meet in a bar to get pregnant. This is what straight people like to tell me anyway. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve heard, “You know you can get that stuff for free?” or “Why don’t you just get drunk and sleep with a hot guy… it would be so much easier.”

Sure. Easy. But also incredibly hard. If the tables were turned and it were my partner that wanted to carry, I can’t say I’d be super supportive of her sleeping with a man just for this purpose. Not because I have some intense fear that she’ll enjoy it and leave me for a man, but because she’s MY wife. Why should I have to share her? Also, we’re lesbians for a reason: We are not attracted to men. And after thinking I was straight for years and sleeping with a good amount of men and not enjoying one moment of it, why would I want that again? For me or my wife? Even if we were both in the room for the attempted conception, I can’t think of anything less appealing. Unfortunately, we also don’t feel comfortable asking any of our male friends to be known donors.

Instead, we choose the mundane route of staring up at a hospital ceiling with a speculum and a much-too-long syringe to inseminate me with sperm from someone I have never met, and may never meet, if my child chooses not to find him when they are older (if I’m even still around). Instead, we pay ridiculous amounts of money for something that we could technically do ourselves, but we would rather be out of pocket and safe about than playing Russian roulette.

I have nothing against people who choose the one-night-stand route, but it’s just not something that would work for us. However, it is incredibly frustrating that because our clinic had to close down for the next few months, there really isn’t a hell of a lot that we can do ourselves except wait until they open again. They prioritized IVF patients, so we were told there was nothing they could do to make our IUI happen this month.

I wish so much that we could have gone to the clinic with our own nitrogen tank, picked up the sample, brought it home on dry ice and done the insemination ourselves, turkey baster style. Unfortunately, for legal reasons, we could not. It’s ridiculous: We pay close to $800 for one vial of sperm, we pay for the clinic to store it, and we can’t do what we want with it. We have to pay the clinic $200 to do the deed.

Yes, sleeping with a man that you meet at a bar may be cheaper, and yes, sometimes I wish we could have that kind of free access to sperm, but the way we are doing this is the way that feels right to us. Unfortunately, shit happens and setbacks occur. I feel completely helpless, heartbroken and angry, but this is another dip down in the roller coaster that has become this journey towards our baby. So this month, we will sit out and try to pass the time. Next month, we will figure something out. And soon, all of this will be just story to tell to my grown-up son or daughter.

Moods, Meds, and Maybes

By Lex Jacobson

We are not pregnant again this month. The “we-tried-we-waited-two-weeks-and-we-failed” thing is becoming an old story now, one that I hope will end a little differently next month. A happy ending would be really nice about now.

It is tough not to get discouraged, and those first few days after the negative test results, I feel as though I’m swimming in a pit of my own misery, but luckily it’s been passing and the week gets easier when I realize that it’s not that far away from my next attempt.

Next month brings a lot of pressure, specifically because if we don’t get pregnant, we won’t have our baby this year (if I carry to term). 2012 feels like it has just started, in my mind, I can hardly fathom waiting until 2013 to have our baby. I know it will feel a lot less desperate when I’m actually pregnant, as we’ll have something to look forward to, and a future date to celebrate, but right now, next year seems so far away.

On the health front, I haven’t decreased any of my medications since mid-January. I wanted to have a few stable months before we tried anything else. I’ve been told by two different doctors that I’ve done enough – that decreasing the amounts that I did will be significantly better for the baby, and that I do not have to play around with any more of my doses. That makes me feel great and I’m very proud of the last two years of getting to a relatively healthy place. But I am also getting antsy and want to try something else.

In my mind, the fewer meds the better, but I know my psychiatrists are wary of too much change. If I get pregnant now and don’t change a thing, they are confident that I’ve done enough to carry a healthy fetus with no long-term effects from exposure to meds. Like anything in life, there is no guarantee, and we won’t know until we know, but it is nice to hear from the experts that we’re doing well with where we’re at. I’m making myself wait at least a month, and then I would consider playing around again with one of my anti-depressants.

I picked up a month’s worth of meds just a few hours ago. Two years ago, my monthly medication bill came to about $500 (covered, luckily). With all of the decreases, the bill today came to $137. Monetarily, I’m spending almost 75% less than I was, which means that I’m roughly putting 75% fewer “toxins” into my body – and my future fetus – than I was two years ago. I hesitate to call them “toxins,” because I know for me, they are as important as oxygen. But it’s not just me that I have to worry about anymore.

I’m not ready to come off the meds completely, but I do have a goal. I’d like to be drug-free in four years. That covers a pregnancy, a year of post-partum when I’m at home with the baby, a year of transitioning back to work and a buffer to play with.

By the time we try for #2, I would like to be able to have a natural pregnancy. Who knows whether that could happen. And who knows whether we’ll go for a #2! Let’s focus on getting #1 for now…

Crashing into Motherhood

By: Lex Jacobson

My wife often reminds me of something I very regularly forget: I am not like the other kids.

It may sound condescending, but I don’t see it that way. I see it as a gentle reminder that, although I want to, I can never compare myself to the regular, ever-healthy general population.

When things get stressful, somehow my mind and body refuse to work together and I shut down. That wasn’t always the case. When I was a teenager, I was a straight A student, president of student council, captain of four sports team(one of which at a national level), lead in the school band, community choir member, a Royal Conservatory piano student, and working as a nanny, when I had the time.

I kept that up for about five years before I crashed. And crash I did… I ended up in the hospital for seven consecutive months the first time around. I obviously couldn’t keep it up, but I have to say, I really do miss those days in the sense that everything did get done.

We are getting our condo ready to sell, and have a good four days left of solid work before we can list it and have an open house. Most healthy people could stand four days of work, if there is an end in sight. Working towards something is fulfilling to most. To me, it’s too damn overwhelming. I really, really want to be able to knuckle down and get the job done. But I freeze. Every time I freeze. And crash. And burn.

Devon ends up doing most of the work, which always makes me feel so guilty, but she is amazing at making it so I always get what I need. And when you’ve struggled with your mood for more than 15 years and know that the only thing that will help your mood not spiral down considerably is good old-fashioned rest, you know well enough to do anything it takes to get just that.

What happens when we add a baby to the mix? Devon will be able to stay home with us for the first two weeks, and then it will be just me and babe at home alone for the next fifty weeks of my maternity leave (one of the beautiful things about Canada is a year-long maternity leave). I can’t wait for that time with my baby and would love nothing more. It does worry me though, as I can imagine it will be tough to get that much-needed rest when there is a little heartbeat that is completely dependent on me.

I want to say that I will be an amazingly attentive mother with a lot of energy, but there is a big chance that I may struggle, and that scares me. I can handle not getting to housework, but not being capable of tending to my baby’s needs? Yikes.

For today, while my wife caulks the kitchen sink, I will watch the Oscars and relax. While I still can.

When I Said Gay, I Didn’t Mean Happy

By: Lex Jacobson

I’ve just come home from my best friend’s baby shower for her first baby. She’ll be having a baby boy in March. She is incredibly excited and I am thrilled for her.

It was a tough shower to be at, and tough for more reasons than being in a room celebrating something that I want so badly for myself. My excitement and happiness for my friend is genuine. It’s just really hard not to go to envious places in my head. It’s not about the shower (I don’t even want a shower for when I’m pregnant); it’s about the baby.

Baby aside, the other issue was that one of the guests was the mother of my high school sweetheart. I dated this boy from age 15-18. We fooled around for another good three years after that. Yes, I was straight for 22 years. I’ve identified as gay for only a decade.

When people come out, many do so having known for years and years and years that they were gay, and if they didn’t, they at least had an idea that something about them was different. Not me. The possibility that I was gay did not even pass through my mind until my early twenties (which is too bad, because I had almost already finished college at that point). I liked boys. A lot. And a lot of them. Some might say I tried really, really hard at being straight. Or some might have called me promiscuous. Either way, I certainly wasn’t gay.

My mental illness was at its worst between the ages of 17 and 21. When I was 22, I started to get a bit better. And by “better” I mean that I was let out of the psych ward where I lived for three years. Shortly after my worst, I fell in love with a girl, and then shortly after that, I started to come out to those in my life.

The unfortunate thing about the succession of these milestones was that many people I knew thought that because I was healthier after I came out of the closet, I must have been depressed because I was questioning my sexuality. That I couldn’t handle my shit because I was a closeted lesbian. That it would all get better now that I knew who I was.

Man, if that’s “all” it was, I would be laughing. (Please note that I am not trying to diminish the pain that goes along with dealing with sexuality issues; I know a lot of people have a very hard time with it.) But I was paranoid and psychotic. I was a cutter and suicidal. I lived in black tar for year after year, with a treatment-resistant illness that should have killed me. So when people suggest I was “just struggling with my sexuality,” I want to smack them upside the head. I feel that it totally disregards the pain of what I went through.

I don’t know when and how my ex-boyfriend’s mom found out about my sexuality, but we certainly have not spoken since. We had a relatively awkward conversation about her son and she told me about his pregnant wife and their 17-month-old baby and his house in the city and his business. As she was speaking, I flashed back to the days where I used to dream about being this guy’s wife and having two of his babies and a house in the city, supporting his business and being blissfully happy. For a split second, I thought of how easy that would be – living the straight person’s dream – and then I realized how miserable I would be (and also recognized that my ex-boyfriend’s life is probably not always that dreamy, and well aware that straight people have their problems too).

I have a wife. We live in an apartment outside of the city. We have decent jobs that keep us afloat and secure. And although this baby-making business is stressful and expensive and trying, I wouldn’t have it any other way. I love my wife and can’t imagine what life would be like without her in it. With the exception of having unlimited access to free sperm, there is nothing about being straight that I long for, or miss.

When she was done talking about her son, my ex-boyfriend’s mother turned to me and asked, “So how are you?”

I smiled, and answered genuinely, “I am incredibly happy.”

In The In Between

By: Lex Jacobson

We have moved onto our second-choice donor, who thankfully has become our first choice. I will know in a week whether I’m pregnant or not. I’ve managed to hold onto the vacation vibe, and I’m blissfully nonchalant about the whole thing. So far.

It’s the wonderful moments when I open a beer and suddenly realize that I can’t drink it, or when I almost buy a bridesmaid dress online for my best friend’s wedding that I may not be able to fit in once the time comes. I love this feeling far more than the constant questioning of imaginary symptoms and daydreaming about big bellies and nurseries.

Whether I feel good about my chances, I don’t know. I am a strong believer in positive thinking, but my last negative pregnancy test result made me realize that no matter how much I believe, there is another plan for me.

One of my fellow bloggers/readers from my personal blog started trying to conceive at the exact same time that we started. We actually had our first inseminations just a few days apart. She is in her late 30s and is now entering her second trimester. And yet another blogger friend, who is in her 20s and has just given birth to a beautiful child, did so after three years of trying to conceive. There is no rhyme or reason.

It is going to happen when it is going to happen.

That’s a mantra that I keep having to remind myself of, and it is not an easy one to always believe in. Sometimes the phrase feels condescending and makes me feel a little bit resentful. Angry, sometimes. It can sound like a cop-out. And seriously, what does it actually mean?

Of course it’s going to happen when it is going to happen. When else would it happen?

The English language has always been a love of mine, but it often falls short.

Baby Steps for Grandmothers

By: Lex Jacobson

Devon and I are in Mexico right now, having a splendid two-week vacation in the sun. My parents are here at the same time and although they did help us get here (by donating points from their vacation buy-in, however that works), it is clear to both parties that our respective vacations are very separate. We have spent most days apart, only coming together for a meal here-and-there, which has worked wonders for us. Although my relationship with my parents has become heaps better over the past five years, I still do have my moments of reverting to my 16-year-old self, much to Devon’s (and my) frustration. (Granted, who wouldn’t feel like an overly embarrassed 16-year-old when your cheapskate parents shove all six of the mini jam jars from the restaurant table into their backpack, not really caring that the waiter is directly behind them? Although apparently “it isn’t stealing, because we’re paying for the meal.”)

This morning, we decided to treat them to a champagne brunch, as a thank you for their generosity this year. As we were eating, Mum started to talk about how blessed they both felt to have six healthy grandchildren that they are young and spry enough to run after. She drew a comparison to her friend, who is in her mid-seventies, about ten years older than my parents. This friend’s 39-year-old daughter has recently had a very sick child with Down’s syndrome plus a heart condition plus bladder complications plus severe reflux, to name a few things.

Mum went on about how “old” mothers do often suffer with unhealthy children or difficult births. And then she continued on to how she can’t imagine people in their forties starting families, because they essentially won’t be around to see their grandchildren. Mum makes it clear that she is glad I’m doing this at my age (32 in a few months). I flash a look to Devon, who is sitting on my right, and try to give her a sympathetic smile. Shortly afterwards, Devon leaves for the bathroom. I make sure to use this as an opportunity.

“Mum,” I say sheepishly, “please mind what you say about ‘old’ mothers when Devon is around… she’s feeling particularly vulnerable about this situation, considering our circumstances.”

Mum looks at me as though my words don’t make sense and I have to remind her that my very young-looking wife is turning 40 this year. That Devon’s mother had her at age 38 and that she was dead by the time Devon was 25. That her father was 52 when Devon was born and was gone even before her mom was.

My mum’s answer? “Well, I think of Devon as the dad… so it doesn’t really matter how old she is.”

The fact that it came from such a well-intentioned place made it a little less of a bitch slap, but I did have to bite my tongue.

I couldn’t even make it into an educational moment; I just kind of sat their blankly, relieved when Devon came back and the conversation was swept under the table.

I really can’t imagine how my parents would feel if the tables were turned and Devon was the bio mom and I was in the “dad” role. I wonder whether they would have the same excitement that they do with the potential that I will be pregnant very soon. Probably not. Because apparently the “dad” doesn’t have much to do with the pregnancy at all. Yes, the childrearing, but not the pregnancy.

And that is true, in a sense. Technically, I could be doing this part without Devon at all. She doesn’t have the sperm I need, she doesn’t possess anything that can help me get pregnant faster, and she doesn’t even have to be in the same room for the conception of our future child.

But she is the mom. Just as I am the mom. She brings me my prenatal vitamins to make sure I don’t forget them every day. She puts up with me talking about the state of my cervical mucous. She doesn’t even get mad at me for the damn thermometer beeping at 4 am as I’m taking my temperature. She checks in with me to see how my mood has been with the changes in medications getting ready for this pregnancy. She spends just as many hours as I do obsessing over the characteristics of our donor. She holds my hand and looks at me with this indescribable look that distracts me from the discomfort of the syringe entering into my uterus during the inseminations. She holds me afterwards as we both stare at each other with a sense of excitement that this one could be the one. She dreams of becoming a mom just as I dream of becoming a mom. We are in this together. And I am so lucky.

Maybe one day, I will explain this to my mother. But there are baby steps to be had, and through this whole process, I do give my mother a lot of credit for the steps that she has made.

As we walked out of the restaurant, my mother points to a family portrait on the wall next to a photo booth. “Your father and I bought three canvases to print photos of each of our children’s families to put up in our home, but we can’t do it yet. We are waiting for your family to become complete.”

She was looking at both of us when she said it.

Baby steps.

Next Page »