The first test I'm glad I failed

About a month ago, I posted that, given my family history of breast cancer, I was having the BRCA genetic test to determine if I had the gene variant that is linked to breast cancer.

And the news is...I don't!

I know this doesn't mean I will never develop breast cancer. In fact, I know this doesn't mean that I 100% don't have the gene. But it means I probably don't. And right now, probably is enough for me. Because "probably not" feels a hell of a lot better than "definitely do."

Child of my dreams

It is only a few months after we had the twins. We are driving down the freeway, to where I don't remember. Somehow the conversation has turned to the fact that we have only sons.

"Well, you know, honey," I say to him, "We could always still adopt a girl."

"No. No we couldn't," is his instant reply. Four children is enough. We are happy with all boys.

I remember my heart breaking a little.

*****************

We started trying for a baby in July. I took a negative pregnancy test a month later. And another two weeks later. And another, and another. For two months, there was no indication that I wasn't pregnant. But also no indication that I was.

We saw my OB/GYN. Four months of Clomid to start, we'll see what happens from there.

And that's when J.R. and I made a pact--we would do nothing more than Clomid.

We were fortunate to already have our two oldest sons. We did not want to be selfish. They needed our time, our attention, our sanity. Four months of Clomid. That was it.

I was informed by a reproductive endocrinologist that my pregnancy with Noah was a "fluke," and I would likely never get pregnant again without IUI or IVF. Without the things that J.R. and I had sworn not to do. I was basically told "tough luck."

I was not reacting well to the stress, not just the infertility, but everything that was happening during that time. My blood pressure had shot up to unhealthy levels. We decided to quit trying until after the holidays. It had been a challenging five months, even without the infertility. We needed time to let it all sink in.

I began to investigate adoption. But with our life so intertwined with Aaron's mom, I couldn't accept the idea of another biological mother to answer to. Closed adoption is rare in the U.S.

A friend of mine was considering adopting a special needs child from China. International adoption seemed trendy and difficult, but also perfect. Maybe.

There were still those three more months we promised ourselves.

I started on Clomid again in January...not pregnant.

I investigated adoption agencies and countries. I bought books and requested materials.

February...not pregnant.

J.R. and I sat down and had a serious talk. We chose a country. Narrowed down the agencies. Said we would give it one more try.

March...our last month--my last chance--and I screwed up my dose of Clomid. I didn't even take half of what I was supposed to.

I filled out the paperwork. We began getting our papers in order. We made plans for the kids while we traveled, for when that day eventually came.

We knew we wanted to adopt a girl. I dreamt of her. I pictured how I would decorate her room. I browsed online for bedding. I fingered dresses in stores, knowing I would get to by them, if not soon, at least someday. I thought about hair brushes and braids and little bows. J.R. and I laughed about dating and make-up and teenage girl clothes. I dreamt of my little girl's first dance with her daddy at her wedding, a moment I never had and could only dream about for her.

I had to assure the agency that I was not pregnant. I couldn't do that without a test. So we picked one up on our next trip to the market. We came home, I took the test and left it in the bathroom while we unpacked groceries.

When everything had been done, I thought of the test sitting on the counter.

Two pink lines. Two defiant and impossible pink lines.

With those lines, a dream came true. But a dream was also shattered.

I didn't know who she was yet, but I knew she was mine. I knew she would come home to her two big brothers and live a life that would never have been possible for her where she had been born.

There was already a space for her in my heart. A space uniquely hers that no one else could fill. An empty space now.

There has not been a single moment that I have regretted getting pregnant with the twins. They renewed me in a sad and desperate time. They more than completed the family I thought I was meant to have.

They are my sons. My last and precious sons. My unlikely and unhoped for gifts.

But they can't fill that empty space. The space that hurt when I had to tell the agency "Not right now." The space that hurt when I got emails from agency mailing lists I'd joined.

It is not their fault. My four boys have given me more than I ever dreamed of having. I have more joy than I ever imagined possible. I know that had I never let myself dream, I would never dream of asking for more.

It is difficult to reconcile wanting more with knowing that I am content with what I have. It is difficult to imagine one more.

But I made that space. I let it open up, imagine, and dream. I can't make it go away.

*****************

We are watching Noah's tee ball game on Saturday afternoon.

"All the kids are cute out there, but those little girls are adorable," he tells me.

"You're the one who didn't want the stress of a girl," I tease him back.

"I never said I didn't want one..." His voice trails.

"We still have the option," I remind him. "It could still happen."

"We'll see," he says, looking not at me but at the field of children.

We both know it would take a small miracle for us to be able to support another child right now.

But in those words, those two small and simple words, there is hope.

Hope.

Guest posting and an open invitation

A couple weeks ago, my friend Issa, sent out an email asking several people if they would be willing to guest post for her. You see, Issa's world was rocked not long ago, and understandably, she has days where she just can't find the words to keep up her blog.

I don't usually guest post. Hell, I have a hard enough time keeping up with posting on my own blog. Nor do I think that what I have to say is worthy of a lot of other blogs. But I wasn't about to turn down the one thing I knew I could do for a friend who is hurting.

I do think guest posting is important. If you read some of the other guest posts, you'll see that sometimes we all need a place to air the things we can't say on our own blog.

And with that in mind, I'm issuing an open invitation to all of you. If you have something you need to write that you can't write on your blog, email me at instamom {at} roadrunner {dot} com. Say it here.

In the meantime, get your browser over to my post at Issa's place.

Someday...

Something Borrowed, by Emily Giffin

Hey, book clubbers. We'll be reading Something Borrowed, by Emily Giffin.

Chat still on the calendar for June 10. Enjoy!

I'll celebrate if I have to, but...

I don't like Mother's Day. There, I said it. I'm a mom and this is quite possibly the my least favorite day of the year.

I published this article last year when I was an editor for Type-A Mom. It pretty much explains why I'm perpetually at odds with the second Sunday of May.

I understand what a beautiful day today is for so many other moms. I go to great lengths to celebrate my own mother. So for those of you whose hearts and homes are full today, happy Mother's Day. I wish you love, joy, and relaxation.

As for me, well, I'll quietly celebrate to myself when I can wrap my arms around all four of my boys tomorrow.

It's a tie!

I'm going to go ahead and call it a tie so we can get tie-breaker voting going.

The following books each had six votes. Pick one and vote in the sidebar.

Something Borrowed, by Emily Giffin
Very Valentine, by Adriana Trigiani

In the interest of giving us as much reading time as possible, voting will only be open until Sunday...

A different kind of Wordless Wednesday

If the doctor's on "Grey's Anatomy" can look good while they save lives, why shouldn't you?

Insta-Book Club: Month 3

Wow...we're on our third book already! And I actually finished one of them. Which is more than I can say for most of the last year prior to this. So yes, I'm proud.

I'm still working out the bugs of this whole book club thing. Like actually remembering to tweet an announcement about the chat or post about it before the actual day of the chat. We're getting there. Bear with me--I'm flaky by nature.

At our last chat, we decided just to recycle the book list from last month. So here it is:

Confessions of a Shopaholic, by Sophie Kinsella
Are You There, Vodka? It's Me, Chelsea, by Chelsea Handler
Good in Bed, by Jennifer Weiner
Something Borrowed, by Emily Giffin
The Hour I First Believed, by Wally Lamb
The Ten-Year Nap, by Meg Wolitzer
Handle with Care, by Jodi Picoult
Thirteen Moons, by Charles Frazier
The Zookeeper's Wife, by Diane Ackerman
Very Valentine, by Adriana Trigiani
Rise and Shine, by Anna Quinlan

Check out the descriptions, then vote in the sidebar. Voting will remain open until Friday.

And I'll say right now that the book chat will be on Wednesday, June 10 at 7:00 Pacific. If that changes, I'll post the change in advance and tweet the hell out of it. Fair enough?

The 200-pound gorilla in my boobs

Today I am being tested for the breast cancer gene variants BRCA1 and BRCA2.

I'm scared out of my mind. Because I have a family history of breast cancer.

Neither my mother nor her sister have been tested for gene variants, but my doctor is incredibly cautious and is having me tested.

A part of me would feel better if they had been tested. The other part of me knows how much more on edge I'd be if they had been tested with positive results, and so I am, in small part, grateful to go this one alone.

I had my first mammogram two months ago. I'm all clear. Right now.

I know a positive result doesn't mean I will get breast cancer--only 5-10% of breast cancer cases are hereditary. J.R. repeated this to me over and over last night. It doesn't mean I have breast cancer. It doesn't mean I will.

But just taking this test is scary. A positive result means I may develop breast cancer. But a negative result doesn't mean I won't, either.

I feel like I am being forced, only days after my 32nd birthday, to face the reality of my own mortality. Face the possibility that my own body could turn on me, fail me, kill me.

And that, scares the shit out of me.