I went to pick up my lunch at a corner cafe in DC the other day and bumped into an old colleague. The first thing she said was, "You haven't been blogging!"
So here's a new one.
About seven months ago I sat at the dining table with a syringe in my hand. I stared at it, terrified, but I had to do it. I tapped the syringe and watched the bubbles float to the top. I'd never done anything with a syringe before - I always look away when I get a flu shot or blood drawn. I'm not afraid of needles and I don't pass out, I just look the other way and think about the time I got stung by a bee - it wasn't so bad then.
I knew what I had to do, but I couldn't even look at someone else when they jabbed me so how was I supposed to stick this thing in someone else? Let alone the fact it was my own wife?!
We watched the video again, just to be sure.
I took careful measurements and made sure I had the exact spot they were showing on the video. Did I get all of the air out? Was I going to hit an artery or an organ? Ugh..
We each took a deep breath.
"You ready?"
"No."
"Here goes."
I stuck the needle in and pushed the plunger.
Three months later we were at the doctor's office again. A nurse handed handed us a 3" x 4" black-and-white printout with a cross section of Meagan's insides and said, "See that? It's about the size of a gummy bear."
Holy... shit.
We stared at the gummy bear. We'd started maybe a year earlier. "Trying" as they call it. Tried for a while. Finally, we called the experts. The doctor explained it to us in sports terms, which was great for me. There were goalies, he said. Four of them in particular, a range of factors that were keeping us from getting one in the net. A couple factors were common enough and easy to get out of the way, but there were some unknowns based on Meagan's medical history, so they had to get a closer look at those goalies.
After everything, we were able to get rid of all the goalies except for the unbeaten one: age.
But it seems we snuck one past ol' Father Time anyway.
Still, we didn't want to get too excited. With age comes higher risks and getting excited too early could be devastating for the Tear Factory (Meagan). So we waited to tell anyone the results.
At 12 weeks we started to slowly tell a few more family members and friends, finding creative ways to share the news. Funny t-shirts for brothers, prank videos for grandmas and aunts, house tours ending in a surprise baby room for friends. We had fun with it.
It had been a long journey.
Anyone who has done IVF can tell you it's difficult. With Meagan's medical history it was especially difficult. She's already been through a lot in her lifetime and for her to go through even more to do something that comes naturally for many - I can't even imagine.
I joke that she's a tear factory, but if I'd been through half of what she has I might have an endless supply of them too. (I bet you dollars to doughnuts that she will have already gone through 3 separate tissues by this point in the story.)
I don't even know what dollars to doughnuts means. Also, is it doughnuts or donuts?
I digress.
Where was I? Meagan's crying, sorry had to make her laugh so she can continue the story.
The doctor suggested skipping IUI (google it) and going straight to IVF. I can't recall exactly why, but we were better candidates for the latter and they're the experts. So that's what we did.
For weeks I jabbed hormones into her butt and abdomen. All kinds of things meant to prepare the lining and pump up the size of eggs - side note, did you know that all of the eggs a woman will ever have are inside of her while she is inside the womb of her mother?? So you, reading this, were an egg, inside your grandma... Blew my mind. Still does.
I'm a pro with a needle now, though! Kidding, not at all. I just went to get my flu and Covid boosters and still didn't look at her as she prepped everything and jabbed me. Kudos to Meagan - she watched carefully as I prepared everything. Hashtag micromanaging nurse.
We had our schedule and kept strictly to it. Shots, pills, visits, everything. Our trip to Europe came just after they extracted the pumped up eggs so it was a bit of a last hurrah for us. We toasted to the next steps at every occasion and soaked it in as we prepared for the big day.
Bastille Day was the big day.
We got a phone call a few days before the procedure. The implantation procedure. The doctor gave us a rundown of what to expect and signed off with, "We're all set for Bastille Day!"
Half asleep, Meagan and I hung up the phone, confused. Did he just say Bastille Day? Is that what they call this? I googled it. Bastille Day is July 14 - a French national holiday celebrating the start of the French Revolution. Our big day was July 14, Bastille Day, got it!
Better than a few days before, I suppose, which was July 11 - aka 7/11.
Also known as Free Slurpee Day.
Bastille Day is better - French or not.
Meagan and I are both sort of mutts of Scottish, English, and Irish - maybe some French. Not enough to celebrate Bastille Day, but we'll celebrate it in on our own way now.
Her dad is Scottish - a proud descendant of esteemed cattle raiders - er, Clan Chisholm, I mean. Meagan and I visited the Erchless Castle in Scotland, down the road from Inverness and Loch Ness, where the Chisholm Clan used to be based. We stayed at the Cnochotel - the former business offices of the clan which is now a hotel decked out in clan tartans, plaques, and other paraphernalia, including a 3-ring binder full of history of the Chisholm clan and their journey from Scotland to Canada and eventually the U.S., where a man named Chisholm had a son named Kevin who then passed his name to his daughter Meagan.
We visited the site of the Battle of Culloden and stood where the Chisholms stood on the battlefield. We even met a Bruce Chisholm at the Chisholm Bar in the former Chisholm business offices!
I assume you know where this is going.
I love my name. OK, I've grown to love it. I didn't love being Teeter-Totter and Tater Tot and all sorts of other nicknames growing up. I love it now. It's my name and it always will be.
My last name comes from my grandfather who gave it to my dad when my grandma remarried. It's not my biological name and I haven't traced it back. I barely even know any other Teeters.
I know it comes from the German name Dieter and has some meaning like "strong" or "people's army." Something like that.
But I'm not German. Neither is Meagan, and neither is our little French newspaper boy.
Did I say boy?
Yep, our boy will have the Chisholm last name.
Why wouldn't he? Meagan is stronger than anyone I know. Stronger than my last name that "means" strong. She's been through hell and back, operations, procedures, got pumped full of all kinds of stuff. Even now, every morning she wakes up and chokes down a handful of pills. Her body is going through a transformation I can't even fathom and at the end of it she'll push a human out of her.
All I did was... well.
I got the dishes, babe. You sit there and grow a human.
When I ran into my friend the other day, she was telling me her about her grown kids and I mentioned I was a soon-to-be dad. She gasped and said, "Wait, don't tell me. Boy."
I said, "What, how'd you know?"
She said she just knew.
I'm already imagining all the things I'll get to do.
Like tell all the best dad jokes. And dishes.
Can't wait to meet you, ya lil' cattle raider.
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