Cancer Ever After

Musings on Infertility, Adoption, Parenthood and Cancer

Questions

There are two questions I’ve been asked recently that threw me for a loop.  The first, had me actually doubling over in a fit of laughter, as I attempted to answer.

“You do know what causes that don’t you?”

This question accompanied a gesture toward my three very rambunctious children.  I was tempted to show the scars on my arms from the numerous shots and bloodwork that accompanied each attempt to have a child.  This scar tissue presents a problem in accessing my veins these days.

There are also the scars that don’t show.  The losses, the cumulative effect of three pregnancies in three years.  The fear of being able to carry to term, the worry that our adoption would fall through.  The sadness over not having a “normal” pregnancy. Grief at not having a “normal” birth experience.

I was tempted to show my latest budget as we continue to pay the bills that brought us these three wonders.  My retirement is decimated, we refinanced the car.

Instead, I doubled over in laughter, shook my head and said, “You have no idea what causes this.”  The gentleman looked at my strangely and walked off.

These days, I don’t have the time or energy to educate on infertility, which I would have done in the past.  My life is too blissfully full. I just love that you can’t tell when you look at our family all that came before. We look fertile. We look blissfully normal.

Which leads me to the other question.

Is he yours?

So far, I’ve only been asked this once and I thought I was prepared for when the day would come.  Because we fundraised for our adoption, pretty much everyone we interact with knows our son is adopted.  I don’t mention it to strangers, because it doesn’t matter. He is my son, and saying adopted son feels like a qualifier.  It will be part of his story and he will have his own thoughts on the matter as he grows, but I will not introduce him as adopted.

I have, through the course of work, met a couple people who mentioned they had adopted and then I’ll share, but it’s personal and it’s at my discretion.

My son doesn’t look like me.  I have blue eyes, the palest skin you’ll ever see, and surprisingly, still have some hair.  It’s blondish-brown. He has a warm, olive complexion, and the cutest brown curly hair you’ve ever seen with dancing brown eyes.

I’m sure this is what spurred the question.  But there are so many better ways to ask.  “How old is your son?” (and then let me correct).”What’s your son’s name?” Assume he is and let me say otherwise.

There is a final question, I get these days as it’s becoming more apparent that I am sick. “How do you do it all?” There is no magic to it.  I just take it one day at a time.

Advertisements
Leave a comment »

Death by Dresser

We splurged and got a dresser for Baby H, and now we are being punished.

Thanks to a sale and some coupons, we were able to get a dresser for a steal from The Store That Will Not Be Named. We were so proud when we made the initial purchase. I’ve been scouring websites for over a month looking for the deal of the century. We have a white crib and need a white dresser. Brand didn’t matter and we were reasonable about looks; it was really all about functionality.

Baby H’s room is actually pretty big, but it’s awkward. There are several funky walls due to structual items and the closet is the size of a thimble. This makes a dresser key. And we fully expect this kiddo to wake up a million times a night like our other ones, so we’ll kill two birds with one stone and throw a changing pad on the dresser. Seems simple enough, right?

This is where the death part comes in.

After calling and confirming the store had the dresser we wanted in stock and would honor our coupon, we took the seats out of our super-sexy mini-van. I drove to the store, filled out all of the paperwork to get the special hutch to go with it (another coupon worked–yeah!) and then waited for them to load the dresser.

And here’s where it starts to get tricky.

Toddlers and heavy furniture don’t mix. So we dutifully unloaded the dresser in the dark of the night and left it in our walk-in basement. It took us another week to find the time and energy to attempt to move it up two flights of stairs (tri-level house–damn you, Kansas City-split!). We huffed, we puffed and we proudly got the world’s heaviest dresser into the baby’s room with minimal cussing and without waking the kiddos.

And then we started to unbox our white dresser. Except it wasn’t white. It was ESPRESSO! After two days of calling and dealing with The Store That Will Not Be Named, we finally confirmed they had a white dresser in stock. They would not, however, send someone to change them out. We had to carry the world’s heaviest dresser back down two flights of stairs. Grrrr.

So carry we did. And then trek back to the store to load ANOTHER dresser. We were wiser, and the store opened this box to confirm it was white. This time, we had an evening blocked out to move the dresser up the stairs. We unloaded it and started to move it up the first flight of stairs, when I felt a “Pop!” in my lower back and pain began to blossom. I dropped my end of the dresser.The dresser went crashing down the stairs toward my husband. Luckily, my husband was able to withstand the weight. He stood the dresser up and rushed to help me move.

I threw out my back! The pain was excruciating. And the worse part was, the dresser is STILL in the basement. We still have two flights of stairs to go. It’s enough to make me want to cry.

This dresser will be the death of me.

Want to support our adoption? Help share our story, or consider making a donation to our youcaring page.

 Baby H will be home soon!

5 Comments »