November is National Adoption Month. So, in celebration, here is Part I of our adoption story.
Back in the day when my husband, Demetri, and I were dating, getting serious, and thinking about the M-word, we talked about having kids. Demetri said, “I want 7 kids.” Note the quotes. Note the lack of sarcasm. My response came in two parts: 1) laughing in his face and 2) “You better find a new wife!” Before we got married I talked him down to “one, maybe two kids”. Early on we had talked about adoption and both agreed it was something we were interested in. Our goal was to have a child — how that child came to us wasn’t so important. In all of these conversations we assumed that both adoption and having a biological child would come easily to us. So we got married and eventually “got busy” (nudge, nudge, wink, wink). We were ‘busy’ for many many months. In fact, we were so busy that both of us got to the point where we never wanted to be busy again. Ever. We both felt like failures. And one of us frequently threw herself on the bed in tears sniffling about not being a real woman and being Bro-oh-oh-ken. I have a very patient and kind husband.
So we went to the doctor. We saw many (supposedly) knowledgeable professionals — specialists, regular OB/GYNs, acupuncturists, nurse practitioners, etc. They all told us that the first and easiest test that should be performed was checking out ‘the swimmers’. After all, no invasive procedures were required. It only involved Demetri having a little ’special time’ at home and then me taking a vial of his sacred fluid to the lab. No prob. Then we both met with my OB/GYN for the results.
It turns out that my husband has perfect sperm. In all 4 ways possible: count, shape, appearance, and mobility. Do you know how I know this? Because every single professional told us. Multiple times. Often, Demetri was given a pat on the back or a genial slug on the shoulder. Dr. Whoever would do something scholarly, like take off her glasses or grip her chin between her thumb and index finger, and I knew it was coming: “The male fertility factor looks great! Perfect even! I have rarely seen such greatness!! ” Pause for another, nod, wink, or fist bump. “But the female factor, I just don’t know. . .” For the record, I have perfectly clear tubes. And an “adequate” uterus. But did I get any love from the doctors? Nope. I spent literal hours in stirrups and not even a pat on the shoulder. No wink. Nothing. Instead of the praise I clearly deserved, Dr. Whoever would look directly at me and say something like, “I guess it’s just Unexplained Infertility.” The doctor would often then attempt to share a commiserating look with Demetri as if to say Sorry, dude. Your wife’s a dud. My husband had the good grace to look humiliated.
By the time we did our first round of IUI I was bitter and on the sperm defensive. The nurse brought out a tiny vial filled with, uh, ’stuff’ and asked me to identify it as my husband’s. I looked at her in shock thinking, Really? You expect me to identify it by sight? The nurse then pointed out a tiny, typed name tag stuck to the bottom of the tube. Oh. Yeah. That’s his name.
The IUI was expensive. It was humiliating. And it didn’t ‘take’. Finally, after months and months, I was ready to say out loud what I had been feeling for a long time. Enough.
(Thanks to Demetri for his support and willingness to share this very personal part of the story)
We are smack in the middle of my husband’s busiest time at work. He’s been staying late and sometimes bringing work home. The other night he brought home a stack of index cards with names on them. The cards needed to be sorted into 4 groups according to a list and then alphabetized. Demetri sighed, threw the cards and list on the table, and said, “I’ll have to do this later . . .” I literally jumped out of my chair, leaving my dinner unfinished. “I’ll do it! I’ll do it! Pick me!” I said, waving my hand in the air. No one else was clamoring for the job so my kind husband gave it to me.
Grey Ghost 5K benefitting 
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