The next morning, after having calmed down in the comfort of my husbands enormous yet gentle arms, I called the doctor to schedule an appointment. In one nervous breath I answered the question And what do you need to be seen for?
“Well, first, I’m pretty sure I’m pregnant so I’d just like a confirmation of that, and second, I haven’t changed a thing about my lifestyle except, well, I did just get married, I guess that’s something, but anyway the point is, in May? I wore size 10 jeans and today? I wear size 18 jeans and I swear I haven’t been eating like a cow, I swear it! So maybe it’s the pregnancy, or maybe there’s something wrong with me. And that’s what I need to be seen for.”
“Mmmmmkay,” she said, “we have an opening at 3:00pm.”
Steve and I walked into the doctor’s office, hand in hand, hearts racing, completely ignorant to what was ahead of us. The doctor took a pregnancy test. It came back negative. But the phenomenal weight gain and other strange symptoms begged him to take a closer look. An MRI showed a small tumor on my pituitary gland, which caused a repeating cycle of freakiness in my body. In short, wigged out hormones caused hundreds of ovarian cysts, which caused the jacking up of different hormones, which caused mega insulin spikes, which caused me to gain weight like a diabetic on a carbo-licious diet.
Blah, blah, blah, fast forward four years and many boring medical quandaries later to 2006, when Steve and I really started wanting a family. We went to a few fertility doctors and at the end of a 2-3 month series of tests, we were candidly informed of our grim situation: we had a small chance of pregnancy with in-vitro fertilization, but even then, I wouldn’t be able to carry a baby for any longer than 20 weeks.
Surprisingly, we both left that particular appointment with the same prevailing feeling of … peace. And I was shocked to discover immense relief within myself! I was somehow able to feel thankfulness in that moment, perhaps because I felt some conclusiveness. Instead of having a reason to hold on to a single thread of hope for what could be years and years of trying to get pregnant, I felt overwhelming closure.
We immediately opened our hearts to the idea of adoption. Steve is a stage 2 testicular cancer survivor, so we knew from the beginning that adoption could be in our future. We chose an adoption agency and picked up the application paperwork. It sat on our kitchen table for months, glaring up at us every time we sat down to dinner. We knew we wanted this, we knew we were ready, but I just wanted to be absolutely sure I wasn’t emotionally hurting about my infertility. That wouldn’t be fair to my child, as it would surely affect my parenting an adopted child. I didn’t want one single reservation. And I hadn’t felt any yet! I didn’t feel any amount pain. I spent an entire year waiting for the pain to come. I thought maybe it was dormant and would eventually surface, at which point I could have a few cleansing weeks of emotional torment, and then I’d know I was fine. I’d know it was time. But all I felt that entire year was excitement to meet our future adopted child.
In early 2007, we dusted off the application papers and filled them out. We dropped them off at the agency and had an interview with a social worker. Two days later we took off on a 7 night Caribbean cruise and ohhh, boy it was divine and spectacular and fabulous. And way too short. And even two whole weeks after we returned, I found myself dreaming of sunshine and sandy beaches at the office. During one particularly poignant daydream on a Tuesday afternoon, my cell phone startled me back to reality:
“Hello?”
“Hi McKenna, it’s Teresa from the adoption center.”
“Oh hey, how’s it going? Did my background check come back clean? Hehe”
“Uh. Ha! Yes, actually, but that’s not why I’m calling. A little boy was born this morning. He was supposed to go to another family, but… that didn’t work out. The reason I’m calling is just to ask you if we can present your profile to the birth mom, Ashley, for consideration.”
All I could say was a pensive, “Oh.”
“I’m really, really sorry to do this to you. I know it puts you on the spot in a major way, but I need an answer within an hour or so.”
She told me several details about this little boy. 8 lbs 4 oz. 20 inches long. Native American. Perfectly healthy. Tons of dark hair. I took copious notes on a fluorescent orange sticky note, and told her I’d call her back.
I ran to my car, and started driving home. I called Steve to tell him the news. He thought his phone was breaking up because all I could utter was, “Hi. Um?” and then I interrupted myself to shake with silent sobs for 10 seconds before I could spit out, “Teresa called,” and then more silent sobs. After a couple rounds of this, Steve knew exactly what was going on, and he met me at our house 10 minutes later.
I told Steve I didn’t think this boy was supposed to be ours because the timing wasn’t right at all. We had just turned in our paper work two weeks earlier! He asked me to list my reasons and all I could come up with was:
1. We haven’t finished painting the kitchen.
2. Our basement isn’t finished.
3. What will I do about my work schedule? You can’t just take maternity leave on 5 minutes notice!
As soon as I finished with the list, all the bawling-induced snot in my head shifted just enough to relieve pressure from the part of my brain that keeps me from being a COMPLETE IDIOT, and we called Teresa to tell her that yes, she could show our profile to Ashley.
Several hours later, she called us back.
“Ashley would like to meet you if you’d feel comfortable coming to the hospital right now.”
…. to be continued.
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