Home is wherever I'm with you

Some of you might have seen the (very cute, in my opinion) picture I posted a few weeks ago, announcing my pregnancy by means of my cat in a bow tie.

This is not that picture.

You see, if I had seen that first picture a year ago, by a friend excitedly sharing that she was going to be a mom, I would have been heartbroken.

This picture explains why. 

Disclaimer #1: Pretty intimate details of my life follow. If you’re not interested, feel free to stop reading!

Disclaimer #2: This post describes my and my husband’s journey. We are happy about the choices we made along the way. All of our story may resonate with you, or some of it, or none at all. I’m not looking to compare narratives here; I’m just asking that you listen generously.

I have Polycystic Ovarian Syndrome (PCOS). It’s a fairly common hormonal imbalance that means my body doesn’t ovulate on its own (which, in case you don’t know, is a pretty important part of getting pregnant). You can read more about it here. I had always known that something about my reproductive system was a bit wonky, and so when my husband and I started thinking about having kids, my OB-GYN recommended a reproductive endocrinologist. He confirmed the PCOS diagnosis, and started us on a course of infertility treatments.

Thus began the hardest year of my life. 

From about September 2015-September 2016, my life was a constant cycle of medications (steroids and hormones to promote follicle growth in my ovaries), early morning blood draws and ultrasounds (to check my hormone levels and follicle growth), injections (to trigger ovulation), and later on, trips to the clinic for IUI (intrauterine insemination–yep, the good ol’ turkey baster). We started every month with such hope, meted out over weeks and weeks of waiting. 

We waited for my follicles to respond to the drugs and grow. 

We waited after the injection of Ovidrel for my ovaries to release an egg and to do IUI.

We waited two agonizing weeks after IUI, which was really more like ten days because I started peeing on a stick at home way too early. And every time, we saw that cursed one pink line, and despite everything, still tried to hold out hope until the phone call after my blood test at the doctor’s sent all our hopes crashing down yet again: I’m so sorry, you’re not pregnant (thanks, lady, I know), this is our plan for next month. We’ll try again and maybe this time it will be different.

(I wrote a thing about waiting last year. You can read it here if you really want a sense of the frustration and hopelessness this entailed.)

It was hard on my body: I gained twenty pounds and my skin was a mess (thanks, hormones!). And it was hard on my soul. I imagine there are ups and downs for anyone trying to get pregnant, but for me, it seemed like we were trying so hard for something we wanted so badly, and every time we turned around there was a pregnancy announcement or a baby shower or a stupid “First Response” commercial on TV.

It was really, really hard. Did I mention that yet?

But of course, this story has a happy ending. Because on our last cycle, the one right before we were going to move to IVF, I saw those miraculous two lines on the home pregnancy test. And, thank G-d, I am still pregnant, and everything looks good so far. And I am so, so, grateful for every single day that passes and I still have this baby growing inside me. I am grateful for every twinge and every ounce I gain and every blessed kick at my ribs.

So what’s the point of me telling you all this? It’s not so you’ll feel sorry for me. Oh my goodness, please don’t feel sorry for me.

First: If you are pregnant and you want to be, be grateful. If you aren’t pregnant and you don’t want to be, also be grateful!

Second: If I have complicated feelings about your past, present, future, or hypothetical pregnancy, forgive me. I’m truly happy for you. I just have lots of other feelings, too.

Third, and most importantly:

This last year was really lonely. Only a couple of people knew what we were going through, and no one I knew had ever gone through anything similar. And I’m sure I could have reached out and found someone, but I was too emotionally exhausted to expend any more resources. So I smiled, and pretended everything was OK, and “liked” all the baby pictures on Facebook. And then I logged off and cried into my beer. Which I could still drink. Because I wasn’t pregnant.

What if things were different? What if the way we talked about this whole process, from conception to birth and every messy step in between, was different? So much is shrouded in privacy and so much pain is covered up in blue and pink bows. So I’m telling you–if you’re going through something like I did, I see you. I hear you. And I’m here for you. And it may be “easy for me to say,” because I’m on the other side of it, and so many people (maybe you’re one of them) have it so much harder. And I can’t promise you everything will be OK.

When I was in high school, I was a total musical theater nerd. My friends and I spent hours belting “Avenue Q” and “RENT” in our beat-up, secondhand cars. We participated enthusiastically in every drama club production our school put on (and even after we graduated, we returned for alumni showcases, which were finally our chance to sing that one role from “Aida” we’d been waiting years for. Or, that was just me.) 

But in college, my obsession tapered off a little bit. I found other interests and never quite got in with the theater clique the way I had in high school. It wasn’t that I stopped enjoying musical theater, it was just that I never found another show that spoke to me quite as strongly as “Sweeney Todd” and “The Last Five Years” had.

UNTIL HAMILTON. I have spent the past few weeks completely and utterly enraptured with Lin-Manuel Miranda’s new musical. Of course, I’m not the only one. The show is sold out months in advance, and it’s sure to sweep the Tony Awards. But for me, it feels like a homecoming. I’m back to listening to the album on repeat, fantasizing about what role I would play, and scheming ways I can afford tickets. The music makes me dance, the storytelling (which I think, really, is the heart of why I--we--love this form of media so deeply) catches my attention and won’t let it go, and I may or may not cry every time I hear “Stay Alive-Reprise” and “Who Lives, Who Dies.” I am smitten.

So what is it about “Hamilton”? Like I said, I am far from the only person to appreciate this show. It’s possible that if I were a normal person (i.e. a non-musical theater nerd), I would still have become obsessed. But I have to wonder if this musical came to me at exactly the right time in my life. I’ve spent over ten years (post-high school drama days) gathering life and music experiences. Would I love the hip-hop of “Hamilton” so much if I hadn’t started listening to Jay-Z? Would I "get” that New York is the “greatest city in the world” if I hadn’t lived there? Would I even have the tiniest glimmer of what the immigrant experience is like if I hadn’t taught kids from the Dominican Republic, Puerto Rico, Mexico, and Bangledesh, trying to do their best in a new country, like Alexander Hamilton did so long ago? At sixteen or seventeen or eighteen, would I have any sense of the depth of grief one feels at losing a spouse or a child? (Not that I do now, thank G-d!)

I hope desperately for a time when I, as a Jew, can walk through the Old City streets without fear of violence.

But more than that, I also hope for a time when Arab Christians and Muslims can walk through any part of Jerusalem without fear of violence.

And a time when teenagers at a Gay Pride Parade can celebrate without fear of violence. 

And when families driving down highways or sleeping in their beds can do so without fear of violence.