PlanetGordon.com

Sign of the Times

L made it to the doctor's today and is on her way to Boston. She did report that there is now a sign in the waiting room that reads:

"Due to the sensitive nature of our practice, please make child care arrangements prior to your appointments."

I guess I can be grateful for small things.

Not Normal

Adding to my frustration this week, L is in Israel. She's in no danger, as the violence is confined to Gaza. Being in Israel while these types of things are happening is akin to flying the day after a terrible plane crash: it's safer than ever because everyone is on high alert. (ed. note: Unless you're a Palestinian.) Combine that with my work schedule, which has had me in Moscow and Amsterdam for the first half of the month and Boston right now, and we've seen each other for a grand total of two and a half days in December. So I was really looking forward to her arrival back in the states on Wednesday and her subsequent journey north to join me in Boston for New Year's Eve.

Except now that won't likely happen, at least not as we originally planned. L got her period yesterday, which should be a good thing since it should mean that we can start our next IVF round. Except she called today and told me that it was not normal. Now, in a regular marriage, the husband could just pretend like he was listening and go back to checking his email as he held the phone to his shoulder with his chin. But in our situation our entire future together as parents hangs on every cramp -- Is it live or is it menses? -- and every drop of blood. And so this time I had to ask what "not normal" meant because I actually wanted to know.

"Normally when mine starts, it starts," she said. (In the 30 Rock version of this story we'd cut away to see our heroine flying around the room like an out-of-control fire hose.) L went on to describe that hers was more like a light spotting, which could mean anything from a big problem to her being pregnant. Either way, it means she has to get to the doctor's as soon as she's back for blood work to determine our next steps. She's on metformin, which she either has to stop taking immediately if she's pregnant or continue taking indefinitely in order to hopefully get pregnant. (She's spoken to the doctor's office and was told that waiting until Wednesday is fine, but still there's that feeling I get of damned if we do, damned if we don't.)

So now, instead of flying back to JFK at 6 AM on Wednesday and catching a flight up to Boston, she'll have to land, go through immigration and customs, and head straight to the doctor's office in midtown Manhattan. If she's lucky, she'll have time to make it back to JFK to make her flight to Logan to spend a jet-lagged New Year's with me. And that doesn't even factor in the emotional exhaustion she'll feel depending on the news from the doctor. I'll likely set my alarm to wake when she lands and will spend the morning and afternoon on the phone and online, tracking L's movement like she's Jason Bourne.

This, of course, is only adding to my frustration. It's not the distance and time that we spend apart, although that's hard enough. It's not even the thought that L will have to do this by herself, again, because of my work schedule. Really. It's not any one part of it. It's all of it. Does it have to be any more difficult, any more expensive, any more tenuous, any more emotionally exhausting for us? Can't we just enjoy New Year's and fall asleep at eleven o'clock like most married people?

If you had sex and got pregnant, you don't know how lucky you are.

Stupid Things That People Have Said to Us

To anyone who says, "It'll happen for you guys," fuck you. Look us in the eyes if -- dare I say when -- it doesn't.

To anyone who says, "I can't live in a world where you two aren't parents," fuck you. Let me know when you plan to kill yourself.

To anyone who says, "I'm praying for you," fuck you and your god. If you believe in a magical, imaginary sky-man who answered your prayers and favored you with your own children, fuck you. Seriously. Fuck you. Your religion isn't worth the spit that your god-favored child pukes onto your shoulder.

To anyone who says privately or to a partner, "There but for the grace of god go I," fuck you. And your god? I repeat: fuck him. Is that offensive? How's this? Fuck Him. We are not an example put before you by god to make you appreciate what you have.

To anyone who says, "You deserve to be parents," fuck you. Ride the subway for ten minutes and ask yourself if the people who hit their kids or who tell a four-year-old to "shut the fuck up" deserve to be be parents. Deserve's got nothing to do with it. Please tell me what you did to deserve your kid so I can start doing it. And if you have two kids, don't forget to give me your name and address so I can contact the Vatican to let them know what a fucking saint you must be to have deserved such exalted status.

To anyone who asks, "Have you thought about adoption?" fuck you. Especially if you have your own kid. Knowing what you know now would adoption be your first choice? And to anyone who reminds us of all the needy kids out there, seriously, go fuck yourself. I don't see you hanging out with Mia Farrow, asshole.

To anyone who complains about their children crying too much, not sleeping enough, using too many diapers, spitting up too much, stop your fucking complaining. It's called being a parent.

To the people who bring their children to the fertility doctor's office, fuck you. Big time. You're spending tens of thousands of dollars on a medical procedure and you don't have $20 and soda in the fridge for a baby sitter? Fuck you. Be thankful that you got at least one, and leave that one at home if you don't mind. Oh, and to a fucking infertility clinic that doesn't politely suggest that, maybe, just maybe, its patients not bring their existing children to the waiting room, fuck you, too. And lest I forget: to the guy who left the doctor's office beaming about his child-to-be, fuck you. How about this for an idea? Why don't you go to the oncology ward and yell, "I'm cancer-free!" Asshole.

To anyone who complains about how expensive it is to raise a child, fuck you. We'll spend ten times the cost of your stupid Bugaboo for a minute chance of success. The next time you complain about the cost of diapers, daycare, or doctor's visits, why don't you take twenty thousand dollars in cash and light it on fire? Because that's where we'll be if we keep going and we won't even necessarily have a kid to buy diapers for when it's over. (IVF doesn't come with a money-back guarantee.) You two fucked one night and got a kid for free. My wife injects her ass with horse steroids every fucking night, and gets poked and prodded by doctors and nurses twice a week all for the great privilege of possibly having a miscarriage again. Our remaining frozen embryos might not even survive being thawed, or so one of fifteen legal documents I had to sign told me. Sexy, no? Seriously, fuck you.

But, to anyone knows that they don't know what to say and says exactly that, thank you.