I cracked my window to let in the crisp October air.  Puddles parted as we sped over them, the water kicking up and turning in the tire wells.  Leaves in vibrant colors lined the streets and the thick, full trees danced and undressed further at the wind’s request.  I was bunkered down, sitting low in the bucket seat of Larry’s sports car.  Legs crossed, hands tucked in prayer position between my thighs to keep them warm.  I sat motionless, gazing out the window, watching as the blue sky faded to black.  I drew in a deep breath.

At each intersection I looked for drivers that I thought were similar to me- a young woman, a grad student perhaps, a sister, a daughter, someone who looked in some way familiar.  When I found one I tried to imagine what was going on in her life.  What was she thinking about?  What was her plan?  Where was she going?

Larry broke the silence.  “Let’s get married,” he spoke softly.

My heart warmed and a tiny smile sprouted deep within me.  I buried it.  I bit my bottom lip to keep from speaking prematurely as I didn’t have the words to tell him that marriage was not the only solution, there were others.

************************************

The Infertility Support Group Meeting started at 6.  According to the flyer the meeting would be held in the same building that housed the Infertility Clinic.  It was scheduled to last 3 hours.

I was looking forward to the meeting, as it presented an opportunity to network with women sidelined with the same issue as me, infertility.

I arrived early.  Rather than use the elevator I decided to climb the open stairway to the fourth floor.  Once there I roamed up and down the long hallway.  Flyers pinned to corkboards outside of closed office doors announced office hours, class enrollment and clinical support.  I read them all.  Satisfied there was nothing left to find, I took a seat on the cold floor, stretched out my legs, and began reviewing missed calls and voicemail on my work cell phone.  As it approached 6 o’clock more women began to arrive and as they did I checked each of them out.  I was eager to finally put a face to this condition.  What do infertile women look like?  Was there some revealing characteristic that we all had in common, too tall, too skinny, stringy hair, crooked teeth, what was it?

A woman arrived carrying a clipboard and set of keys she used to open meeting room 401.  She herded the group together and asked that we file in behind her.  We claimed seats around tables that had been arranged in a large pod.   As we sat quietly facing one another I began to scan the room.  I was looking for someone familiar, I was looking for me.  The support group leader introduced herself as Penny, a nurse at Stanford who had a strong interest in helping women through the process of infertility.   Penny was taller than average with short, light brown hair.  She was lean, with strong shoulders and arms.  I wondered what she did to keep fit, running, yoga, swimming perhaps.

Penny started, “We do have some new woman joining us this evening.  So I would like us to start with introductions.  Why don’t you each introduce yourself and then offer a brief history of your individual infertility journey?  Flora lets start with you.”

“Hi, my name is Flora,” she said and began to cry.  The woman seated next to her handed her a box of Kleenex.  Tears left streaks of cleanliness behind as they rolled down her perfectly made up face. Every strand of her jet-black hair was in its proper place.  She was petite and perfect.  “My husband and I have been trying to get pregnant for 10 years.  I am 44 and the doctor says I don’t have many eggs left.  My FSH is elevated and my blood work isn’t great.  I have had 5 IVF cycles thus far and we’re starting another in the summer.  My husband is not open to adoption so this next cycle is my last hope.”  She cried harder.

My heart broke for Flora.  She was a beaten woman.  For a moment I felt I was attending a funeral for Flora’s dream of motherhood.  I would support Flora as she traveled this last road to nowhere but I doubted that Flora could support me in my journey.  She had nothing left to give.

How could I avoid becoming Flora?  What was my plan?  I knew I would be a mother as sure as I knew that the sun would rise again the next morning, I knew the name “mama” was in my future.

Maybe Flora at one time believed in motherhood the way I did, but somewhere along the way her hope died.  Disappointment after disappointment eventually exhausted her.  I knew the importance of never letting that happen- never letting hope die.  My plan was to keep my mind open to all options.  Visualize what it was that I was asking for and then wait patiently.  As one option no longer appeared viable, I accepted it, mourned it and moved on.  I stayed true to my plan and in time I became a mother through adoption and then again via a natural pregnancy.

If I were gone tomorrow I would want my past to reveal to others that I believed in the power of hope.

************

Although my actions are at times inexcusable, the worst of me lives in my intentions.

It was late.  I had to move quickly.  I spotted a group of juniper shrubs on the side yard.  From there I would have a clean shot of the front door and I could not be flanked unexpectedly.  Satisfied, I took up the position.  Lying on my belly, the ground was cold and moist beneath me.  I rested my face gently on the dirt and waited.  I quietly shivered and occasionally laughed.  My short black dress and strappy heels were not made for this mission.

My ex-boyfriend would soon be alone in the house.  He had ended our relationship the year prior and easily moved on to a new one; I however was still playing the game.  From beneath the juniper I held no cards but soon I knew that would change.  I had a few chips and I wanted to be dealt back in.  In this three-person game of poker I wanted the power to play the best hand at any moment and take all the winnings.  I wanted to bring down the house.

The front door opened and the last visitor, Josh, said his good-byes and left.  If he spotted me the game was over.  I would lose.  As he came down the driveway I made an absurd attempt to disappear.  I closed my eyes pretending that if I did not see him he could not see me.  It worked.  He passed, climbed into his truck and drove down the street, around the corner and into the night.

A devious smile spread across my face.  Like a hunter stalking her prey I moved in.  I climbed the steps to the front door and knocked softly.  I heard footsteps.  My heart pounded.  The door crept open.  As he came into view I could already see that his devious smile was wider than mine.  He gently shook his head from left to right and then motioned for me to join him inside.  Game-on.  I had anted up and he dealt me back in.  Soon I would hold all the cards.

*************

Thick cut bacon dances on the griddle; its sizzling delight fills the house.  The smell moves down the hallway, slides under the floor crack of my closed bedroom door and into my cave.  I am awake.  The first rays of spring breach the window blinds and from beneath the tattered threads of my blanket I estimate two hours until game time.  It’s Sunday.  I am up.

The walls are papered with sports posters, newspaper clippings and certificates of physical greatness with one exception- the Goddess herself, Heather Locklear, in a pink string bikini positioned front and center.   Dirty ball gear is piled in the corner behind the door purposefully out of view and thus not a chore.  I crack the door to let in more bacon and hopefully not attract any attention as I am not ready for another round of arguing.  Too late.  They’re up and at it first thing this morning.

“He can miss one game Larry.  It’s her First Communion for God’s sake.”

“We’re playing the Astros.  Both teams are undefeated and he’s our starting pitcher.  He has to play.”

“What about you, are you planning to throw on a uniform and run your fat ass on to the field?  What’s your excuse?”

“Okay! We’ll drop him off at the field, drive over to the church and then drive back to the game.  We’ll make it.  What time does this damn thing start again?”

Enough bacon.  I close the door, turn on Sportscenter and return to my cave.  One hour 58 minutes until game time.

********************

Standing at the edge of the concrete slab that separates our house from the dry grass beyond, my chubby feet are frozen.  My eyes move swiftly as I scan the open space before me.  It is stale, not neglected but not inviting.  Little grows here.  The wooden fences that help define the space are old and splintered and to my toddler eyes they appear unreachable and dangerous.  My journey to the edge has already tested my personal sense of security and courage and I consider retreating.

Distant noise from a busy intersection is silenced as I refocus on the sound of heavy panting and the jingling of metal on metal approaching me.

I sit and lean back against a silver pole that supports a useless tin patio cover.  After some time, the dog joins me.  He circles to find the right spot and then collapses down next to me.  His sleek, Doberman physique reveals a strong, developed chest. It is big. For a moment I am taken by its rhythmic rise and fall, so steady and peaceful. I reach for it.  His coat is smooth and comforting.  Just then I hear the glass door behind me sliding across its track and like clockwork my mama pokes her head out from inside the tiny house. The look on her face is familiar it tells me that my time is short. I have to think of a way to the fence quickly. In an instant she vanishes. I spy a heavy steel chain connected to the pole. It is secured with a thick padlock. I have an idea. Carefully placing each link, I begin to wrap us in the chain.  When I am satisfied that we are secure we take off. I shut my eyes and begin piloting our tiny plane towards the fence.

September 1996: “I am leaving you.  I am sorry that I waited to tell you but I am getting on a plane tonight and flying to Miami to be with another woman.  We have been dating since last March.” – Ex-Boyfriend #1

September 1998: “We appreciate your interest in returning to law school.  Unfortunately you received a D in Property Law, a core class here at the University and therefore you are not eligible to return.  Given that the new school year has begun, your tuition will be reimbursed minus a small processing fee.”- Dean of Law School

September 1999: “By the level of hormone in your blood I estimate you are 3 weeks pregnant…and by your tears I assume this is unexpected.  I am sorry.”- Doctor

September 2000: “I am leaving you.  You and I are different people.  You are going to hear so I am going to tell you…you know her.  I love her.  We are going to get married next fall.”- Ex-Boyfriend #2

September 2001: “With the financial markets in turmoil, your future here is uncertain.  You may want to consider other employment.”- Ex-Boss

September 2002: “You’re hired.  Congratulations! We are thrilled to have you join our team.”- Current Employer

September 2005: “We choose you and your husband to raise our unborn baby girl.  We choose you!  Congratulations!”- Belle’s Birthparents

September 2006: “Honey, we need to talk, I am in trouble.  I am leaving the firm.  I want to become a school teacher.”- Husband

September 2007: “What?  It cannot be…it is positive.  I am pregnant.”- Me

September 2009:

My soul certainly spoke in all three languages today beginning early this morning with crying.  I regularly begin each day by taking time to celebrate the sunrise.  That moment, the moment the sun breaks the horizon marking the beginning of a new day, it’s powerful. My belief in the power of possibility is renewed.  Belle woke early this morning and joined me in the backyard.
“Mama can I sit with you?”
“Absolutely love.”
“Mama the sky is pink, blue, white and a little yellow.  It’s a sunset.”
“It’s a sunrise honey, the sun is rising in the sky.”
“I see it mama.  I see the sun rising!  Mama, the sun does not rise in my room.”
“You’re right honey, the sun sets outside of your bedroom window.  The sun rises in the east and sets in the west.  This way is east and straight behind us is west.  Do you understand?”
“Yes mama.  Now I always know where my bedroom is.  It’s where the sun sets.”
“That’s right honey. “
Belle jumped down and went inside.  I was alone again.  The tears began to flow as my love for her was overwhelming and my soul began to speak, “Baby girl, as you grow take time to witness the sunrise.  Observe the moment, breath deeply, give thanks, center yourself on the present and go forward into the day with confidence knowing that your mama loves you and that you can always find your way home.”

The language of laughter was heard less often today than usual but it was spoken.  I took a break from the madness of the day to call my college roommate who also happens to be godmother to my youngest daughter, baby Grace.  I can always count on her to inject levity into my day.  We started the conversation by bragging about the recent accomplishments of our baby girls.
“Baby Grace picked up a spoon yesterday and fed herself apple sauce.”
“Wow.  She’s always been really good with her fingers.  She’s been picking up the tiniest objects since she’s was 6 months old.  Maybe she’ll grow up and become a surgeon.”
“Right a surgeon… and if that doesn’t work out she can always become a puppeteer…”
We burst into laughter and my soul began to speak.  “Thank you, thank you friend for bringing some sanity into an otherwise absurd day.  I love you and appreciate your words of support.”

Sighing was heard with much regularity today.  I sighed to express frustration at a process that goes in circles rather than moving forward.  I sighed to signal surrender to a battle that would not be won.  I sighed to express relief when it was over.  I sighed when baby Grace finally went to sleep.  I sigh now and my soul speaks.  “I am content…and tired.”

In 2007 shortly after Belle turned 1 I visited this place.  I set out on this journey with a plan, show no fear, keep my head down and just keep going.  I would push through it- whatever “it” was- to the other side.  No problem. I was confident, overly so, in my ability to get there and back unharmed.   I felt good.

Risk continued to increase with each step of the journey and I could feel my anxiety growing.  I remember vividly the moment when doubt entered my mind.  Should I do this?  No. I can’t do this. I fought with fear.

Don’t go there.  It’s dangerous and unstable.  Feelings of disappointment, anger and shame live there.  Go back. No, no, you can do this.  You are the strong woman you believe you are.  Just believe you can can do it and it’s done.  Keep your eyes closed if you must, just get there and back.

With less confidence, but still moving forward, I continued on.

When I finally arrived I stayed in this place for only a short time.  Belle entered my mind briefly and I gave thanks for her and my husband.  But the feelings that fought their way to the surface and insisted on being heard were those of sadness and disappointment in myself.  My refusal to acknowledge the words that have gone unspoken for years between me and others in my life, namely my brother, stared me squarely in the face. Why?  With risk at an all time high, I understood that if this were it, if I took my last breath here in this place I would leave unfinished and incomplete.  I carefully backed myself out of this place and physically struggled to get home.

Today, two years later, my unfinished business continues to haunt me as I have not yet spoken all the words I need to speak.

Brother,

I never meant to cause you trouble
I never meant to do you wrong
I, well if I ever caused you trouble
Know that I never meant to do you harm

Love always,
Your sister

Nope.  Shoot.  Is this meeting painful for anyone else?  It must be so obvious that I’m dying over here.

How about you, woman sitting next to me, come on, I’m looking at you.  Put down that iced mocha, good, can you hear me?

Nope.  Didn’t think so. What time is it?  Ten minutes…okay, ten minutes I can think about a lot of stuff in 10 minutes…

Think,…okay…a radio…a radio that transmits thoughts.  A mental transmitter/receiver of sorts that allows me to broadcast and receive thoughts over the airwaves.  Cool.  “This is 101.3 where my thoughts are broadcast live and unedited.  You’re my first caller, who am I speaking with?” Fantastic!

How much time left?  Eight minutes…okay, eight minutes…Come on guy across the table, can you hear me?  Ooh, eye contact, maybe you can hear me!  Try again.  Guy across the table, can you hear me?   Yes, eye contact again, communicate guy, can you hear me?

Shoot!  Nothing.

Where is everybody?  Why am I the only one thinking in this room?

Alright, I’ll sing a song…
La, la, la, …

Wait I’m wrong
Should have done better than this
Please I’ll be strong
I’m finding it hard to resist
Show me what I’m looking for
Show me what I’m looking for…

Great song.  I love that song.  What are they singing about anyhow, drugs, love, a new career…who knows.

Is it over?  What time is it? Five minutes…five more…

Someday someone in the room will be listening and offer a response without ever speaking a word.  Crazy?  Yes, I know, but I believe in the power of possibility.

It’s an art, listening, it takes skill.  I am blessed that in my lifetime I have known a handful of gifted listeners, none of whom can read my mind, but gifted none-the-less.  Communicating with a listener is hard work but in the end it is rewarding.  They push you to choose every word carefully.  Say what you mean because they will challenge you- not in an effort to prove you wrong but rather to understand exactly what it is you are saying.  Nothing is off limits as they pose one probing question after another.  Great listeners hear not only the words being spoken but those that go unsaid as well.  They are constantly collecting data, taking note of body language, facial expression, energy in the room, etc. and as their understanding of you grows they become even better at their art form.  Beware of a listener that you are not willing to reveal your truth to.  Over time they will expose it.  Great listeners keep you honest.

“Alright, I appreciate everyone’s attendance and thoughts on the subject…”
Especially you Belle’s mom…
“…and with that meeting adjourned.”

When Belle first came home with us there was a level of uncertainty among our extended family.  My husband might disagree but I felt it.  It was there.  It was not overt but it existed.  I knew they wanted to talk openly about Belle’s status but did not have the words to express themselves.  Adoption terminology was new to them, birth mother, first mother, adoptive mother, mom- they clearly didn’t know who to call what and when.  They had questions and understandably so.  Was she legally our child?  Could her birth mother return for her unannounced?  When will the adoption be finalized? How will you explain to her that she’s adopted?  What they were really asking however was slightly different.  When can we start loving her? Am I really her grandmother?  Is there anything to worry about with the biological mother, will she cause us any problems?  What do you want us to say when she asks us about adoption? Like most of the population they had all enjoyed one too many Lifetime Specials and now had an irrational level of fear.  Okay, maybe it was not a phobia, but it was close.

It was my mother who finally broached the subject the winter after Belle’s arrival.

“When do you plan to talk to the baby about the fact that she’s adopted?”
“It is something she’ll know her whole life mom.”
“So you’ll talk to her about it even before she can truly understand what it means to be adopted.”
“Yes, that’s the plan.”

I knew logically that speaking to Belle about adoption from the beginning was the right answer; however, at the time I had not read any books on the subject and thus could not reference a study from the Journal of Child Psychology on the proper way to raise an adoptive child.  My solution, relate it to something I’ve experienced in my lifetime.  An imperfect solution, yes, but it was all I had.

“Mom, I grew up with a dad who lost his leg in Vietnam and wore a prosthetic device everyday of my life.”
“Yes you did.”
“As a child growing up in this family that’s all I knew.  I thought all dads took their leg off at the end of the day to go to sleep and in the morning put it back on to go to work.  It wasn’t until much later that I understood that not all dads wore a prosthetic leg.  I believe the concept is similar.  I want Belle to learn about adoption in a safe, loving environment first and as she grows and faces the challenges the world puts upon her she can always return to the truth she knew growing up.”
“I understand that.”
“It’s her story mom.  It’s who she is.”