Pursuit of Parenthood

Thank you to all my readers who commented on Newman’s passing and shared their own stories of grief over losing a pet. They give us such joy and they inevitably move on, it’s never easy, but what a gift.

Today I was on the phone with my friend on my way to see my fertility doctor. I looked over at the passenger seat and a brown paper bag harboring a sperm sample was safely placed inside my purse, and the words, “I’m driving Jason’s sperm to the Doctor's office” came out of my mouth and it struck me that I should start writing about this journey I am on. Today is the beginning of a series of blogs that I am calling the “Pursuit of Parenthood.”

It has been an 18-month process so far and I have often thought of writing about it and sharing with all you lovely people what I’ve been going through. I think I was in denial that it was going to take this long, and somewhat embarrassed about this predicament. I also thought it might not be the most uplifting subject matter, but that’s where things have changed. I have found some inspiration on this journey, even if it’s just a little bit, and I am hoping that by sharing what’s going on for me, other women and men might feel compelled to talk about it when they are feeling alone, lost and confused.

I have done acupuncture, with three different acupuncturists. I switched so many times because the first two were Chinese and I literally couldn’t understand them. I’ve taken Clomid (the devil’s drug), put my feet into the stirrups for countless ultrasounds, 8 IUI’s, given so much blood that we had to switch veins, needles in my stomach and ass and one failed attempt at IVF whereby my Dr. told me “I made perfect embryos and he was shocked that they didn’t take.” Not as shocked as I was.

In this blog, which I plan on making an entry every other day, I am going to write about the shame, the devastation, the acceptance, the hope, and maybe I might even write one day that I am pregnant, or that we are on our way to Africa to get our baby, either one would be a miracle.

I am going to start with an email I sent out the morning of my first IUI in April, 2008, just to give a little flavor of how things have changed in the last year and a half.

--

April 16, 2008

Hey friends and family,

I woke up this morning at 3:30 am and couldn't fall back to sleep. It seems that the blue light on the computer that likes to turn on and off in Jason's office (by itself) was in rare form like a blue light special at KMART. I had the thought, what if that blue light is a little spirit trying to "come on down you're the next contestant on the Price is right" instead of the adult man who used to live here and likes it so much he doesn't want to leave, that I've made it out to be? I started meditating on that energy for a while. I saw little spirits dancing around in the bedroom letting me know that the time is right for allowing them into our home and hearts.

Finally, I couldn't go back to sleep so I went into the guest room and meditated more and kept seeing little ones everywhere like baby fetuses (not sugar plums) dancing in my head. I logged a couple of more hours and awoke to Jason on a conference with some company in France and realized that we were late for our big Turkey Baster day otherwise known as IUI in Fertility Clinics. We had to be there in 30 minutes or it was a no-go. Rush hour was good to us and we made it.

It's amazing who is the waiting room at these clinics. This morning it was Julia Ormond, looking beautiful as ever and a Kristi Lee Cook look alike, she's a finalist on American Idol, and loads of hot lesbians, with long hair, long coats and not so long nails. I saw them thumbing through a sperm donor book, perusing the pages like a Restoration Hardware clearance catalogue. Then I thought if she can get pregnant with sperm from page 213, then this should be a piece of cake considering I have half the equation sitting next to me answering emails on his blackbery.

Jason did his business in the bathroom and about an hour later they pulled me into the room where Dr. Marrs, (not Dr. Venus) he's a big man from a big ranching town in Texas called Lubbock, looked inside my uterus and saw that I have two follicles not one, that are primed for some implantation this month, which means I could end up with twins this go around!!! HA!!! Wouldn't that be something? He basted my turkey and pushed the button on the bed to tilt my body and lower my head and raise my legs for gravity’s sake, and ten minutes later we were back in the car and moving on with our day. I can't believe how far I/we've come.

I feel nauseous.

I feel nervous.

Who knows what will happen.

I am perfectly happy with the outcome and trust that it is the right one for me.

Thank you all for your happy thoughts and prayers and saints,

Love, andrea

--

And today, 18 months later, I walked into a different doctor’s office for another IUI. I am a little less likely to announce it to friends and family via email. I’ve lost a little hope along the way and the novelty has worn off, but I am reinvigorated with the possibility that this time it has worked.

Note to Self: Desire and preparation are only half of this fertility game – patience and faith is the other.

From my husband, Jason

To all of you over the last few months, days, moments, seconds who have helped to support Andrea and I through Newman's passing.

We are so grateful for our community of family and friends who have been so gracious and kind with thoughts, words, prayers, and care.

Newman defined an era for Andrea and me, 16 years ago I moved to Los Angeles, and immediately met Andrea and a month or so in to the casual dating came Newman, who brought us together, sustained us, filled us with laughter and joy and fun! With our community up in Laurel Canyon, we prospered there for many wonderful years. Newman was central to my love affair with L.A. and my fantastic gift of life with Andrea.

When we moved off the hill from Laurel Canyon to our new home in West Adams, things were not quite the same, the neighborhood dogs were different. The walks were different. The house was big, the floors were slippery. But Newman soon became known through the new urbran hood on his sun-downer walks.

This photo was taken 2 years ago, (after we got settled) it simply brings me peace and comfort, knowing that Newman was ready for anything. Even death. Here in this photo, he looks like he settled into his new home with us, made sure we were okay and was ready for whatever was down the road.


What's next?

May he join the collective that returns us all to great things, butterflies, sunsets, cloud-patterns in the dusk painted sky...wild flowers, cool water, sand. He is with the wind.

And return to touch my heart again in this life or the next.

Thank you my community for holding me up!

Love,
jb

Honor

What I was going to write about was my trip to Denver, CO for a Note to Self book signing at the famous Tattered Cover bookstore, where the beautiful Katie Hnida hosted a book reading/signing and the funny thing that happened when I arrived on Wednesday. And I was going to write about how there are signs all around us that we are on the right path even when we don't feel it, see it or wish it for ourselves.

I was going to tell you how when I walked into the Marriott/Fairfield Inn which was under construction, just off the highway in the suburbs of Denver that my name was written on the white board as "the guest of honor" right next to the free coffee and jolly ranchers, and how I thought it was because I was an author coming to town, but as it turns out I was randomly chosen to win this honoring. I was going to write about what one gets when they are picked as the guest of honor at the Fairfield Inn, next to Denny's, in Highlands Ranch, CO which is an upgrade to a larger room, they didn't have any, and a surprise treat in your room.....which was a lunch size, brown paper bag with two packages of Milano cookies and three Werther original candies and two small waters. And I was going to write about my epiphany of being chosen as the Fairfield Inn Guest of Honor -- in all its wonderful cheesiness and how it made me laugh and to remember to look for the signs, even when it literally is a big white board with red dry erase marker....reminding me that I am honored when I am unable to do it for myself.

That's what I was going to write, but instead I write this through the blur of my tears. My
Siberian Husky, fine, peaceful, noble Newman, who is 15 1/2 and who brought my husband and I together when he was just six months old is on his final days. He cannot walk by himself anymore, his back legs have given out on him. Jason and I bought him a sling last week hoping that would help, and while he can get out the door and smell the bushes, his back paws drag and he cannot stand or get up on his own.

This creature has been a part of our family and we have loved raising him every second of every minute of everyday that he has been in our lives. He has had 11,950 walks and feedings, endless hikes in the snow and had his fair share of eating cheese off the table when we weren't looking. He never learned to sit or listen to us when we called him. He was on Newman time and we learned to adjust. He is after all not a dog, but a siberian husky.

I've never met a creature who was more willful while being completely noble than Newman. His serene, faithful, hopeful outlook on life is one that I have always strived to have. We have grieved over the decision of what to do for weeks now watching his legs decline, but still wanting to eat his meals and go outside. It's been the hardest decision Jason and I have ever been faced with. We've talked for hours and hours, at night before bed, in the morning over coffee and with all of our friends about what to do. We have tried everything in our power to get him back up, but his body isn't cooperating and possibly it's time for his soul to move on.

The other day he had a bad case of diarrhea and we cleaned up after him six times and I saw the "I'm sorry" look on his face, which broke my heart. It was a hard day and we both went to bed completely exhausted and defeated. In my dream, we had made the decision to call our vet to come over and help us help him, and just as she was about to insert the needle, Newman got up ran for miles, I hovered over him watching his ecstasy, he was airborn as he lept in the air and landed in a field of yellow daisies showing me of what he was capable of and reminding me how he wants to live. It was a sign. Not of the Fairfield Inn caliber, but an interpretation of a soul's communication to another soul and I had to listen, as hard as it is.

My belief is that we are not our bodies, and that our souls live on and that animal's souls move on much quicker than ours do. I know Newman has loved every second he's been here and I believe he is ready to move on....that dream was my sign. We must help him move on so that he can be awash with the sun while he runs through that field, tail wagging, smiling from ear to ear. We must HONOR HIM and his life here especially now, when he is unable to do it for himself.

in peace,
andrea

Why I love Maureen Dowd!!

San Francisco.

I am sorry I’ve been absent. In the last three weeks I’ve been driving up and down Texas, traveling California and as I write this I am on a plane to NY. Whew.

Here’s a story that I couldn’t wait to share with you. I was in San Fran last week promoting the book. My dear, generous, beautiful friend Jennifer Seibel Newsom and her husband, Mayor Gavin Newsom (now running for Governor) threw me a beautiful and elegant book party at their home. It was the hottest day in recent memory in the city, reaching close to 100 degrees.

While waiting at the SWA terminal at LAX, Jason, my husband, pointed out that Maureen Dowd, New York Times Op Ed Columnist was sitting on the ground with the rest of humanity waiting to board the plane. She had every newspaper that was fit to print crammed into her big leather bag, loose cash was everywhere in her purse wide open, her hair in a loose bun, jeans tucked into some really kick ass boots and she couldn’t have looked sexier. I am a big fan of hers and while she’s controversial at times, she is always hilarious and says what all of us are thinking but too afraid to say. For that I love her and read her column religiously every Wednesday and Sunday. The column she wrote in honor of her mother still resonates with me and I think of it every Mother’s Day. I felt it was a good omen and I was really impressed to be sharing the same plane with her. I wondered who she would be interviewing in SF. What she was going to write about and for a brief moment, I was jealous that I wasn’t Maureen Dowd. It passed, but I had to acknowledge it.

There are some moments in life that you are led by something greater than you. When you turn off your inner committee that could ultimately talk you out of something and listen to your soul/sole voice, your instinct. They are magic moments and I appreciate everyone that I have. I had lots of voices in side my head saying don’t approach her. Don’t bother her. Don’t be “that girl” But my soul/sole voice said otherwise. It said, “Write her a note. Be short. Be gracious. Be generous with your admiration of her. Invite her to your book party.”

So I did. An hour after arriving into SF I get a call from her assistant saying that she was on a deadline, but she was going to try and swing by the Mayor’s house and attend the soire. It was one of the greatest moments ever when she waltzed through the door. She was in a dress, some wedged high heels and her hair was down and done. Again, beautiful and sexy. She shared a story with me that when she wrote her book she had invited some notable folks to come to parties and while some did, others didn’t and it was always disappointing when they didn’t. She also was very supportive, the fellow female authorship thing and realizing how hard it can be to sell books especially in this climate and that she likes to support writers.

It was a magic moment.

Note to Self: Let the boom of your soul/sole voice drown out the cacophonous chatter of your inner committee. You’ll be surprised at what can happen.

To the right, to the right

I have a dear friend named Rogers Hartmann who has a disorder called Dystonia. She recently went on Oprah and the Today show to talk about her disorder and she blogs about what it's like to live with it.
Please check our her blog. It's full of insight, humor and the stuff that life is made of.

http://www.lifewithdystonia.com/

Monday is the new Sunday

MONDAY IS THE NEW SUNDAY. I thought it was going to be the title of my new book....but a las I shall stick to NOTE TO SELF (for now). But here it is Monday morning and my sweet, old (he's 16) Huskie, Newman is lying in the room in my house usually reserved for breakfast or painting or just clutter. But as you can see it's a luscious, cozy den with flowers!!! I had transformed it for a celebration of a friend's birthday the night before, on Sunday. It is a Monday morning when I took this photo, the day after Sunday, the day after a great party, girls gathering, a circle to celebrate all that is wonderful about being a woman.

"Monday is the new Sunday." It's an idea. A philosophy to adopt. I want to adopt it. I've always hated Mondays. So did Karen Carpenter. And that band who sang the song, Manic Monday. "I wish it was Sunday. Cause that's my fun day. I don't have to run day." I think it might be part of our DNA or a strange encoding from elementary school. It's that idea of 8 hours left in the weekend, that sacred beautiful life before the week begins again. Why does it have to be so weird and full of dread? And here's the kicker...I don't have a day job per se. I don't go to an office where I have to clock in. I don't have to be in rush hour. Actually, I don't really have to set my alarm, although I do for 7:00am everyday. But I still dread Monday morning. Who started this craziness? I often think what if I were Brooke Shields in the Blue Lagoon making bathing suits out of sea weed, sleeping under a bamboo shade structure, fishing with a spear and a piece of bamboo, (maybe I need more bamboo in my life) and hanging out with that beautiful blonde guy....would I give a shit if it were Monday? Hell No!! I would not care or know the difference.

So here it is . "Monday is the new Sunday." Where you can have a margarita at 6:00 pm, lounge in your sun room at 7:00 am with your oldest dearest dog friend and the economy isn't as bad as we perceive. Because after all Monday is just a perception. Kind of like life....an illusion full of all ways to perceive it.

Note to Self: If you don't like what you see, change your perspective.

God bless Chelsea Handler

She's real.

She rocks.

She's an activist.

She gives voice to so much that renders us speechless.

I am grateful to her for mentioning Note To Self.

Her fans listened.

Thank you, Chelsea

xo

Andrea