Accidents

The first time a friend introduced me to someone as a single mother by choice, it tweaked my brain. It wasn’t by choice, I thought. 

But of course it was. It just wasn’t my first choice. My first choice would’ve been to make sweet love to my soulmate, resulting in a natural pregnancy that would bring forth one (1) adorable baby who slept through the night at three (3) weeks old. Two and three-quarters years later, we would bless our child with a sibling conceived in the same manner.

But at 38, I didn’t have a soulmate. I didn’t have a Mr. Right, or a Mr. Right Now, or even a Mr. Occasionally We Get Drunk and Bang on the Couch. I’d dated online–disastrously–for years. I’d met 

• the smart guy who danced tango but with whom I felt no sparks, 
• the guy who spent the whole date watching football on the screen behind me and later sent me Chapter 1 of his “erotic novel” (direct quote: “They increased the rate of stroking of their private regions”), 
• the guy who made me wish I carried pepper spray, and 
• the guy on dialysis who asked me to donate my kidney to him. He was kidding though. (Was he?)

There was a brief confusing affair with a Dutchman, and a humiliating revelation of romantic feelings to a longtime friend, who had recently broken up with his wife… and who would a few months later reunite with his wife. 

It was becoming increasingly clear I would conceive no babies, planned or accidental, from sexual congress. I wanted kids, and as much as the idea of adoption appealed to me, I also wanted to experience pregnancy. And that biological window was closing. 

So I decided to knock myself up. I went to a fertility clinic and an 80-year-old doctor from Eastern Europe told me how much insemination cost and the probability of success with each attempt. I said, “That’s a lot of dough for some pretty weak odds.”

He said, “Hyuman reprodyuction is remarkably ineffyicient.” 

But I was determined. I looked online at cryobanks. Despite the fact that you can sort for height, eye color, astrological sign(???), and celebrity look-alike, I decided I wanted to go with a known donor. But who?

The Dutchman I mentioned earlier–the brief confusing relationship–had a PhD in biology and was funny and reasonably attractive, so I invited him to coffee. “I’m considering single parenthood,” I told him.

Before I could even ask the question, he said, “Oh, I’ll give you my sperm. That kid’ll probably be a superhero.” It was great—so generous of him—and I sobbed into his collarbone as we said goodbye. 

Later, he called me. His father had reminded him he had cousin who was “mentally r******* due to a microdeletion on his 15th chromosome.” Other associated conditions with the microdeletion are autism; learning difficulties; emotion regulation problems; and bipolar disorder, which the Dutchman admitted he had. (My confusion during our short relationship suddenly made much more sense.)

I was still OK with using his sperm, but he wasn’t. With no other prospects, I went back to the cryobank’s website. It was so overwhelming. There were hundreds of profiles, and sometimes I thought about printing them all out, pinning them to a wall, and throwing a dart, but then I was like, Amy, be reasonable, so I did what anyone would do–I formed a sperm-selection committee of my friends. 

And we chose: 6’4”, blue eyes, atheist, post-doc in math and engineering. He was perfect. I wanted him to be my husband, but a vial of 10 million of his sperm would have to do.

A surly nurse explained that it was going to be like getting a pap smear except maybe more uncomfortable because they couldn’t use any lubricant during insemination. Fun. I put my heels in the stirrups and slid my butt down to the end of the table. She inserted the speculum. “Hm,” she said. She slid it out and tried a different angle. “Well.” Out and back in again. “Your cervix is really deep in there. I’m gonna use a longer speculum.”

“OK,” I said, meekly.

She tried all through the winter, across the spring and summer, into late autumn, before she stood and said, “I can’t seem to find your cervix. I’m going to get a physician.”

Shortly, she came back in. “I couldn’t find a physician.” 

I thought, You’re bad at finding stuff. 

She brought another nurse. Immediately, I felt more relaxed. This one too was having some trouble locating the target, but she sounded like she genuinely wanted to know when she said, “You doing OK?” and just radiated general warmth. “There it is!” Finally. She inserted the catheter and shot, then cupped her hand around her mouth. “Swiiimmmmm,” she called into my vagina. Speculum out, and I was done.

Twelve days later I peed on a stick. And my hand. And the floor. But a plus sign showed up. So I peed on another stick. I peed on three more sticks. All plus signs.

At my 6-week appointment, the doctor stuck a lubed wand up yonder. On the screen, a hole blorbed into existence, and attached to one side was a tiny strobe light. He pointed at it. “That’s a heartbeat.” 

I put my fist to my mouth and started to cry. 

He shifted the wand to my left side, then stiffened, and his mouth dropped slightly open. “…There’s another one.”

I didn’t understand what he was saying, but he was pointing at another orb. “What?” I said.

“There’s a second one.”

My neck went numb. “Does it have a heartbeat?” I said, but I could already see it. Pulse, pulse, pulse.

And that was when I collapsed into full-on, laugh-cry mode. “Oh my god!” I said. “Two?!” The doctor stood there stiff, eyes wide, mute. “But I’m just one person!” I said. “Hahahahaha. Boohoohoohoo.”

He lowered his chin slowly but didn’t look away. His eyebrows were knitted. “I… I can’t tell how you’re doing,” he said.

“Me neither!” I said.

I eventually recovered from my meltdown and became completely wedded to the idea of twins. I loved them, and even though every part of my family plan had gone to hell in a handbasket, I was so glad I was having two babies.

Then came the “borderline” measurements and “inconclusive” test results, until finally at nearly 18 weeks, a white-haired doctor with the soft voice, gentle manner, and sensible shoes of a kindergarten teacher informed me that it looked like Twin A had Down syndrome. Amniocentesis would confirm her diagnosis. I wondered, was it something I did? A poor choice I made along the way? Or worse, that I’m a defective person who made a defective baby?

The genetic counselor said, “It’s not anything you did. It’s just an accident of nature.”

At that point, I came completely unglued. I sobbed. I had panic attacks. I desperately wanted to abort the abnormal fetus, but it would increase the risk of miscarrying the other one. Could I take a mulligan? 

Making the choice was wrenching. I told a friend it was the first time I truly understood what “anguish” meant. Right about then, I got some sage advice from a nun–she was a character on “Call the Midwife,” but whatever–that at every moment we get to choose between fear and love. So I chose. I was scared and lost, but I was going to have two babies, one with Down syndrome.

Seven weeks before my due date I couldn’t stop peeing my pants. That’s what I thought anyway. Actually, I was leaking amniotic fluid. Twin A’s sac had ruptured, and I’d be in the hospital until I delivered, which I did six days later in a harrowing emergency c-section.

Thus began nearly eight months of eating hospital food. Patrick came home after a month in the NICU, but Arlo, the one with Down syndrome, would undergo medical trauma that would end a weaker person. There were surgeries and invasive tests and feeding issues and infections and twice CPR, like actual compressions on his tiny, tiny chest. Patrick smiled at three months, but Arlo didn’t. One day it dawned on me he’d had very little to smile about. But on March 13, 2015, when he was almost six months old, the corners of his mouth ticked up, and I melted into a puddle of goo on the floor of the NICU. 

At one point, my brother and I stood on opposite sides of the bed, looking down on my sleeping baby.

“It’s funny,” I said. “Remember how I asked the Dutchman to be my donor, and he backed out when he found out about the chromosomal funk in his family’s genes?”

“Yeah,” he said.

“Isn’t it ironic that I ended up with a baby with Down syndrome anyway?” 

“Yeah,” he said.

“But seriously.” I gestured at Arlo.

Reading my mind, my brother said, “What’s better than him?” 

After nearly eight months, Arlo finally came home on Mother’s Day 2015, and even then trouble abounded. He didn’t know how to eat, and his stomach hated everything, and he didn’t sleep, and his brother didn’t sleep, and I didn’t sleep. And I was losing my mind.

But with a LOT of help from friends and family, and just, you know, putting one foot in front of the other, we made it through. That’s a story for another time. Right around his third birthday, Arlo learned to walk. Then run. And then jump with both feet. He learned to sign more, all done, help, and–thank god–eat, which he did with gusto. Bacon, eggs, waffle–the most important meal of the day. He loved playing with his brother and singing songs. His best friend was a blue stomp-rocket tube he named Odie, after the dog in Garfield, his favorite TV show. I once rescued Odie from a five-lane highway, another time from a 10-foot storm drain.

When he started preschool, everybody knew him–teachers I’d never even seen said, “There goes Arlo.” 

Out in town, he’d go up to complete strangers, tap them on the knee, and wave at them. I’d say, “Have you met the mayor of Durham?” 

He became a nudist and potty trained himself. Woohoo!

He started talking. “Maw” (ball). “Weewee” (TV). And of course, “waffle,” which he pronounced perfectly and added a kiss at the end, maybe to express his devotion to them.

Most recently, words have become phrases, and he’s started workshopping his standup routine.

“Ho coco nat?” he says, pointing at his red shirt.

“I don’t know–what color is it?” I say.

He grins. “Weeeeee?” 

“No, it’s not green,” I say, and he giggles.

“Loooooooob?” he says.

“No, it’s not blue.” He chuckles.

“Blap?”

“No, it’s not black!” I say. He cackles. I cackle. Every day, we do this. Hey, if a bit works, work it.

He still likes to greet strangers on the street. “Morlyyyy,” he says to the construction workers we pass. “Morlyyyy!”

Late in the day, I correct him. “It’s not morning. It’s afternoon.”

“Morly anoo!” he calls.

Sometimes, like the rest of us, he gets salty. “PATIC, GO ‘WAY!”

“Don’t say that to your brother–that’s not nice. Hey, how about you put on some pants and a shirt?”

He turns and clomps toward his room, waggling his blue tube. “Ohwee cahmee,” he declares.

“Yep, Odie’s coming.”

“Mama cahmee?” he calls over his shoulder.

“Yeah, I’m coming,” I say.

Of course I’m coming. I’ll never not come if he asks me to.

The boys will turn 7 this month. Patrick reads chapter books and plays Minecraft with his cousins and revels in arguing with me about uncontroversial things. (He still asks me to snuggle in his bed every night though.) But that’s a story for another time.

My elderly father moved in with me, and I went back to changing diapers. But that’s a story for another time.

There have been so, so many accidents along the way. I made plans and choices. I did research. But I learned how little control we actually have over our lives, and how torturesome and sublime that can be. I wanted a family that looked a certain way, and I got one that looks totally different.

“It’s just an accident,” the genetic counselor said, and it really did comfort me at the time. Now though. Now I wish I could take full credit.

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I have a whole memoir manuscript about this. Holler at me if you want to publish it. :)