Another part of my midwife's self-care plan was castor oil wraps. They're supposed to heal scar tissue in your abdomen, and judging from my reaction to the abdominal massage, I had some demons lurking around my midsection. You're supposed to soak flannel in warm oil, plastic wrap it, put a thick towel over it and heat it with a heating pad. So, again I was being marinated.
The treatment was mean to be accompanied by meditation. You're supposed to imagine the healing, imagine your love for your future baby, your connection to your partner. I've always meant to get into meditating. I feel like in another less tortured life, I'd be really spiritual and really into yoga. But, this isn't my life. I know it will be good for me, but I think my self-sabotaging gets in the way of my confronting my self-sabotaging. Anyway, I'm not really good at meditating unless it's forced like on long runs.
I tried really hard to imagine love. All I felt was rage. Un-specified rage. It took me nearly a half hour to search it out, just passing through my subconscious like, "Hey, do you know what's up? Why are we mad?" Howling out of nowhere came a scream. "Why did no one love us this much?" Old ghosts never seem to die.
Tarra came to sit with me, and laid her head on my stomach. She was meditating love for me. I kept my hurt to myself, figuring someone should send positive vibes to my abdomen. She held my hand and just laid there, breathing with me. I know that's how she passed my advanced self-security system meant to keep everyone out: she's just so gentle and easy, you can't help but love her.
I could feel her start to cry. "What's wrong, beautiful?" "I'm just so sad I can't make a baby with you. I mean, we're making a baby with all of our actions, but it just feels so out of my hands at the same time. I wish it could really be ours."
I felt so bad for her. This has to be so hard. This will be OUR child, legally, emotionally, culturally, in every way except that seems to satisfy some irrational biological need. But, just because it's irrational, doesn't invalidate it.
We talked to our midwife and told her that we would like to take over inseminations. Just try at home for awhile on our own. Who knows, we might get lucky?! Even if we don't, it will feel more like we're making the baby together. The midwife was really supportive and came by to drop of some specimen jars and needless syringes should we want to use them.
It doesn't have to be "turkey baster" method, you know. If you're reading this trying to start this process yourself, know there are options! There is the Semenette, there are cervical caps, and many, many other things people have done to make it less medicalized and something more comfortable. Just because some babies are made through sex, it doesn't have to be that way either. Some people choose not to sexualize the experience at all. You might also consider that the baby isn't "made" at the time of insemination. It could happen a WEEK later.
For us, we talked endlessly about it. I felt weird that while I have dated men, it was not something I enjoyed. Early in my life, I didn't realize gay was an option. I was pretty relieved when I did.
So, it was weird for me to have a penis involved in part of my life that was so important. Let alone, this was someone's penis that was not my partners. So, I went back and forth. Should it be sexual? Should we just do it and pretend my vagina wasn't full of semen and watch TV while I laid upside down practically, rotating occasionally? Orgasms are supposed to increase the likelihood of conception, right? Or, do you not orgasm because you want a boy? Ask the internet and literature on this subject carefully, and grab the tylenol, it's a shit storm of conflicting information.
In the end, we didn't really get to choose. We were waiting to sign the donor agreement until the first weekend of February, with my ovulation predicted that second weekend. I had been monitoring my cycles for a few months, and while they had become more regular, they were not really....predictable. I realized that we had to expedite everything as my LH strips got darker. Expedite like, "Hey, can you meet us at the Notary in the UPS store by your work downtown, sign the paper, then come over and donate?" Yeah, it was that romantic.
We cleaned to house, made sure we had food to give to our donor, and discussed receptacles. We tested a few different sized mason jars with the needless syringes to make sure we could reach the bottom, set them out along side a specimin jar, and a tea cup I love but can't use because the handle fell off. I offered them all up to our donor, telling him to use whatever called to him.
We let our donor have the house and we took the dog for a walk. We snap chatted our friend in Colorado, like you do as a millennial, before getting a text that he was done. Tarra had to drive him back to the lightrail, and left me holding the mason jar. I just tried not to make eye contact. The insemination itself was awkward. The laying upside down was awkward. Existing for the first time with semen in my body was awkward. Our poor sperm donor felt awkward. It was all around uncomfortable.
We had him come back two days later, when my LH strip was super dark. It was far less awkward, but still not any kind of magical I think we're supposed to feel when making a baby. Oh well, life is messy but beautiful.
Now we're in the long wait. Two weeks at least before we get to test. I am doing my best to distract myself. I've got an old-school game boy and pokemon, bread to make, a class I'm taking. Just one day at a time, trying to practice patience and self-love, accepting that Tarra loves me enough for everyone who never did.
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