My husband, Sy, and I had a two-baby plan. After a few nights of steamy ‘you know what-ing,’ we summoned Baby #1 from the universe and named him Joel. Two years later, our lives flowed with baby rocking, lullaby singing, nursery rhyme chanting, toddler tottering, library storying, and aquarium visiting – with hearts full of love; we were ready to welcome Baby #2. That’s when I spotted the dot.
Picture Sy, a Paul Rudd look-alike, shaving shirtless in the bathroom mirror. I stopped toweling my hair because, on his back, I spotted a menacing black dot. One trip to the dermatologist and that dot had a name: melanoma.
At the post-surgical consultation, Sy’s oncologist asked, “Did you two have any big plans for the future?”
I floated a cautious response, “About to go for Baby #2.”
The oncologist looked into my eyes with his watering brown ones, took a beat, and whispered, “Only if you’re willing to raise that baby alone.”
And our lives changed.
Sy quit stealth smoking, embraced exercise, revised his diet, and entered a somewhat promising clinical trial. Two years turned into six. Year after year, I’d bring up Baby #2 at the oncology visits and get the same answer. “Only if you’re willing to raise that baby alone.”
I finally got it. Both Sy and the oncologist were tossing the question back to me. And I’d been silent. Silent because I let cancer scare me into my worst self, doubting Mary-Frances – the one who adds ‘maybe’ and places a question mark after every one of my dreams.
I showed that doubting part to Sy on our first date – a Friday night special at Ponderosa – where, after finishing a T-bone, Sy brushed off his paper placemat, whipped out his Waterman pen, and commanded, “Tell me your dreams.”
I got to three, and he spotted my ‘doubt.’
Me: “Maybe get a Smith-Corona electric? Maybe I’m a writer? Maybe get a doctorate?”
He stopped me. “Drop the maybes and question marks, Babe.”
I started again. “Buy a used Smith-Corona electric. I am a writer. Study for the GREs. Apply to a doctoral program.”
Dropping maybes and question marks, we filled the placemat with dreams: mine, his, and what would become ours. Sy’s cheerleading mantra, “Of course, you can, Babe!”
Baby #2 was on that Ponderosa placemat – and I’d been maybe–ing and question–marking the dream.
That year, in the oncology office, Sy grasped my hands. “Honey, of course you can. No matter what. You… we, got this.”
I swallowed hard and answered. “Let’s get Baby #2.”
Eagerly ‘you know what-ing’ for six months without results, my internist suggested Fertility Treatment.
Our HMO’s Fertility Treatment consisted of three parts: A nurse handed Sy a brown bag stuffed with vials of Pergonal and 20 syringes. This was followed by a 10-minute lesson on delivering the egg-releasing shot, using an orange as a substitute for my derriere. The third part was, “go home and do a lot of ‘you know what-ing.’”
Several sacks of Pergonal later, with my buns turning blue and ‘you know what-ing, losing a lot of spark, my husband’s internist handed him a referral slip. “See Dr. G., our city’s major general in IVF treatment.”
We assembled in Dr. G.’s consultation room, a dark office lit by a six-foot-long X-ray light box and a small library desk lamp. Dr. G, a dead-ringer for Captain America, sat behind a desk piled sky-high with medical records.
He tapped the six-inch pile that belonged to me and cut to the chase. “Those HMO dingoes never did a hysterosalpingogram, did they?”
I embraced the word ‘dingoes,’ as did my sore bottom. But I was clueless about the hysterosalpingogram.
One hysterosalpingogram later, we’re back in Dr. G’s office, with his laser pointing at the X-ray box.
“I was right! See!”
“Sure,” we lied, squinting at mirky grey swirls.
“Your fallopian tubes are blocked. Those eggs are all backed up, no place to go, like a bunch of kindergarten kids stacked at the top of a clogged playground slide.”
Nodding at the graphic image, I added a suggestion, “Unblock it?”
“We got no time for that nonsense; got to harvest eggs, fertilize them in the lab, and use our trusty tubes to send those babies where they belong.”
He handed each of us a beeper. “When I beep, you get back to this clinic – pronto. We’re losing time.”
“Yes, sir,” I said, saluting our general.
I got beeped first. The needle was long, but the egg-harvesting – successful. After a few days, Sy got his beep. The only problem with Sy’s beep was that he was teaching a day-long course on Advanced Psychopathology. At 11:00 AM, in the midst of a pithy lecture on Narcissism, his beeper beeped.
Sy called an early lunch, hopped a cab, and rushed downtown to the clinic. An earnest lab tech, Jamal, greeted him with a plastic cup and ushered him into the ‘Donation Room’ – a dimly lit corner office stacked with Playboy magazines, a VCR machine, and plastic furniture.
Jamal pointed at the TV. “We got ‘Debbie Does Dallas’ on DVD—if you need it.” Sy did not, and within 10 minutes, Sy handed Jamal the precious donation and set off to rejoin his class.
Ninety minutes later, Sy got beeped again. It was Jamal, anxious and penitent, “Um, I was crossing the lab and tripped over an electrical cord. Your … it’s splattered all over the lab floor.”
Sy thanked Jamal for his honesty and refusal to use dirty-splattered sperm. Releasing his class to a grad assistant, Sy raced back to donate. This time, he needed Debbie Does Dallas on the DVD.
The next beeps were for both of us. A Beaming Dr. G met us at the clinic door. “Implantation day! Want to meet your maybe-babies?”
We sure did. The next moment, we were peering through an incubator at Petri dishes all lined up – ready for implantation – our maybe-babies.
“That’s the one,” my husband gushed, pointing at the Petri dish sporting the most froth. “Our kid’s the passionate foamy one.”
I count the bubbles in that Petri dish: ” Ten cells, honey, and they’re all rainbow-colored, all bobbing and twirling—sure does seem like our kid.”
Sy pointed at the frothy ‘Ten Cells.’ “Doc, make sure you use that one.”
Doctor G. rolled his eyes, “Dude,” he declared, “We’re implanting all of them.”
“All?” I shouted.
Just a little side note here. My sisters and I have a history of heavy contraception use. Why? Because our mother’s contraceptive plan, dictated by an ancient male hierarchy, resulted in 10 pregnancies in 11 years. We saw, and we all chose a different path.
Or did we?
Worry hijacked my brain. Was I facing mystical ‘my mother myself’ Karma? Would I have ten pregnancies in one year? “Doctor G., I can’t have…!”
His reassuring response returned me to my original worry, “Oh, honey, there’s only a 7% chance you’ll get one.”
Sy winked, “Babe, I’m betting on ‘Ten Cells.’ Our Baby #2 is already a phenomenon.”
Stealing Sy’s mantra, I added, “We got this, Babe.”
Four days later, with my chest singing, we knew ‘Ten Cells’ had joined our family.
Three months later, studying a sonogram of our baby bobbing in a cross-legged Buddha position, Sy pointed out an emerging detail – “Honey, I think it’s time!”
“Time for what?” I asked, squinting and following his pointer finger to the blurry feature.
“Time to rename ‘Ten Cells.’ Let’s go with David Jordan.”
I was all in.
When cancer came for Sy three years later, our lives were so hectic, joyful, and full of life from three years of baby rocking, lullaby singing, nursery rhyme chanting, toddler tottering, and aquarium visiting – immensely grateful for Baby #2.
I had no maybes. No question marks. I took whatever time I could get parenting alongside Sy. Without a doubt, I knew that even with his precious spirit gone and our little family missing him terribly, we would go on living. And we did.
MARY-FRANCES SCHNEIDER 