Knocked Down: The Adventures of Lefty the Hopeful Dad

Mother's Day Madness

noreply@blogger.com (Lefty the Hopeful Dad) — Sun, 12 May 2019 14:13:00 +0000

I'm sitting in my kitchen reflecting on the last year of my life, my first year of parenthood, with a completely new perspective. Mother's Day, for me, had always been a time to show my mom that I appreciate her. This was easy for my brothers and I, because my mom (now an empty nester) was truly the best mom there was. I honestly don't understand how she did it.

A single mom of three boys who literally dedicated her life to raising them, every single decision she made, was with us in mind. No matter what we broke, no matter how poorly we did in school, what car we crashed, or how bad we screwed up, she was there for us - in the different way that each of us needed her to be in each individual situation. She was a tutor, a psychic, a security guard, an advocate, a lawyer, an accountant, a nurse, a counsellor, a teacher, a judge, a jury, and an executioner. Many of these jobs she continues to perform to this day, despite her children being "grown ass men who can take care of themselves". She has never stopped being a parent, and never will.

Having a mother, and watching your partner be a mother, however, are two wildly different things. I get to see the sacrifices first hand, something my own mother never talked about, or complained about, something Kay never would either. The reason she never would, is because despite the toll parenthood has taken on her body, her health, her sleep, her career, her bank account, her social life, and her sanity, she loves our son more than she loves herself or anybody else.

Kay is an incredible mom who is always there for her son. She knows what it means to be a mother and she takes it to heart. She is constantly terrified something bad will happen to him, which makes her an incredible protector. But, despite her fear, she understands that sometimes she'll have to let him fall so that he'll learn to get back up on his own - which is truly the hardest thing about being a parent. Knowing that at some point they'll be bullied, that their heart will break, that they will get hurt and injured, that they'll feel small, or that they'll be sad. Kay can't prevent these things from happening any more than she can prevent lightning, but she will always be there to guide him through it.

Seeing Kay do what she does best, makes me infinitely proud that she is the mother of our son, and simultaneously makes me appreciate my own mother more than words can express. So to Kay, and my own mother, and to my mother(s) in law - on behalf of your sons and your daughters I'd like to thank you for always being there, for doing what you needed to do, for the sacrifices you made (and continue to make) for your children. We may not always express our gratitude, but you should know, that we know, we literally wouldn't be here without you.

Kay's POV: Birth-day

noreply@blogger.com (Lefty the Hopeful Dad) — Wed, 01 May 2019 02:19:00 +0000

Since my son’s first birthday, I’ve been thinking a lot about the day he was born. It’s cliche, but I can’t believe it’s been a year already, it seems like just yesterday Lefty was nervously driving us home from the hospital.

The following is a recollection of the day he was born, as remembered by me, so Lefty may have to fill in some holes. I am not as good of a writer as Lefty, so I apologize in advance for all the errors in grammar and/or punctuation!

At my last OB appointment, I was 4 days overdue, and not thrilled about it to say the least. Pregnancy had been pretty good to me till that point, and right up to my due date I was feeling mostly alright. But as soon as that due date passed, a whole bunch of stuff just got mighty unbearable; my bladder felt as though it had the capacity of a teaspoon, my Braxton Hicks were just a big mind fuck that never progressed into anything real, and sleeping was becoming impossible. The doctor and I had discussed not allowing me to go the full 2 weeks overdue that most women are allowed to, because we didn’t want to overcook the poor little munchkin and being that we knew exactly when baby went in, we knew exactly when baby could come out. We booked a day for induction, in case I didn’t go into labour first. Everything else looked good, so she sent me on my way.

Over the next few days we tried everything to get me into labour (well, almost everything … no way was I going to drink castor oil). I went on vigorous walks, ate spicy food, bounced on my bouncy ball, washed my floors on my hands and knees (like Cinderella, as per the instruction of my L&D nurse friend), and all the other “get the baby out” things. Nothing worked. I really didn’t want to be induced, but I also really didn’t want to be pregnant much longer. I was getting paranoid that something terrible would happen to the baby … well, my paranoia was increasing. I’m basically always paranoid and on high alert. Lefty calls it worrying too much, the world calls it anxiety, I call it - planning and risk mitigation.

We decided not to tell our family and friends when we were being induced - it just kind of took the surprise out of things yet again, and since I was adamant I wanted it to be just Lefty and I at the hospital, it seemed like the best way to keep the experience somewhat private and on our own terms, after sharing our whole pregnancy with what felt like the whole world.

So on the day before Lefty’s birthday (or 41 weeks 2 days pregnant for me), we headed off to the hospital with our bags packed, my own pillow in tow, and what we thought would be more than enough snacks for our stay (more on that later). We checked in, and I was wheeled up to the L&D ward, because apparently once inside a hospital and over 20 weeks pregnant, women become unable to walk. We were taken to a room where I was instructed to get changed by a really Nice Nurse, and my vitals were taken.

“Are you being induced for hypertension?” Nice Nurse asked.

“No, just overdue” I replied. This was met with a ‘hmmm’ from Nice Nurse, who then grilled me about my blood pressure history during my pregnancy.

“It’s always been spot on perfect, the whole pregnancy, even up to my last OB appointment that was at 40 weeks 4 days. Maybe just try it again, I’m just nervous.” The EMT in me knew that being nervous or tensing my arm could produce a false reading. But 4 readings on both arms later, I was still hypertensive, to the tune of 150’s over high 90’s. Oh well, I thought, not much to do about it at this point except have the baby. Nice Nurse asked me if I would mind if her paramedic student attended the birth with her.

“I would LOVE it … if your student did NOT accompany you to see me today.” I said, and explained that I didn’t really want to run into anyone at work that had seen everrryythingg. Fair enough, I figured. I did know him, it turned out, but I did let him put in my IV at least. #spoilsport

They hooked my belly up to a monitor and wanted to get about 30 mins of readings on both baby and I before starting the Pitocin. I was lucky enough to be going into induction already at 4cm dilated, so I didn’t have to have any Cervadil to start the party. After about 45 minutes I was dying to use the washroom (remember my bladder = teaspoon), when FINALLY Nice Nurse came back and freed me from the contraptions. I got to stretch my legs and use the washroom, and then I hopped back in bed and they started the meds. Everything was super fine for about the first 30 minutes.They wanted to monitor baby and I during “takeoff” to make sure nothing went sideways right off the bat. Again, my bladder was screaming at me to be emptied. They came back after another eternity and let me up to pee. I had yet to feel anything from the meds, but on the way back to my bed my first contraction hit me.

‘Ohhhhhhh’ I thought. That was interesting, definitely different than Braxton Hicks. I was now allowed to move around the room as I wanted, as long as I took my IV pole buddy with me. I sat on the bed. Got up again. Walked to the bathroom AGAIN because the urge to keep emptying my bladder was driving me insane (thanks for all the IV fluids Nice Nurse). I had another contraction on my way to the bathroom. It smarted a bit and was ‘interesting’ but no problem. On my way back to bed I was hit with another contraction. Stronger. Enough that I stopped in my tracks and scrunched up my face. It passed within about 20 seconds and I started back for the bed. Nope, just kidding here’s another.

I finally made it back to the bed, only for another contraction to hit me, stronger still, and lasting about 45 seconds. Please keep in in your minds folks, that I’ve been in labour for about 5 mins at this point. I crawled up onto the bed and BOOM. Again. And thus this continued, contractions about every 1-3 minutes, lasting between 30 and 45 seconds, getting more intense with each one.

This was crazy, This was insane. This was fuuucked uuup. A new nurse came in with a blonde Ponytail. Between already VERY intense contractions, I asked her something to the effect of, how long should these be lasting? She told me that the goal was to be contracting for about a minute every 2 minutes. So many questions entered my mind, but primarily I wondered: When do they start doing that? You want me to do this for HOW long? That seemed like a LOT of contractions, if they kept up like they already were. Being that I was only 4cm dilated, I started to panic a bit inside. These hurt, A LOT. I had expected it to hurt. I had even expected it to hurt A LOT. But I really hadn’t prepared for what induction meant to the female body. No hormones working in sync with each other to move things along, no gradual ebb and flow, NO BREAKS right from the start. I hadn’t had any time to adjust or work out some coping method. They were just coming one after another what seemed like non stop.

“I can’t do this,” I thought. “I can’t do this for like 10 more hours.”

Going into the labour process, I had wanted to try as much as possible to “tough it out” and see how far I could go on my own. But after what seemed like 30 minutes of contractions to me, I was panicking inside. Lefty tells me it was closer to 2 hours, so that made me feel a little less like a wimp. Let me be clear, if you had an epidural at any point in your labour, you are not a wimp. I had a plan set in my mind of trying to see how tough I could be and was humbled AF by the whole process. When Ponytail came back to check on me, I immediately asked how long it would be for an epidural if I “put in my order” now. I knew that anesthesiologists were a hot commodity in L&D, and if they were busy you just had to wait. I decided then and there, I was taking the first chance I could get for an epidural.

“About half an hour, but it could be more because she’s in surgery right now” replied Ponytail.

“Oh. Well … I’ll be dead” I thought, not at all dramatically to myself. “Yes, I would like an epidural as soon as they’re available please.” Ponytail actually agreed with me and said she thought that it was a good idea. I have since learned, that not too many first time moms who are induced make it through induction without an epidural. Yay for status quo!

Blissfully what seemed like 5 minutes later, a really efficient doctor came in and started going over the epidural info with me. I remember none of it. She had me hunch over and hang on to Lefty, which had previously seemed like it would be the worst position ever, but actually turned out to be great. Except I become violently nauseous right as she was about to stick a needle into my spine.

“I might throw up on you.” I said to Lefty.

“That’s ok,” he said, “I brought extra clothes.”

“That is the RIGHT answer” said the anesthesiologist, laughing.

I felt a tiny prick on my back, which apparently was the numbing needle before the actual spine needle - which I did not feel because I was concentrating really hard on not throwing up on Lefty, and also on not moving because I really liked being able to walk and I didn’t want to end up paralyzed from a freak epidural accident.

“How long until this starts working?” I asked. Ponytail told me it would be about 30 minutes and left. I don’t know what was going on with the passage of time on this particular day, but I felt better after about 5 minutes, and I was in absolute heaven by the time I had reached the aforementioned 30 minute mark. #epiduralislife. At this point, Lefty was getting hungry. After all, he had been doing a lot of work almost getting thrown up on. He started to dig into our snacks. I laid blissfully in my bed and “cellphoned” (a term coined by my best friend for when you’re just surfing all the apps and doing nothing of value). Hang on though - a new nurse came in. I remember her name because she was my favourite one, and Katie told me that she was taking over and would be putting in my catheter. Having never had such a thing before, I was a bit nervous, but I was also completely numb from the waist down, so it was smooth sailing. I must admit, the prospect of a COMPLETELY empty bladder was very exciting to me, even if I couldn’t feel it.

Around this time I clued in to the fact that time was indeed passing, and it was now almost 6pm. Katie came back and checked me and told me I was about 6cm dilated. According to my calculations, it had taken me about 3 hours to go from 4cm to 6cm. I was starting to feel some pain on my left side, but it was very tolerable. All of a sudden a weird pop and gush happened and I thought my catheter had popped out. I panicked.

“BABE! Thing’s are happening! I think it fell out, I need you to check!”

Why it is that I thought HE should check and not the dang hospital staff is beyond me, but my trooper husband checked and informed me, no everything was still in place. Then I realized it was my water breaking, which was hilarious because if I hadn’t been at the hospital, I would totally have been that lady who’s water breaks and goes sploosh all over the floor at the grocery store. We used the call bell thingy to let the desk know my water broke. This was apparently great, because the doc was coming back at 6pm to do it for me had it not.

At this point things started to get a bit intense again, and I was given a top up on my epidural. I could definitely feel pressure building now that my water had broken, but once the meds kicked in, thats all I could feel. They had me lay on my left side with a giant peanut shaped ball between my legs, so the epidural could affect my left side a bit better, and so my hips were open to allow the baby to get into optimal position.

More time passed, more cellphoning was done, more snacks were eaten by Lefty. To be fair, he didn’t leave me to get himself meals or anything, so I can imagine he legitimately was quite hungry. By this point, we had about 1/3 of our snacks left. Katie came back to check me a few times, and I was dilating steadily. I think I had another top up of my epidural at some point, but that exact sequence of events is lost to me. I do remember Katie coming back and saying she thought I was almost at 10cm, and had my doctor come and double check, who confirmed yes I was at 10cm and I got the go ahead to start pushing.

Now, I was pretty darn numb because my top up had happened fairly recently, and in hind sight, I don’t think anyone checked to see how dilated I was before I got it. I think I WAS checked before I got it, but because anesthesiologists kind of run around doing their own thing, it might have been a bit of time before I actually got the top up after being checked. I remember that I was always regaining feeling in my left side WAY faster than my right, which sucked a bit later.

So it was about 10pm and Katie was coaching me on how to push, but I was having to hold my belly to tell when I was having a contraction to know when to push because I was SUPER numb. I was doing an ok job for a while, with lots of encouragement from Lefty and Katie. Once my epidural started to wear off however, this got infinitely easier. At some point Katie left for the night, and Erin became my nurse (I remember her name because she was the last one). My contractions were coming so close together, not hurting obviously, but not giving me a chance to breathe between them. Erin told me to take a break through a few and just breathe. Ok sure … sounds good. NOPE. That was not a thing. My body said PUSH, and I just had to. At some point Lefty was putting a cold cloth on my head and said “hey babe, its my birthday”, to which I replied a breathless Happy Birthday, and kept pushing. This obviously must have been right after midnight, and shortly after that Erin called the desk to have the doctor come in because I guess the baby was just about ready to make it’s entrance into the world. I remember I could feel the baby turning it’s head back and forth as I was pushing and it was SO weird. My doctor came in and turned on the worlds largest, brightest lights - I’m not going to say they were as bright as the sun exactly - and pointed them where the sun doesn’t usually shine. A few more really good pushes and all hell broke loose for me. Everything was well in hand I’m sure, but all of a sudden I had NO control over my body. I was not pushing. I was sputtering and (I think) screaming a bit. The doctor said the baby was coming between pushes, whatever that means, and then the whole night reached a crescendo and BOOM. I FELT my belly empty as the doctor helped our baby out one shoulder at a time.

As previously agreed on, the doctor held up the baby for my husband to announce the gender.

“It’s … it’s a boy” choked out my teary eyed Lefty, and they put him on my belly.

Never. Never in my life have I loved something, someone, so instantly and completely. His little head was a bit coned and he was a bit purple in the face and upper body. He wasn’t crying right off the hop, which freaked Lefty out a bit, but I knew it was ok (#EMTlife). About 10 seconds of vigorous rubbing by Erin and he let out his first cry.

I laid there, with my little pink naked brand-new baby against my skin and just stared at him. An entire choir of singing cats could have entered the room and I wouldn’t have noticed. I especially remember the way his little nose looked, and how much hair he had! So much and so dark! Lefty and I were both blonde blonde blonde as children so this was a huge surprise!

Some amount of time later, I was informed I needed an extra medication because I was bleeding quite a lot, and so I was given Ergot. Since then, I’ve learned I was probably bleeding more than normal because my uterus was so tired from contracting so much for so long. My epidural was removed completely (and painlessly, to my surprise) and I was able to take a few steps to a wheel chair. I kept my little man tucked close as they wheeled me to my recovery room, somehow surprised that I was being wheeled through a main hallway to reach my destination.

Once settled in we started trying to breastfeed (which admittedly I had wanted to do sooner, but with the bleeding and all it just hadn’t happened) and Grouchy Nurse asked me if I wanted some toast and juice.

Ummm. Hell. Yes….please. I hadn’t eaten in over 16 hours and had just done the biggest workout of my entire life. Those slices of toast and apple juice were the MOST DELICIOUS things I have EVER eaten, but they were not nearly enough to make a dent in my hunger. Luckily a few fruit gummies and granola bars had survived in our snack stash, so those helped tide me over until morning.

Lefty and I laid in the bed and stared at our miracle. I sniffed his head. A lot. I was addicted already. I knew from that moment on, no amount of time spent with him would ever be enough. That I would give my life to protect him. That I would fetch him the moon and stars if that’s what he wanted. I finally knew what true love was (sorry Lefty, but I know you feel the same way so it’s cool). I know I should have slept, but I just held him, and fed him, and stared at him. Lefty and I took turns asking the other if we could believe how amazing he was, and we both agreed, we could not.

My blood pressure continued to be high, and Grouchy Nurse kept asking me if I had a headache. No lady. I don’t. Please leave me alone with my miracle. Why are y’all so obsessed with my headache, or lack thereof? Unfortunately, my blood pressure was super alarming to everyone but me, and I had to stay in the hospital for 2 more days. This becomes important later, but I think that’s a story for another post.

I cannot believe what a miracle conceiving, carrying, and birthing a child is. We may not have gotten there the “usual” way, but none of that mattered as I held my sweet boy in my arms. I would do it all again, 100 thousand times over for him. You never really know just how full your heart can be, until you have a child - however you have that child.

Happy Birthday to the most important men in my life, my Mini-Man and my Lefty.

TLDR: I had a baby and it hurt and he is amazing.

Are You Not Entertained!?

noreply@blogger.com (Lefty the Hopeful Dad) — Wed, 28 Nov 2018 14:00:00 +0000

I'm sure all the parents out there understand why it's November and I haven't posted anything since August. If you're Supermom or Superdad and you don't, well good for you, give me some of whatever drug you're taking because I don't know how you do it. I have this saying I used to say to myself and, admittedly, to other members of my family (who hated it). It goes; "If it's important to you, you'll make it a priority". Which is still just as true as it ever was, except that now the list of priorities has changed and there never seems to be enough time to fit them all in.

My number one priority is ensuring the health and happiness of my amazing, intelligent, soul filling, adorable, little man. The second is building my relationship with him and spending time playing with him, and reading to him, and doing all the things I believe I have to do to be the kind of father I want to be. Although I know first hand, having been raised by a single mom, that doing these things on my own is not impossible, I don't know how I would do it without my wife - who really is Supermom. Especially because now that the little guy is old enough to really have some fun with, he's also old enough to know exactly what he doesn't want, but of course, being only seven months old, he's not old enough to communicate what he does want.

So when my amazing Kay leaves the house, and its father/son time, we get to spend our time building and destroying block towers, and dancing around the living room, and laughing at dad's funny faces. But when these things get boring, or the little man gets tired - all bets are off. You might as well throw your chips in the air because nobody is going to win this game. The games become a frantic search for something that will either entertain him, or put him to sleep - including but not limited to cradling him in my arms and swinging him from side to side, pacing from one side of the house to the other, bouncing him in my baby carrier, rubbing his tummy, giving him some food - basically anything I can think of to chill out the tiny monster and his infant roars. Inevitably, I end up like Russell Crowe in Gladiator exclaiming to myself and my child "Are you not entertained!?" as I look around at the room that fittingly looks like a roman coliseum after the completion of a war game.

Eventually, he does fall asleep, which my mom would say is a lesson in patience for me - and that time that he is asleep with his head resting on my chest feeling completely safe, is just as precious as the time we spend playing together. Or every day when I walk through the door after work and he turns and looks and smiles when he sees it's me. Or any time I hear him laugh and my heart bursts. Or when I'm away from him and I miss him so much it actually physically hurts. Being a parent is the single most amazing thing I have ever done - and I've done some really cool shit. These days, all other thrills in life are cheap compared to raising a human that I've created, whether it be through science or not - this boy is my life - and neither me nor his mother would change it for the world.

Newborns & Airhorns

noreply@blogger.com (Lefty the Hopeful Dad) — Sun, 12 Aug 2018 22:00:00 +0000

Taking care of a newborn truly is a full-time job, and while I do know that as a father that goes to work while his partner stays at home with the baby, sometimes I just don’t understand it. I try to be as supportive as I can. When Kay is stressed out and has days that she feels like she hasn’t been able to get anything done, I always tell her, you only have two responsibilities; “take care of the baby and take care of yourself”. Most of the time I mean that, but occasionally, I don’t. Occasionally, I resent her for getting to spend so much time with our son, for being the one he wants when he’s upset, for being the only one that can feed him, and the one that knows him better than anybody.

Jealousy is a manipulative emotion and it can really cloud your judgement if you let it. For example, when Kay takes my advice, and takes care of herself and the baby, nothing else gets done; and sometimes, after coming home from an exhausting day at work, despite my better judgement, I’ll get annoyed that now instead of spending time with the baby, I’m spending my evenings taking out the garbage, cleaning the cat litter, and doing the dishes. We share all our chores and since the baby was born, most of them have become my chores. This is something I’m totally fine with on days when my judgement has not lapsed, but on days when I’ve tossed it to the wind, the resentment starts to build.

Today was one of those days. I’m an early riser and I was up early this morning. It’s Sunday, so I’m not at work. I spent my morning running some errands while Kay and the baby slept. Then around 9AM they woke up and with complete disregard for the fact that my wife had been up every two or three hours caring for our child, I rushed her and the baby out of bed and got annoyed when she took too long. We went for breakfast at a restaurant together, and I scarfed down my food quickly, recognizing that the baby was about to lose his shit, and when I tried to console him, all he wanted was his mom, so the resentment kept building.

Nap time aftermath

Later in the afternoon, Kay decided she wanted to clean the bathtub, so I eagerly took the little man for some father son time, but my three-month-old had other plans. He didn’t want father son time, or lay on his back time, or over the shoulder time, or tummy time, or story time, or singalong time, or a puppet show. He needed nap time, but it seemed he didn’t want that either. By that time, mama had finished cleaning the bathtub, and I begrudgingly handed him over to her and went downstairs for a snack. As I was eating I decided to turn on the video baby monitor that was sitting there, partially to be a creep, partially to be funny, and partially to find out what the hell she’s got that I don’t (besides the milk).

I sat there watching my son’s arms and legs flail, and my wife try over and over to calm him down enough to feed him. She swaddled him, she sang to him, she held him and rocked him. She patiently tried everything she could, one after the other, while the whole time he screamed at the top of his lungs. Eventually, she did get him to sleep by trying a new bouncing maneuver while she held him close to her chest. I watched all of this with a mixture of emotions. I felt shame, for resenting my wife who is seriously just trying to do the best she can. I felt pride, in her for being such a great mother and wife and for being so patient with our son. And finally, I was grateful that it wasn’t me, because I realized that this is every single day and pretty much every night for her – and has been for the last three months – which has got to be a feat equivalent to completing a marathon every day while someone blows an air horn in your face every time you stop for a rest.

I started this blog with the hope that I might reach some people out there and it might help them get through some similar things. But today, I think I just owe my wife an apology. So, to my beautiful wife – I’m sorry if I’m a dick sometimes, you’re doing an amazing job. Please don’t buy an airhorn.

#sorrynotsorry

noreply@blogger.com (Lefty the Hopeful Dad) — Sat, 07 Jul 2018 15:00:00 +0000

So Kay and I have, for the most part, figured out how to keep the little man clean, happy, and fed – although we’ve been told on numerous occasions that just when you figure it out they will change entirely. Both of us are completely in love and spend any small amount of free time we have staring at him in awe. We obsess over his adorably thick head of hair, we melt when we smile at him and he smiles back, and our hearts burst when I sing to him and he coos as though he’s singing along with me. Having a child is every bit as amazing as I thought it would be and so much more.

Some of the things we are still figuring out are the best ways to keep him safe. I mean, there’s the obvious things, like not leaving him unattended at the mall, strapping him into his car seat correctly, and making sure we are following the recommended sleep suggestions (which could really take up a whole post on its own), but something we’ve really struggled with is our son’s online presence.

Kay and I didn’t feel quite right about plastering his photo all over social media and we asked our family and friends not to do so as well, at least until we figured out how we wanted to handle it. It’s not that we don’t want to share him with the world - if it was up to me I’d walk him out to the edge of Pride Rock and have a baboon present him to a crowd of African beasts, while a world class symphony led by Elton John serenades everything the light touches. Fortunately, it’s not up to me because nobody in their right mind should entrust their newborn with a baboon, but I think I’ve made my point.

We grew up before the time of Facebook, and Twitter, and Instagram, and Snapchat. We were young adults when Facebook became a thing and we consented to our information being used and shared with the world – even if we didn’t fully understand what that meant at the time, we were able to make the choice for ourselves. The feeling that we have is that by putting his image out there again and again, we are robbing him of something our generation had, and the new generation has much less of- privacy.

The majority of our friends and family have been entirely respectful of our wishes, but inevitably we’ve had to remind some people once or twice or had to ask people to remove photos from social media – but we truly do understand where people are coming from. We are more proud of him than any grandparent, or aunt, or uncle, or best friend could possibly be, and posting pictures of him and seeing the public comment at how adorable he is, or watching that “like” count go up would be extremely gratifying and validating – but then almost as quickly as we posted it, the photo would fade from our memory, and his image would be in cyberspace forever, totally out of our control, and most importantly, out of his control. Kay used the analogy of a teenage crush visiting you at home and your mom hauling out the baby pictures while you’re finishing the touch-ups on your hair in the bathroom – except instead of just being embarrassed in front of his teenage crush, it’s everyone he will ever meet.

It turns out, sharing photos is just as effective through private messages between friends and family. It’s also just as gratifying as social media for me, when someone asks me if I have pictures of my son, and I get to say “DO I?!” and pull out my phone and show them the 50 most recent photos because my entire library is just pictures of him. I’m not even exaggerating, just because I don’t wallpaper my digital wall with him, doesn’t mean I don’t take pictures of him. I take pictures of everything he does; of him smiling while mom plays pattycake with him, or screaming as we give him a bath, or a picture of a dirty diaper because I was so impressed with how full it was.

I’m not oblivious to the fact that times have changed – that social media is a significant part of our lives now. I’m also not so ignorant that I don’t know what privacy settings are. Nor am I blind to the irony that I write a blog about some of the most intimate parts of my life. These concepts have been carefully considered in our decision to keep our son’s face absent from the word of social media, and at this point in time, it’s really his choice that we are protecting.

We’re not so self-righteous to believe that this is the right decision for everyone, and I am the first person to hit like on pictures of my friends’ kids, so there’s truly no judgement from us on how everyone else chooses to share their own children with the world. It also doesn’t mean that we will always feel this way, or that we will never share pictures of him on social media – but until then, we remain unapologetically and ironically #sorrynotsorry.

Sweet Child of Mine

noreply@blogger.com (Lefty the Hopeful Dad) — Fri, 11 May 2018 15:00:00 +0000

In most cases, when you watch an action movie, the protagonist is usually struck with some kind of epic tragedy before their life turns upside down and they become the hero. Peter Parker's uncle died and he became Spiderman, Frank Castle's family was murdered and he became the Punisher, Superman's home planet, Krypton, was destroyed and he was rocketed to Earth by his parents to live out his extraordinary existence. In most cases in real life though, we live through tragedy, we grieve, and then we simply continue on our paths living our lives with the knowledge of what we endured.

My personal tragedy, while admittedly was substantially less tragic than the destruction of my entire planet, has served to change my life for the better. I have proved to myself what I can accomplish when I put my mind to it, I have been offered and taken the opportunity to stand up for others dealing with their own personal tragedies. I have counselled and offered support to people struggling with infertility, and now my hope is that my story will offer hope to those on their own journey. While I am immensely proud of these accomplishments, I am in no way saying I'm a superhero or comparing myself to the likes of Superman and Spiderman. Although, I'm not going to lie, there have been times in the past couple of weeks that I have thrown my fists up in the air, then flexed my underdeveloped dad biceps and declared myself SuperDad in front of my wife and a room full of pets.

My birthday is on April 29th, and at 34 minutes past midnight that morning, my son was born. He came into the world naturally, although he did require a bit of a push by induction. After ten hours of labour, K pushed like a champion for two additional hours to deliver to me the most incredible birthday gift I could ever ask for. I am not ashamed for a second to admit to the tears that streamed down my face, and as I thanked him for the gift of himself, I looked down at that little man and I said, "but I didn't get you anything for your birthday."

Aside from seeing something we'd worked so hard for come to fruition, and aside from meeting my baby boy for the first time, I also came to understand the reason people refer to child birth as a miracle. As K was pushing, I held her leg and did my part to encourage her and tell her how good of a job she was doing. Bit by bit, however, as I watched that baby come I became more and more convinced that there was no way in hell that baby was going to fit. Then all of the sudden, by some kind of a complete miracle there was another human in the world. It was, by far, the single most incredible thing I have ever witnessed in my entire life, and it gave me a whole new understanding and complete and utter appreciation for the human body and for my wife's accomplishment of giving birth.

I was in complete awe and I remained so until they finally released us from the hospital (they kept us an extra day because K's blood pressure was too high). The nurse showed us how to strap the little man into the car seat and as we were walking out two things occurred to me: One, I was totally terrified, and two, I couldn't help but feel like someone should stop us and question us to at least make sure we were competent or something, but nobody did. You can't fish without a license but you can make babies on demand and just figure out how to keep them alive - it's mind-blowing to me.

The drive home from the hospital was the most nerve racking driving experience I've ever had, and I was once in a roll over, in a rented convertible, in a foreign country, so that's saying something. I felt like a new driver all over again. In fact, it wasn't just driving that made me feel like that, it was parenting altogether - it felt like I had just started my first day at a new job, in a new company, and had no idea what I was doing.

Changing diapers was a whole new experience for me too, especially the black tar-like substance that comes out of a newborn as though they are a tube of charcoal toothpaste. What I mean by new experience though isn't just the colour of the goo, it's that I never thought I would be so okay with having poop on my hand. It's like this weird understanding comes over you and all the sudden, wiping cream on another human's butthole with a bare finger is just something that needs to be done, you just wash your hands and get over it.

Little by little as we figure out our new life, and in between sessions of staring at our new child in awe, more and more of those parenting instincts kick in and we become better at the job itself. Although, not everything is instinctual, a lot of it is learned, like the lesson learned from getting peed all over because I didn't know that exposure to air is what kicks in the urinary response. Or the realization that my terrible a'capella karaoke voice singing Guns N' Roses' Sweet Child O' Mine will produce dead silence in a screaming baby while I sing the song as slowly as I can, and on repeat, to draw it out longer.

Of all the lessons I've learned throughout this immensely exhausting and rewarding experience, the one thing I know without a doubt - is that this life, with this woman, and this child is worth every dollar we've spent, every tear we've shed, every heartbreak we've endured, and every fear we have conquered to get here, and I wouldn't have it any other way.

A Wizard is Never Late

noreply@blogger.com (Lefty the Hopeful Dad) — Sat, 21 Apr 2018 15:00:00 +0000

With the due date of April 20th having come and gone, and still no baby having shown up, Kay and I are impatiently waiting on pins and needles to meet our new addition. We scrambled to get the nursery completed by the due date, knowing in the back of our minds the baby could really have come any time. We cleaned the carpets, got the vents and furnace cleaned, gave it a fresh coat of paint and K worked her designer magic on the room by building a custom book shelf, refinishing an Ikea dresser, and flexing her creative muscle with some custom artwork and hanging methods.

Practicing on baby's bear "Hiccup"

With the nursery complete and everything set up and ready, we are passing the time by figuring out all of our baby equipment. A friend of ours is a Certified Child Passenger Safety Technician (something I had no idea existed until recently) and she showed K how to install the car seat properly, then K turned around and taught me how to buckle the baby in.

Unfortunately, with the way K's car is built, the car seat doesn't allow for much leg-room in the front passenger seat, which has me considering something I never thought I would - a minivan. Yes, I said it, I could actually see us buying a minivan in the future. The combination of room, practicality, and relatively cheap cost has my dad-eyes glazed over. A friend of mine said it best when she said something to the effect of: "I never saw myself in a minivan, but having this much distance between my head and my kids' mouths is better than sex."

Occupying ourselves with all these activities is, of course, a good thing, but it gets a little mind-numbing when all we really want to do is start our new life by meeting our new baby. The excitement I feel when I think about what this is going to mean for us is inexplicable, although I have to admit, with all the medical procedures we've gone through already, both K and I would really prefer natural initiation of labour than having to be induced.

I truly believe that working really hard at something and then standing back to look at the accomplishment makes everything worth it. With what we've done to get here, and how long we have waited, this is truly going to be the best feeling in the world. So when I think about the baby being past due, I try to remember the quote from the great wizard Gandalf: "A wizard is never late, nor is he (or she) early, he (or she) arrives precisely when they mean to."

First I Ask the Friends, Then I Do the Parenting (Part 3)

noreply@blogger.com (Lefty the Hopeful Dad) — Tue, 10 Apr 2018 14:07:00 +0000

Any day now.

While living the child-free life, I've watched as each of my friends got married and/or had children, the majority of them before me. I've also watched as they had kids and then quickly drifted away, something I admittedly resented somewhat no matter how understanding I tried to be. I even went on to vow to myself that when I have kids, I'm not going to miss out on things, and skip events, and de-prioritize my friends - I'm not going to use them as an excuse. But as I get closer to having children, and I watch my wife as she turns our house into a giant nest, and I get ready for the baby myself, I struggle more and more about how I'm going to keep this promise to myself.

A couple of my friends put this into perspective for me. They explained to me that you wait for so long to meet your child, then once they are here you want to spend every moment of every day with them. You get so wrapped up in their little world that you forget to take care of yourself. Whether that be missing social events and activities, or playing sports, or working out. They said "you tell yourself you'll have time tomorrow, or the next day, but before you know it months have passed" and the time you needed for yourself is gone. They explained that this doesn't stop with your marriage either, that you can end up neglecting your relationship too - not maliciously, but honestly out of love for your new child.

When I think of the advice they gave, I compare it to riding on a plane, and the directions of how to use the oxygen masks in the event of an emergency. The directions are very clear that an adult must put on their own oxygen mask first, before helping their child. The reason for this, is because if the adult passes out first, there will be nobody to help the child. What I learned from them is that in order to take the best care of your child, you need to make sure you're also taking care of yourself and your relationships. This isn't to say there won't be sacrifices, those are inevitable, but finding a way to meet your own needs and those of your relationship with your partner ensures that your child has a solid opportunity to grow.

This is something I already admittedly have trouble with, and especially now that K is off work and at home waiting for the baby to come, something that has come to the forefront of our relationship. Being home by herself all day is a lonely place to be, even with a dog and two cats. So when I'm gone all the time working, or volunteering, or even when I'm at home working in my office - my absence takes much more of a toll than it did when she was working. I tell myself that I'm doing these things for my family (which there is some truth to), but what I've realized, with the help of the advice from my friends, is that I need to prioritize a little differently now - something that I'm sure will change even more once the baby is here.

I don't really know what that prioritization needs to look like, I'm still just fumbling around in the dark. What I do know, is that Kay and I are due for a date night, so date night is where I'm going to start.

First I Ask the Friends, Then I Do the Parenting (Part 2)

noreply@blogger.com (Lefty the Hopeful Dad) — Wed, 28 Feb 2018 15:00:00 +0000

As I said in my last post, I got so much great advice and feedback from friends that I had to write a series. This is one of my personal favorites, particularly because the story is so epically terrifying, and because it happened to family. I can't honestly put it into better words than this so I've decided to let Cousin J tell the story in his own words:

Let me tell you the story of why I now have a home phone, a.k.a. the scariest 30 minutes of my life. As with all stories of this nature it started out like any other evening. We were all getting ready for a low key family dinner date - well that's not really true - some of us were getting ready and a certain naked 3 year old was practicing his jumping on the bed and his “look dad, look dad, look dad” routine. Anyone who has the pleasure of living with these micro terrorists knows how this ends - Crash!

I turned around and my son was piled up in the bottom of his brother’s playpen and let out a pretty good scream. Nothing to worry about at this point; for anyone with kids this is still pretty much business as usual. At this age they have only a few jobs and one of the main ones is pushing everything to failure. That could be testing gravity with one of your prized pre-children artifacts, or maybe just your will to live. In this case it was his ability to do a backflip off a playpen railing. Anyway, things went quiet. P.S. now is the time to worry.

My wife went to pick him up and do the usual “there, there, you're alright,” but he was not alright. She immediately signalled to me something was wrong. I turned around to see his limp and lifeless body in her arms and he was peeing on the floor; now I'm no medical expert, but that is never good. I jumped right to action, and when I say that, I mean I yelled out “HE IS NOT OK!” just in case that wasn’t clear to her already. We put him down on the bed and I told her to call 911 and get some help ASAP.

Now at this point, I should point out I have taken first aid a bunch of times. I forgot everything. Right then my wife came flying back into the room, “where is your #$#@$ phone!?!?”. Pretty sure I didn’t even respond to her, I could only think “this is how my son dies.” After I processed the fact I was going to have to do something here, I checked to see if he was breathing. This all seemed like it took 5 minutes to me, but in reality it was probably like 15 seconds.

Nope I don't hear anything and his chest isn’t moving. “We need help right now!” I finally responded to her. I could now hear her telling someone the whole story. They stopped her right away and she spit out our address. OK now what? I was just positioning his head for what would be a parent's worst nightmare. Head tilt, chin lift, pinch the nose and with the greatest relief his beautiful brown eyes opened up. I’m not religious, but at this point I thanked all the gods I could think of.

He was pretty out of it, but was making some noises. I started trying to talk to him and let my wife know “he's ALIVE!”, but he was barely there and he hadn't moved a muscle. I guess I was expecting him to cry out and jump up like in the movies. I immediately thought, "oh no he broke his neck or something". Can you feel this? No action. Can you hear me? Still nothing. I kept trying to get his attention and relay what was happening to my wife who was around the corner because it’s the only place she could get a signal on her phone.

I started to see some movement with my boy’s body and he was saying some words that made no sense. Then the ambulance arrived - I can’t describe the relief you feel when two professionals come on the scene - everything was under control now.

Pretty scary right? Ya, the feelings still go through my mind when I see him on top of a counter or bouncing around the furniture. He was totally fine by the time he finished his ambulance ride to the Stollery Hospital; sadly I don’t think they get to see many kids bouncing off the walls around there (shout out to those beautiful people, please donate if you can). They eventually got him to sit still for a few minutes and gave him a checkout and explained what they suspect happened. We even made it to that dinner date.

So what did I learn about parenting from this experience? Have a reliable phone in the house, and get first aid training. I might have thought I forgot everything in the moment, but who knows how I would have reacted without that basic training. Also, you can get home phone service from a bunch of places and it's practically free these days through your internet connection. You could be faced with an emergency at any moment and you can be sure that’s when your phone will be dead or the signal is just ten feet too far away.

And to the non or new parents thinking “shouldn’t the lesson be to keep your kid off the playpen railing?!” I would say - Good Luck!

First I Ask the Friends, Then I Do the Parenting (Part 1)

noreply@blogger.com (Lefty the Hopeful Dad) — Wed, 21 Feb 2018 15:00:00 +0000

I always knew I wanted to have kids at some point in my life. I remember when my best friend B told me he was going to be a dad. At the time we were pretty young, but I turned to him and congratulated him. He told me I was the first person to say that to him, and it wasn't for lack of people that he'd told. Everyone's response to his news wasn't entirely unexpected - at that age, becoming grandparents was our parents' worst nightmare. However, it turned out to be the best thing that ever happened to him. Between then and now he's become an example of the kind of father I look forward to being: caring, understanding, careful with his words, and unbelievably patient. The result has been two of the most polite, well-behaved, and interesting kids I have ever met.

Kay's new bump

Subsequent to his children being born, I watched as each one of my high school friends gradually had children of their own. As I'm one of the last of those friends to have kids, this puts me in an outstanding position to learn from the best, a notion that seemed like it would make a really good blog post. So I asked a number of those friends to help with my research by giving me their best parenting advice, tips, and tricks. What I was honestly hoping to get from this was enough hilarious material in the form of stories and cheeky advice to write an entertaining blog post, but what I actually got was effective, moving, and helpful recommendations with some seriously thick substance, so substantial that I've decided to make it a series instead of just one post.

For example, my friend B, the first of my friends to have children, explained his parenting philosophy to me - "show them love" he said. Something that seems really obvious and simple, right? Not necessarily for everyone. What he means by that isn't that you should tell them how much you love them all the time, or shower them with gifts. What he means is to lead by example - "be a good person, do something nice for a stranger, listen when they talk, treat them like real people - not just kids that don't understand what you're talking about", lessons I'm sure we can agree we should all live by, and something that I think really hits home about what it means to be a parent. Prior to parenthood, you can pretty much do what you want with your own life and (for the most part) you don't have to worry how that will affect other people. But as a parent, every single thing you do affects the kind of person that child is going to be.

B added to his advice by saying "show them you love their mom, instil in them the want and need be a good person". He believes, "if you do everything with love in your heart; your kids (or anybody's kids) will turn out to be really great people". This will be really easy for me. As you all know, my wife is my pride and joy, the person who supports me, and the person that gives me purpose. How I treat my wife is how my children will learn to treat the people they care about. I read an article recently about a Harvard study that was done over the course of almost 80 years - which came to the conclusion that the key to our happiness in life is the relationships we have with others. To me, this means that if I show my children the love I have for their mother, I can teach them how to treat other people properly, how to love, and how to build meaningful and healthy relationships.

If this study is correct, I can then have a profound impact on their happiness well into adulthood. The secret to great children, it seems, is also the secret to great adults - which I think is what B was getting at when he added "Don't be afraid to discipline your children. That is something that is missing these days, and look how many asshole little kids there are out there."

Hush Those Puppies

noreply@blogger.com (Lefty the Hopeful Dad) — Wed, 14 Feb 2018 19:00:00 +0000

Kay is 30 weeks into her pregnancy and routine has pretty much taken over. We still have no idea what we’re having, although we do have our suspicions. We’ve finally got the names picked out for either a boy or a girl, something we’ve decided to keep to ourselves for now. I think we lost so much of the surprise in the beginning, through all the procedures, that we’re really trying to make up for it on the back end, and honestly it’s working. We are so excited to find out what we’re having, so excited to meet our little boy or little girl, and we can hardly contain it!

Until then, though, my life will be consumed with making sure my pup doesn’t kill himself (that’s another story), and giving my tired wife the most epic of all foot rubs. Through trial and error, literal sweat and tears, I have learned the secrets to the best foot rubs, knowledge that I could easily keep to myself, but instead will bestow upon the masses – so all the hopeful dads and moms out there can rub those swollen, pregnant feet and not have to undergo the growing pains that we had to. Keep these tips in mind and you should have a pretty smooth transition into pregnanthood.

Never Say No
This may be the most important tip of all, because what you need to understand is that no matter how tired you are, no matter how long your day was – you lived that day without having to carry a human inside you. So when you finish dinner, and you sit down on the couch to relax, and she subtly takes off her socks and slides them into your lap, and looks at you with those anticipating eyes, it is your responsibility to rub those sweaty bastards; which brings me to my second tip.

Her Feet Never Smell
Under no circumstances will you ever tell her that her feet stink. I don’t care if those things smell like liquefied meat, you will not mention it to her; unless you wish to hear the uncontrollable sobs of a hormonal woman in tears because of something you said. Instead, you will cowboy up, hold your breath, and ask for nothing but the other foot when you’re done rubbing the first one.

Let Her Guide You
When her feet are sore, it’s because she’s carrying around all that extra weight she’s not used to, and depending on how she walks, different parts of her feet may need a little extra love than others. Listen to what she says to find the spots that need it the most. If she says the outside hurts the most, rub a little harder there, if she groans a bit when you rub her heel, make sure you don’t forget that spot on the next foot. If you listen to her, she will tell you how to give the best foot rub she’s ever had. Stay as far away as possible from her toes though, for she will give you no warning, no groan, no laugh, she will just kick you in the face because her toes are the most ticklish part of her feet.

Don’t Stop Until You Have To
They say that 90% of running a marathon is in your head; well this is the same with rubbing pregnancy feet. When you finish the first foot, you will likely have to take a break, but by god you better pick up that second foot and finish the job. That woman is counting on you, and so is the baby she’s carrying. The feet are the key to the body’s balance, and therefore need the same level of care and attention you would give your car by getting new tires, because better balance equals a happy wife and a safe baby. Now that you understand, the break is over, finish that second foot and don’t stop until you can’t make a fist.

Toenails Are Sharp
The harsh reality of having a basketball sized belly is that she can no longer reach her toenails, so they are probably getting long and sharp. So while you’re down there, make sure you clip them for her, or better yet, stay true to tip number three by staying away from her toes altogether and send her for a pedicure. This tip is just as much for you as it is for her, because clean feet with trimmed nails don't smell and don't cut you and therefore are substantially easier to rub.

When it comes down to it, you need to rub those feet like it’s your job. Why? Because it is literally the only job you have while she grows you your very own human. So don't shy away from it, take it on like a challenge, like you're about to climb a mountain. But when you do, remember, this isn't a sprint, its a marathon, a test of your endurance, so take the time to perfect your skills - you will thank me later.

Naming of the Shrew

noreply@blogger.com (Lefty the Hopeful Dad) — Fri, 19 Jan 2018 02:22:00 +0000

For the last 27 weeks I've been exercising my patience muscle - something that I maybe should have done a long time ago. It turns out pregnancy is not nearly as exciting as I expected. Not to say that it hasn't had it's moments; once the baby got over being shy when my hand was resting on Kay's belly, I finally got to feel it kick, which was an incredible moment for me. AND we just discovered that if we play some music out loud on my phone and place it on Kay's belly, we can watch the baby dance as the phone gets kicked all over the place. However, aside from the intermittent excitement of baby kicks, pregnancy is pretty boring, at least for me. For Kay, pregnancy is littered with bathroom breaks, and sleepless nights, tiny feet jabbing her in the bladder, and an insatiable need for anything citrus. I honestly marvel at the miracle that is my wife's baby bakery and although I'm somewhat jealous at times, I always come back to being extremely thankful I was born a dude.

We pass the time by shooting down each other's ideas for baby names, which reminds me of a show from my childhood called "Mad About You" starring Helen Hunt and Paul Riser. There was this episode where they had their baby girl, but it remained unnamed for a ridiculous amount of time because they couldn't agree on a name. Their family was all over them about not knowing what to call the baby, but they were adamant they would decide on a name in their own time. At the end of the episode they were fiddling with the baby (changing it or bathing it or something) and one of them said the name 'Mabel'. They both looked at each other with wide eyes and together in unison, with sing-songy voices said, "Maaaabelllll" - knowing they had finally chosen the name. That show aired from 1992 to 1999 - so its more than 20 years old, meaning I was 12 when it ended, and I have absolutely no idea why I still remember it.

What I do know is that I don't want to be like them and waiting till post-discharge to be giving our child a name, but not knowing the gender of the baby has added a whole new element to naming it that I didn't really expect. Having to choose suitable names for both a boy and a girl has recently been a lot of work, but for a while I thought we had it all figured out. Not too long after the second ultrasound, I was very close to writing an advice post because I was so confident that Kay and I had found the secret to agreeing on a name. We both had a list of boy's names and a list of girl's names we liked, and many of them were the same. So we took our lists, and each ranked our top ten names in order from most favorite to least favorite. Then we went down each other's lists, starting at the top, and circled the ones that matched. Both of us had matching girl and boy names near the top of the list. Voila - names chosen.

Unfortunately, having all this time available has allowed us to second guess our decisions. Or, I guess if I'm being truthful, I should say it has allowed Kay the time to second guess our decisions. Not her choice for a boy's name of course, since the one we ended up choosing was her number one - or if we're still being truthful, it really was her only choice. It is, however, the girl's name that she is second guessing. She still likes it, but isn't 100% sold on it. So after our tremendous example of compromise, we are back to square one - peppering each other with girl names, which are being rejected over and over - which is even more frustrating since we don't even know if it's a girl!

Now if I'm being fair, I also am having reservations about our girl name, but only because Kay has been sending me five new names a day for the last month and I've fallen in love with a whole new list. Kay also believes that having solid nicknames for the names we choose is almost as important as the name itself. This is a family trait of hers that comes from having at least sixteen nicknames for all of their family pets, which isn't a bad thing, but is not a catalyst for decisiveness. In the end, I'm confident we're going to find a name that both of us love, but until then I guess we're just stuck waiting for our own "Mabel Moment".

Pamper Panic

noreply@blogger.com (Lefty the Hopeful Dad) — Wed, 20 Dec 2017 14:00:00 +0000

The term expecting frustrates me immensely. I understand that you're pregnant and expecting to have a child, but being this is my first child, I honestly have no god damn clue what to expect. Aside from the cliché parts - no sleep, changing diapers, and being introduced to the love of your life - I'm completely in the dark. I try to read up on stuff to get a clearer picture of what's coming, but there is so much contradictory information out there it makes my head spin. Top that off with the insane marketing tactics utilized by the baby retail industry and I don't know how anybody doing this for the first time knows what to expect.

Kay and I were out and about, checking out our local baby stores and we walked into the hell on earth that is Buy Buy Baby. That store was not made with the first time parent in mind, with floor to ceiling marketing of baby doohickeys, and ruzzlestumps, and whatever the hell else the industry is trying to convince you that you need to keep your baby alive - that place is a living panic attack. All I want to know is how to take the best care of my impending child and that store made me feel like all I have to look forward to is my impending doom.

When it comes to learning how to use a new tool, or learning how to wire a garage, I usually just look up an instructional video on YouTube. I don't put myself in any situations where I could cut off my foot, or set the house on fire - maybe just lose a few bucks from extra materials from making small mistakes. Things are different with a child than with a piece of wood, I can't just toss it on the scrap pile if I mess it up. It's not that I'm incompetent or anything, I mean I've kept my suicidal dog alive for over year, and if you've read my previous posts about him you understand the incredible feat that is in itself. I just know what I don't know, and that's pretty much everything.

The anxiety was building up inside for a while and the longer I thought about it the more terrified I became. My stress in the whole situation culminated when I was at work and I got an alert on my phone. I have one of those apps that tells you how big your baby is, only mine is for expectant fathers and compares the size to lumberjack, wilderness-themed items like beaver tails and axe heads. The app alerted me that we had reached 21 weeks in the pregnancy. Out of curiosity, and naivety, I Googled how long a pregnancy lasts - 40 weeks. 40 WEEKS?!! WE'RE OVER HALF WAY!!

I lost it - I frantically started searching the internet for some kind of course, any course that would teach me how to make my baby not die. I found a number of listings for labor and delivery courses, but nothing on how to take care of a newborn. So I started searching for the best books for new parents, but the vast majority of books I found were geared towards the mother. Eventually, I found a couple handfuls of books that were specific to new dads, but upon reading the reviews they apparently were just condescending advice pieces for the stereotypical dad - "Don't go out for wings with your buddies so often.", "Offer to babysit once in a while so your partner can have a break." Babysit? It's called parenting you douche! This garbage did not at all resonate with the kind of father I plan to be, and only served to fuel my fear.

When I couldn't find what I was looking for, I texted Kay in a panic explaining my frustration - she answered nonchalantly, "Calm down, we'll figure it out" - this was usually my line! She's the pregnant one with all the hormones and I'm the basket case losing my mind because I don't know how to change a diaper. When she realized the level of freakout I was having, Kay called me at work to talk me down off the ledge. She did this by explaining to me how you go about changing a diaper and the differences between changing a boy's diaper and a girl's diaper. I'm quite confident I could have figured it out on my own, and it wasn't the largest part of my worries, but this new knowledge gave me the confidence I needed.

Kay sent me a bunch of links to some decent daddy-focused parenting websites - one of which uses car metaphors to categorize its subjects (I guess not all stereotypes are bad). I also ended up finding a couple of books on Amazon and having them overnight shipped to my door. It turns out learning how to care for a baby is similar to learning how to use a new tool, you have a little bit of upfront anxiety, it costs you a few extra bucks to figure it out, but in the end you have a new skill you can use for a lifetime.

Pink or Blue, Either Will Do

noreply@blogger.com (Lefty the Hopeful Dad) — Thu, 07 Dec 2017 15:00:00 +0000

When we were planning our wedding, I think the question we got asked more than any other question that year was "when is your wedding again?", even from my own family. We would say August 27th, and it would go in one ear, they would nod, and then it would go out the other. It was extremely frustrating to tell the same people over and over the date we were getting married. So after we got pregnant I fully expected that everyone would incessantly ask when the baby was due. Instead, overwhelmingly, the question we get asked the most is, "do you know what you are having?"

One of the biggest decisions we had to make was whether we wanted to know the sex of our baby. I'm not going to debate the issue of gender neutrality here, or the pros and cons of teaching your children gender specific societal expectations and the harm we may or may not be doing to them, that's not what this is about. It's about whether we wanted to find out if we were going to have a little boy, or a little girl.

I have always been of the belief that the gender of your baby is the last great surprise in life. Maybe I'm wrong. I hope I'm wrong, but to date there has been nothing that has entered my mind that could exceed the surprise of finding out whether we're going to have a boy or a girl. I picture myself running out into the waiting room to see our families and exclaiming "it's a girl!", and being excited no matter what word it is that I exclaim.

My beautiful wife, Kay, on the other hand, hates surprises, particularly surprises that she knows are surprises. For example, if I bring home flowers, she's happy with me for doing so, but if I were to tell her on Monday that I have a surprise for her on Friday, she will pester me incessantly until I tell her exactly where we are going, what we are doing, and what the activity requires of her. In most cases, this ruins my well laid plans - and then she feels bad for ruining the surprise, and then I feel bad because she feels bad - it's maddening, but I've learned to cope by keeping her surprises to myself. Unfortunately, she can't exactly keep the surprise of being pregnant from herself - so that was the first problem I foresaw.

The second issue I expected, arose from Kay being a planner, with that Type-A personality that forces her to be in control of all aspects of her foreseeable world. So not finding out the sex means no gender specific purchases, it means no expectations, it means waiting till the last minute to get things ready that we might otherwise have needed - basically it means no planning.

In my eyes, all the foreseeable issues I expected revolved around Kay. I didn't expect that it was me that would have all the difficulty. When we started hitting up the baby stores in the area I found out that "gender neutral color" apparently is synonymous with "no color at all". So wanting that "last great surprise" was starting to mean that I'd have to sit in the nursery, a white and grey clinical setting, with a throwback to the masturbatorium I had worked so hard to forget, and get depressed while trying to rock my screaming baby back to sleep. I was not having it, and I started to second guess my decision. Kay on the other hand, was calm, laid back, and was like "it's fine, we'll just have the shower after the baby is born" - meanwhile I'm having a nervous breakdown because I'm thinking I'm going to damage my kid by depriving it of color in its early years.

I eventually chilled myself out and realized that I was being ridiculous, and what really grounded me was an epiphany I had while making a long solo drive early one morning. As I was driving, I was picturing in my mind that the day had come, that the baby was coming, and we hadn't found out the sex. The baby came out and I was ecstatic to find out the gender, and just like I had imagined previously I walked out into the waiting room to tell everyone what we had - but this time, instead of saying it was a boy or girl, I said "I have a son" or "I have a daughter". That subtle difference changed everything for me, what it did was make that child mine, my responsibility. It really set in that I was going to be a father, not just have a boy or a girl - and I didn't care anymore about what color of clothes it was going to wear - what I truly care about is having that surprise moment when I meet my child.

As cliche' as it sounds, Kay and I really just want the baby to be healthy, we'll be ecstatic no matter what we have, but full disclosure; Kay thinks it's a boy, and I think it's a girl - "may the odds be ever in your favour".

Operation Incubation

noreply@blogger.com (Lefty the Hopeful Dad) — Wed, 01 Nov 2017 14:00:00 +0000

Now that Kay is pregnant, the emotional roller coaster has finally come to a stop, at least for me (Kay is pregnant after all). Life is a little bit calmer, but quite a bit more interesting, as we do baby research, and make baby lists, and shop for baby stuff. It's also full of new surprises and things to get used to.

All-day Morning Sickness
They say morning sickness is pretty standard in the first trimester, but for Kay, it was all day sickness. She was nauseous pretty much from getting out of bed in the morning till going to bed at night. I don't think she ever vomited, but she definitely came close. For the first few weeks she did nothing but lay on the couch, until my incessant nagging (its my blog, so I get to take the credit) got her to go to the doctor and get a prescription. She still occasionally gets a little sick, but not nearly as bad as it was in the beginning, when I had to keep five different kinds of ginger food options in the house at all times, ranging from ginger candy to ginger tea.

Super Human Sense of Smell
Kay's super-sniffer has seriously astounded me. The sensitivity of her nose has increased exponentially since becoming pregnant, which apparently has something to do with an evolutionary trait to make sure she doesn't ingest anything that might harm the baby. Just walking through a door into a large building has made her turn to me and say: "someone is wearing too much perfume" only to figure out that person was on the opposite side of the building.

Cravings are Real
Kay's cravings have not been as unusual as some that I've heard, mostly she craves vinegar. We made a batch of pickled garden carrots recently, and I'm positive they would all be gone already had I not told her that they take time for the pickling to set in. So in the absence of eating our stash of pickled carrots, I came home to find her eating potatoes doused in vinegar...apparently we were all out of chips.

The Baby-Bump
Kay was so excited to start seeing some progress in the growth of her bump. She took progress pictures to watch it grow, which definitely helped, and I was really surprised to see how fast it grew. It hasn't led to too much discomfort yet, but she can't sleep on her stomach anymore (her preferred position is face down starfish, taking up the entire king size bed), the baby is basically always sitting on her bladder, and we have already gone shopping for special pregnancy pillows to alleviate her anticipated sleep issues, although she couldn't make a commitment to any of them.

Crying at the Drop of a Hat

Not everything, but pretty much anything will make Kay cry. Obviously the amount of hormones surging through her body is what makes her emotional and trying not to laugh is the hardest part of dealing with these situations, but I try to be as supportive as I can. Especially when it's me singing a song she doesn't like that brings her to tears, or interrupting her show to ask her questions, or getting scratched by the cat, or feeling like an imposter because her belly isn't big enough yet. In my opinion, it's adorable, so I just give her a hug and keep my chuckling in my head.

Given where we've come from, it's been really nice to have a relatively uneventful pregnancy to date. While it hasn't been without its challenges, a little bit of normalcy in our lives has been a breath of fresh air - even if potatoes and vinegar are your benchmark for normal.

Getting off the Fence

noreply@blogger.com (Lefty the Hopeful Dad) — Fri, 20 Oct 2017 02:20:00 +0000

We finally did it. We made our dreams come true. We have a baby on the way and I'm as happy as I could possibly be, but after seeing that little heartbeat flicker I've had this feeling I haven't been able to shake, that there is something off. I'm told that a woman feels like a mother when she becomes pregnant - the whole having a baby inside you thing really helps to make things real for you, but a man feels like a father when they meet their baby. At first I wrote this feeling off as just that, a delayed daddy reaction that will go away when I meet my baby in April.

It didn't work out that way, the giant pit in my stomach just kept growing. I had fought my way through this whole ordeal and I used every weapon I had. I did tests, and consults, and more tests, and treatments, and research. I got second and third jobs and managed our budgets. When I had done all I could do medically and financially I wrote blog posts, and participated in Facebook groups, staying positive and trying to help others through their own struggles. By every definition of the word, I had earned this triumph, so why did I feel like this?

I've met some awesome people along my journey that were dealt the same crappy hand, many of them much worse. I met couples that have both male and female factor infertility, others that if only they had the money - could make a go at treatment. Couples that have had their hopes lifted, only to then experience devastating loss I can't even begin to imagine, many of them time and time again. That is where the pit in my stomach comes from - a giant bowling ball of guilt weighing down my joy, and forcing me to wonder why it's me that deserves this child, this life, and not all the other people that may be more qualified, more able, and more deserving of their own child.

I tell myself it's okay, that those people understand, but I've been on the other side and I know they don't. It's a shameful feeling to be jealous of your best friends for getting pregnant and having kids, to be angry with them for being able to create something that you can't. I know that feeling and it's not easy. I'm still just as infertile as I ever was, but I'm no longer part of the community that lives it and my very presence in that community doesn't give the hope you would expect it to, it just gives more heartache.

Taken on our honeymoon in Scotland - the start of our journey.

So here I've been, sitting on the fence figuring out where I fit in and avoiding the inevitable loss that comes with leaving the community that's given me so much. I know this isn't where my journey ends, in fact it's really only the beginning, but it is a parting of ways. The kind of mutual "farewell, until we meet again" that you give a fond
travelling companion.

So to those that have been there for us, that have struggled alongside us and continue to do so, that have given us their warmth and shared our worries, our fears, and rode the rollercoaster with us - to all of you, I wish you all the luck and baby dust in the world, until we meet again.

Look at that Embryo!

noreply@blogger.com (Lefty the Hopeful Dad) — Mon, 09 Oct 2017 22:41:00 +0000

The day I found out about my infertility was probably one of the worst days of my life. As I explained in a previous post, I sat in the office, listening to the very matter-of-fact doctor tell me about my 6 sperm, five of which were useless, and how there was almost no way I would be able to father a child naturally; the one goal I had in my life at the time. K told a family member later on that she always thought the first time she would see me cry was when our child was born - not in the car outside the doctor's office. Neither of us gave up hope though, and we supported each other through every bit of it.

We did a second embryo transfer over the summer - something we kept secret to allow ourselves a little bit of privacy the second time around. Privacy was important to us for two reasons; it prevented us from having to explain to anybody if it didn’t work, or so that we could surprise people and tell them on our own terms if it did work. We didn’t want to lie to people, but people generally wanted to know what was happening and weren’t usually shy about asking – so we had to tell them something. Usually it ended up being some kind of vague answer meant to throw them off the scent; “We’re just playing the waiting game” or “We’re saving up for the next transfer”. These answers were usually enough to cut the questions off.

"Look at that Embryo!"

The process for the second transfer was basically the same as the first time, K had to show up with a full bladder and squirm in the waiting room while waiting to see the doctor. Then when the nurse came to get us, we got all dressed up in our hospital gowns and booties before getting escorted to the procedure room. When they showed us the second embryo on the giant screen in that room, I turned to K and said “ Look at that embryo! That’s a good looking embryo. I’ve got a good feeling about that embryo.” Everyone in the room was amused, or at least I was.

The procedure took place the week before my younger brother's bachelor party - a five day camping party so full of debauchery that “epic” is the only word fitting enough to describe it. That said, five days out of cell service while your wife is going through endless terror that something bad will happen with the embryo inside her doesn't make for a supportive situation. So every morning I would wake up and drive to service, to call her and reassure her that everything was going to be okay, a task much easier said than done.

After an excessively long party and a five hour drive home, the first thing I wanted to do was shower - so after unloading all my gear, that's exactly what I did. I was getting dressed when K came into the bedroom and said she wanted to ask me a question - if she could go buy a pregnancy test. I immediately said no because we had agreed prior to the transfer that we weren't going to do any home tests, we were going to wait until the blood test to have confirmation - that way we could prevent any false positives or negatives and in turn stay off the roller coaster ride of emotion. She responded by holding up a test she already took and said "But I want to see if this one is right". I stopped dead in my tracks and stared at the test strip she was holding up for what seemed like 10 full minutes before I looked are her and said "It says yes?" She nodded. "Are you sure?" She nodded again as tears welled up in her big brown eyes. I gave her a soft hug and wiped a tear from my eye, everything we’d been through that year, everything we’d done, all the pain we’d dealt with, the money we’d spent, the extra work we’d put in – even just to have that moment with her, made it all worth it.

Baby at 12 weeks

Baby at 8 weeks

So 8 more home

pregnancy tests, three blood tests,
two ultrasounds, and several weeks of nausea later, we are happy to announce that K is 12 weeks pregnant, with an expected delivery date of April 20, 2018!

To All The Hopeful Dads

noreply@blogger.com (Lefty the Hopeful Dad) — Thu, 07 Sep 2017 14:16:00 +0000

An Open Letter to All the Hopeful Dads Out There:

I know what you're going through. I've been there. Maybe what you want is your own child to dress up like you, to play games with, or teach things to. Maybe you want nothing more than to give your partner what she wants more than anything in the world - likely both. I know how you feel, because I am there.

Don't blame yourself. You can't control it any more than you can control the weather. It's not your fault so just don't. You're allowed to be angry. You're allowed to be sad. You're going to be both, but don't ever blame yourself. It's easy to get caught up in the masculinity of things, but don't let pride hold you back, because there are solutions. More than a handful of times I've heard women talk about how their significant others refuse to get tested, or even talk about their issues. Don't let this prevent you from feeling the joy of fatherhood. Instead of feeling shame that you are not a man, be the man you're meant to be and deal with the problem.

Stay positive and find the humor in the process. Other people may not get your jokes, but they don't have to because the jokes aren't for them. I was playing on a volleyball team over the summer and a member from the other team dove for the ball and hit it under the net - smack dab into my junk. Consequently, I hit the sand like a sack of potatoes. When I finally recovered someone apologized and said, "I hope I didn't mess anything up", to which I responded - "that's okay, they don't work anyway" - nobody laughed, but the joke was for me.

Remember that you're not alone. Your partner is going through this too - and likely they need you more than you need them. Don't isolate yourself, and don't isolate them. This will pass, and it will make you both stronger, but only if you let it. Your resolve is being tested. Don't fail the test. Don't pass the test. Nail that test to the damn wall - and then put a baseball bat through it because you're strong enough when you're together.

Don't let ignorance get to you. I read an article about the Alberta government considering covering the cost of fertility treatments, much like other provinces already do. I was dumb enough to read the commentary. I'm not sure why I expected people to be supportive and understanding, but I was wrong. Instead I saw comments about how people who have fertility issues should be forced to adopt instead. Don't let people like this get to you, they don't know what they're talking about, and their self-righteous ignorance has no bearing on your life. What they don't know is that adoption is actually a far more expensive and far more time consuming process. Not to mention the discrimination of denying someone with the inability to have their own children naturally - the option to try.

Try not to hate the people that tell you, "Don't worry, it will happen." They're just trying to help in the only way they know how. Remember that they would fix it for you if they could, but they're more helpless in this than you are. As much as you want to punch them in the face, they really do mean well.

And finally, don't lose hope. It's a long, arduous, and painful journey - but the best things in life are worth waiting for.

Sincerely,

Lefty the Hopeful Dad

One Year Down

noreply@blogger.com (Lefty the Hopeful Dad) — Wed, 23 Aug 2017 14:00:00 +0000

As I write this I'm sitting at my desk in my home office, in a cloud of a my one-year-old dog's foul gas, reflecting on the past year. I guess I could take the path down the road of irony and say that it's fitting that my dog crop-dusted me as I was trying to think of a way to describe the last year of my life. I could go on to explain how difficult it has been on me, my attitude, and my marriage. I could take the easy road and wonder why it's me that has to go through this instead of someone else. I could think about all those things and wallow in my own self pity, but I'm not going to. Instead I'm going to tell you what I love about my life and why this past year has been one of the most rewarding I have ever experienced.

I learned how to love my wife.
You can take this statement any way you like and make all kinds of assumptions about it, but what it comes down to is that marriage takes a lot of work. Committing to one another was a declaration that we would do whatever it took to make our marriage work. Unfortunately, in order to understand what "whatever it takes" means, you really have to be tested through some kind of adversity - and adversity is never pleasant. We were struck with our own this year having been touched by a cancer scare and infertility, but we faced it head on, hand in hand. We supported each other and we took the time to understand what each of us needed from the other. I can't say it wasn't difficult, I can't say I would wish it on others, but I can say it has made us both truly understand and accept each other.

I learned to let go of the little things.
When mountain-sized problems are looming over you, getting wet crossing the stream seems a little less daunting. I'm not perfect by any stretch of the word, I still get angry over little things on occasion, but things like my puppy chewing the legs off my old-fashioned wooden office chair, my shirt getting bleached in the washing machine, or somebody stealing my parking spot just aren't worth getting worked up over. Chairs and shirts can be replaced and there's always another parking spot (unless it's Christmas, in which case, stay the hell away from the mall and order your gifts online because it's 2017), but I can't replace the time I would have spent raging about those things, or snapping at my wife for something not worth snapping about.

I learned the value of a dollar.
Fertility treatment is an expensive undertaking, even if you have good benefits, and saving up the money for it really put us on the right track. Obviously it set us back a pretty penny, but instead of going back to our old spending habits, we decided to take our saving to the next step. We took the money that we had been spending on fertility treatments and instead started dumping it on our debts. We paid off our credit card, one of our student loans, and two-thirds of one of our vehicle loans. We showed ourselves that all we needed was a priority adjustment in order to accomplish our goals - and now as a byproduct of our goal of having children - we have been able to take several steps in the right direction toward our goal of being debt free.

I've become a student of patience.
Patience has never been my strong suit, if you ask anybody that knows me they'll tell you I want everything, and I wanted it the day before yesterday. Kay isn't much better, in fact, she has a tattoo on her wrist that reads "Patience is a Virtue" which serves two purposes: it acts as her own gentle reminder when she becomes impatient, and it acts as rage fuel when she's being impatient and I tell her to look at her wrist. So when I say that I've become a student of patience, I truly mean that it is a work in progress, but what helps me to stay patient over such a long arduous process is reminding myself that the best things in life are worth waiting for; over, and over, and over, and over again.

I started writing again.
I used to write all the time. I would write rants as an outlet for anger, poetry as an outlet for sadness, letters as a way to communicate things I didn't want to say. In a sense I grew up writing, but I never really took it seriously. In fact, when I started this blog I wasn't taking it seriously, it was just another way for me to deal with my own life. This blog has allowed me to reconnect with my love of writing and helped me to express my passion for it by giving me something meaningful to write about, something that others who are struggling can relate to.

Kay and I will be celebrating our first wedding anniversary this month and when I look back on the last year of our lives, it only gives me hope for the rest of our life together. We are all shaped by our experiences, but who we are and how we choose to look at our lives is what makes us the people we are. I choose to look at my life as an incredible one, full of love and learning - one that I wouldn't trade for the world.

When in Doubt, Cut it Out

noreply@blogger.com (Lefty the Hopeful Dad) — Wed, 09 Aug 2017 13:00:00 +0000

I decided, since I have enough sperm in the bank to do seven rounds of IVF, (and since I'll never be able to afford that many rounds anyway) that it would be prudent to follow up with my surgeon again about having ol' Lefty (my left testicle) removed, or as the formal surgery is called, an orchiectomy. I wanted to be absolutely sure I was making the right decision so I did my research before my appointment. What I learned was initially reassuring, but the further I went down the rabbit hole of self diagnosis, the more worried I became. I learned that ol' Lefty was so much bigger than ol' Righty, not because ol' Lefty was big, but because ol' Righty was small.

My actual birthday card from my work team.

It is noted in a previous chapter that I had a correction surgery for an undescended testicle on the left side when I was a child and that this was the suspected cause of my infertility. In my search for certainty I found out that my right side also had an issue which was something called a "retractile testicle". This basically means my right nut moves freely and painlessly between the scrotum and the abdomen. I always thought this little mutation was cool because I was able to freak out any girl I was with by making my right nut disappear like a freak-show act from a travelling circus. Unfortunately, this also meant that my right side could be the culprit for my issues, and this concerned me. When a testicle is surgically removed, as a general rule, the remaining testicle makes up for the loss by switching into overdrive and bumping up its sperm and testosterone production. I wasn't worried about it not making up for my sperm production - I had enough sperm frozen for a lifetime of fertility treatments - but living with low testosterone was something I was positive I didn't want.

I read all about testosterone replacement therapy. The creams that make you grow hair at the application site, or the daily injections for the rest of your life, or the risk of growing boobs, or even an increased risk of getting cancer. Teenage me probably wouldn't have minded having boobs for a day or two, but I don't think future me would have the same appreciation for them. What it came down to for me though was that I would be having surgery as a preventative measure of getting cancer, only to possibly have to go on hormone therapy which could actually cause cancer. It seemed to me like I was being chased, but I was running in the wrong direction - and none of these decisions were good options. I decided to reserve my decision until I followed up with my doctors.

When I saw my family doctor, she was awesome, and encouraging. She explained that the way she understood it, only my sperm production should be affected, and since I was very masculine looking with facial hair and a muscular build, I shouldn't be worried about a small drop in testosterone production if that was the case. In her words - "when in doubt, cut it out". She did, however, encourage me to ask my surgeon to make sure. I saw my surgeon shortly after, who said that as far as she knew, there is no test to see which testicle is the problem and that removal is a risk, especially given my issues with both sides, even for my testosterone production. She was very empathetic to my situation and offered me an alternative; observation. She explained that I would have alternating MRIs and Ultrasounds every six months for two years, following which I would have an MRI every year after that. This way, if something did grow back, they could catch it before it became a problem.

After a little bit of discussion, I opted for door number two and I left the surgeon's office with renewed comfort from the decision I had made. Although, I must admit, I was slightly disappointed that I wouldn't be able to make all the "balls of steel" jokes I had planned for my post-prosthetic surgery.

I Don't Know You

noreply@blogger.com (Lefty the Hopeful Dad) — Wed, 26 Jul 2017 13:00:00 +0000

I don't know you, but I know I love you,

And I can't really explain why.

It doesn't make any sense, I've never even met you,

But something inside me says I have to try.

So I keep on pushing, and saving, and working hard,

To make this dream come true.

And every setback, every loss, every failed attempt,

Crushes me and pushes me further from you.

They said I'd probably never meet you,

They said you might never exist.

But there was still a chance and I couldn't stand by,

So we got put on the waiting list.

I thought the waiting was the hardest part,

Worse than the drugs, the needles, and all the tests.

But what really hurt was the heartache I felt,

Every time I thought of you, deep in my chest.

All I want is to be a proud father,

And to make you proud of me.

To help you, and guide you, and watch you grow up,

Into the man or woman you're meant to be.

But it seems so far away these days,

Like it's over and done, and washed away.

At this point I'd do anything,

But it's out of my hands, it's not up to me, all I can do is pray.

I know I love you, but I don't know you,

But I'll get my chance someday.

To teach you to run and jump, and to make you laugh,

It can't be that far away.

So I'll keep on pushing, and saving, and working hard,

So that I can be there for you.

After all, you're my heart and my soul,

The last part that's missing, the final piece to make me whole.

Calling All Storks

noreply@blogger.com (Lefty the Hopeful Dad) — Wed, 12 Jul 2017 13:00:00 +0000

The day of transfer was exciting. I got up before my alarm and basically jumped out of bed. I was exhausted, but mostly because I was so excited to do the transfer the following day that I couldn't get to sleep. When I finally did drift off, I had dreams that we were late for the transfer and we lost our embryo, which then woke me up terrified and scrambling for my phone to check the time - only another 5 hours till I have to wake up, then 4, then 3, and on and on, dream after dream until I finally got up for real.

I stumbled into the shower to wash up, but really was only allowed to rinse off. We were told that perfume or cologne can damage the embryo, so to be safe, I passed on the shampoo, the body wash, the deodorant and the cologne - I was determined not to screw this up. Kay also got ready, which included downing a jug of water (they wanted her bladder to be full to allow for a smooth transfer of the embryo into her uterus). I was concerned by this because I know what Kay is like when she has to pee (ragey), and I know how much liquid is required to make her pee (a teaspoon), neither of which were working in my favor. Nevertheless, she drank the obligatory water and we were on our way. We made a stop for caffeine, but wanting to be as cautious as possible, ended up calling the clinic to ask if caffeine was okay on the day of transfer - it wasn't, and Kay watched me drink my coffee with resentment while her tea got cold.

Kay in the "ready room"

In no time, we were sitting in the front room of the clinic waiting for the nurse to come and get us, and staring at all the separate pieces of décor that resembled embryos. I'm not kidding, the area rug had white polka dots, the light fixture was a giant white egg, and the wall behind the reception desk was covered in what looked like splitting cells - it's hard for me to say whether this was comforting or a slap in the face, but it was definitely a fitting theme. The nurse finally came and got us and the receptionist wished us luck. We were brought into the same room that the retrieval took place and Kay was given clothes to change into again, but this time, so was I. I dutifully pulled the booties over my feet, put the hairnet over my head, and put the gown on, this time doing a much better job than when I had my "balltrasound". Then I proceeded to do a photo shoot of myself and Kay in our sterile clothes, the whole time thinking of the future conversation I'd have with my kids explaining my own version of "the birds and the bees" (seriously though, if someone could explain the birds and the bees thing to me that would be great, because I never understood the relationship of birds and bees to the act of procreation).

Our Embryo

Following our photo shoot the embryologist came in to tell us what we had waited all week to hear - we had lost our outlier overnight and our final embryo count was down from six embryos to five. We were disappointed but too excited to be bummed out for too long and we made the decision to be happy that we ended up with five. The embryologist reinforced this attitude by telling us that with the number we started with falling from sixteen to seven on the first day, she only expected two or three to make it to the last day, so we actually did quite well! She told us she had selected the highest grade embryo for transfer that day and she would be happy to let us take a picture of it when we moved into the procedure room. The procedure room was the standard room with the table and stirrups, but with a big T.V. screen on the wall already showing a huge picture of our tiny little embryo. I snapped a couple photos of it while the excitement and stress, which reminded me of watching the Oilers playoff games, built up in my chest and Kay's bladder got ready to burst. The doctor had a quick look, but then sent Kay to the bathroom to "let a little bit out" since her bladder was actually too full - there she goes again; over-achieving.

The procedure after that was super fast, and much like the natural act, took literally 10 minutes; they inserted the catheter, squeezed through the embryo, checked the line to make sure it went in, and then printed us out this nifty little picture of Kay's uterus. The doctor, the nurse, and the embryologist all wished us luck before sending us on our way - Kay was worried for a few minutes that it might fall out if she got up, but the doctor assured us that wasn't a thing, although from the way she was walking for the first few minutes I have my doubts that she was entirely convinced - but it also could have been that her bladder was extremely full and the bathroom was occupied by another patient when we came out of the procedure room.

The little white spot just right of center is where the embryo is.

Once we had completed the transfer, our next task was to somehow make it nine days till Kay's blood test to check if she was pregnant without losing our minds. The first two days were a breeze, we were full of excitement, anticipation, and positivity. The next two days brought on some intense cramping for Kay but she endured, not really able to take much of anything for the pain. She was worried and made two or three phone calls to the clinic but was assured it was all normal. She, of course, became a Google warrior at this time and made sure she read the opinions and symptoms listed by people on virtually every fertility forum on the internet, in one minute reassuring herself that things were working, and the next minute worrying that it wasn't going to work.

I banned Kay from taking any pregnancy tests because I knew that taking one so early was essentially meaningless - especially since the earlier it was, the more likely it was that it would show up with a false positive because of all the HCG (pregnancy hormone) still in her body from IVF. On day 6, however, Kay convinced me to let her take one, and it showed up negative - which basically brought on a meltdown while I tried to console her and reassure her that there was still a possibility she was pregnant since it was still too early. Eventually she was okay, but was pretty much convinced that there was no way she was pregnant. Kay does what she wants (she gets that from me), and against my advice, she took another on day 7, which that morning showed as negative. Later in the day, however, a very faint line showed up on both the day 6 & 7 tests (Kay keeps them for comparison) - and she got excited again - but then day 8's test was entirely and completely negative - leading Kay to the conclusion that the transfer didn't stick.

These ups and downs are probably the toughest part of the entire process - except for hearing the word "negative" in relation to a pregnancy test, which is what happened on day 9 when Kay went in for her official blood test. When you're trying to get pregnant naturally, anything could have happened, but knowing that you've done every possible thing that can be done, makes it so much more difficult. We know there was a good quality egg, we know it fertilized, and we know it was where it needed to be, it just didn't happen. It wasn't just anti-climactic, it was heartbreaking, but all we can really do is pick ourselves up, muster up a little more hope, and try again.

White Knuckled & Worn

noreply@blogger.com (Lefty the Hopeful Dad) — Wed, 28 Jun 2017 15:00:00 +0000

The five day embryo maturation process felt like the longest five days of my life. As I stated in my previous post, we had a confirmed 16 eggs gathered during the retrieval procedure and we were ecstatic - we couldn't be happier. When we got home from the procedure, I closed up the blinds in the spare room (Kay's nest, as she calls it) and made sure she had food, lots of water, Gatorade (hydration helps prevent OHSS (Ovarian Hyper-Stimulation Syndrome), and her cell phone. Then I left her to watch "her Dean" on Supernatural and drift in and out of sleep over the course of the day. While Kay was resting I spent the day worrying about the daily phone calls we would get over the next five days. I also worried about her having side effects, about losing all our eggs, about the eggs not fertilizing, pretty much every bad thing I could think of happening. I was excited too though and these mixed emotions had me spinning.

Day 1
The next day we awaited our first dreaded phone call. On the day of retrieval, our eggs were graded in maturity and those that were mature enough to be fertilized, would be. Which means that day two they would be telling us how many of our 16 eggs were mature enough, and how many of those fertilized. The embryologist called Kay that morning and explained that of the 16 eggs that were retrieved, only seven were mature enough to move on to the fertilization process, but that of those seven, we had a 100% fertilization rate. It was a jagged pill to swallow that we had just spent two months, and basically all of our savings, to end up with seven embryos after the first day. We were heartbroken.

Day 2
It was so hard to not focus on the nine eggs that were not mature enough. We waited impatiently for our second call the next day, holding on tight and ready for anything, well almost anything. If they had told us that day that we lost half our embryos, I think we might have lost all hope, but they didn't. On day two the embryologist called and informed us that on a scale from grade 1 to 4 (one being the best and four being the opposite), we had five - class 2 and 3 embryos, one - class 4 embryo, and one embryo had been lost overnight when it turned abnormal. We had moved from 16, to 7, and now down to 6.

Day 3
We were now terrified that there wouldn't be any viable embryos left; they still had to make it to day five to be viable, and day three was the turning point for most people. We were told that a normal rate of attrition for embryos after day three was 25 to 40%! - in short, we were losing our shit. Kay shed many tears between our day two call and our day three call. We started planning for the worst - what would we do if we didn't have any viable embryos left over? Would we do another round of IVF? If so, how were we going to pay for it? All these thoughts were racing through my mind when I left for work that morning, and I waited for the call all morning. When Kay finally called, I picked up the phone and my hand was shaking. All I said was, "So?" Then I realized Kay was crying but before I could say anything she said "We still have 6!" - they all had made it, and Kay's tears, were tears of joy and relief. I was elated.

Day 4
Since we had already been through the toughest part of the maturation process I wasn't all that worried about day four. I breezed through day three and chose to focus on all the good things. I was really starting to get excited for transfer day; just thinking about it put a smile on my face. The thought of making that last trip to the clinic to finally meet our goal and potentially see our dreams come true was too exciting to ignore. That morning we got our day four call from the embryologist, Kay again called me at work to tell me we still had six total embryos! At this stage, we had four grade 2 embryos, one grade 3 embryo, and one embryo that was not yet mature enough to assign a grade to but was still developing.

The relief that we felt after day four and moving into day five was huge. I honestly felt like I'd been holding my breath for a week and I was finally able to relax. We didn't get as many embryos as we had expected, but we potentially did get enough to have as many children as we wanted. Although, depending on who you ask that number changes, I say I want five, Kay says she wants three, but everyone tells me I'll change my mind after the first one. During Kay's mini breakdown before day three I'm pretty sure I heard her mention that she didn't care how many embryos we ended up with, she would keep having kids as long as we had embryos left - maybe it was the hormones, but I'll hold on to hope that it wasn't.

How Would You Like Your Eggs?

noreply@blogger.com (Lefty the Hopeful Dad) — Wed, 14 Jun 2017 15:00:00 +0000

I can't say enough about the resilience of my incredible wife; she has been a champ through this entire process. On top of dealing with this crap all on her own, she has had to deal with my insecurities as well. It's been difficult for me to push away this feeling of being a sperm donor being as my job is basically just to show up and make a deposit. Relinquishing the thought of making a baby the natural way has removed any feeling of a connection to the process for me. Kay has recognized the difficulty for me and has worked very hard to include me as closely as possible in the process.

As you read in her previous post, the IVF process required 3-4 self-administered injections per day. Kay was at work for the first injection she had to give herself and in an effort to include me, she made me a video. It included a lot of focused breathing and counting to three several times over while she gathered the courage to stick herself in the belly with her needle full of hormones. I don't think I explained to her how much this video meant to me but it truly did wonders to shorten the distance I felt from Kay's journey.

She took this even further the day she allowed me to administer one of her injections. One of the medications she had to take needed to be mixed prior to use, caused a burning sensation, and had a larger needle. Understandably, she didn't let me administer that injection, but she did allow me to give her the "space needle", because all it required was twisting the controller knob to the correct dose, slowly sticking it into her skin, and pushing down the plunger with my thumb. The level of trust it must have taken for Kay to allow me to do this really confirms for me that we're meant to be together - especially since my hands are prone to shaking when I'm doing fine tasks that require a high level of dexterity.

When she couldn't take a video or let me participate, she would send me emails outlining her day leading up to and explaining her appointments in vivid detail. She would tell me what the doctors were like, how she felt going into the appointments, and the results of tests that she had taken. Communicating isn't a difficult thing to do but it's something that is easy to overlook and the care she took in making me a part of this whole process truly meant the world to me. Although my level of participation in the planning of my wedding might suggest otherwise, I am not a "tell me when to show up" kind of person; I want to be involved and included, and I want to make decisions. Any idiot can provide a sperm sample, it takes something more to be a father - and that's what Kay gave back to me.

After all the injections, and ultrasounds, and blood tests, and appointments, and discomfort, the time finally came for the egg retrieval. We were scheduled for retrieval on a Monday so I had to take that day off work because Kay wouldn't be able to drive due to Fentanyl sedation. She was a little nervous because of this, but I was confident she would breeze through it. We made the all too familiar drive to the downtown clinic and didn't say much for the whole ride. When we got there we sat patiently in the waiting room for the nurse to call us in. When she did, I asked if I should come too, and she said "Yes of course, you're an equally important part of the equation" which put a big smile on my face and definitely calmed my nerves a little bit.

We were led to a room at the far back part of the clinic and Kay was given a pile of clothes and directed to the change room. She came out wearing a gown, a housecoat, a hairnet and some slippers seriously looking like she was wearing a bed and could lay down and fall asleep anywhere. The nurse came in and took Kay's vitals and then the embryologist came in to tell us the process. She would take Kay in and then shortly after another nurse would come and get me so that I could provide my sample which would be used to fertilize the eggs retrieved. They took Kay away and then, as promised, another nurse came to escort me to Andrology. I turned in my last sample, hoping that all my healthy eating, no-booze, exercising, and ball-icing had paid off, and then returned to the waiting room.

I didn't have to wait too long before they came to tell me Kay was in recovery and I could come sit with her. When I got there I was reminded of my surgery that seemed to kick everything off, but in reverse. Kay was drifting in and out of sleep when I sat down beside her bed, she looked at me briefly and said very slowly, "I'm glad you're here, and I want to talk to you, but my words are very heavy." Then she fell asleep again. About a minute later she woke up and said with a very confused look on her face, "Am I wearing a hairnet?", I replied, "No" and she mumbled something about someone taking it off of her before drifting off to sleep again. I sat there for a while behind the curtain, feeling guilty again that she had to go through all of this, when she woke up and looked me straight in the face and said "Am I wearing a hairnet?". I couldn't help but laugh and she was a little put off, but eventually put together that she had asked me the same question about a minute earlier.

The embryologist came in and told us that she did extremely well; she managed to collect 16 eggs and the sperm sample I provided was the highest count yet (about 330K), definitely enough to use to fertilize all the eggs. She told us that she would call us the next day and let us know how many eggs had fertilized to become embryos, and that she would call every day after that to let us know how many had lasted each day of the maturation process. Once Kay was fully awake we were told we could go. I helped Kay get dressed and escorted her to the car knowing full well that the next week was going to be a very difficult one.

Know When To Hold 'Em

noreply@blogger.com (Lefty the Hopeful Dad) — Wed, 31 May 2017 15:00:00 +0000

I was recently speaking to a friend who asked me how she should broach the subject of discussing fertility issues with people, which is something that I've thought a lot about since I started writing this blog. Prior to going live and letting basically everyone I know into the most intimate parts of my life I sent an email out to my whole family giving them a summary of what I had been going through, something only my immediate family had been privy to up until that point. I included a link to what I had written so far and offered to answer any questions anybody might have. Of all the emails I sent out, I received back one text message from my cousin offering his support. At first I was hurt and angry; at the time there were a lot of emotions swirling around in my head and I didn't really know where to land. It took me a while to reconcile those emotions and the only way I was able to was by taking a minute to understand where they were coming from.

I come from a semi-private family; and by that I mean they don't want to talk about issues like mine - but they want to know that I'm okay. It's a level of comfort reserved for old-school traditional families - at least mine anyway. The kind of openness it takes to write a blog and tell everyone the experience you had while masturbating into a cup is far beyond the side-conversations prying for information that my family is used to. After I sent out my email to my family, I had expected a bombardment, but what I should have expected is quiet concern, which is what I got, and looking back, meant a whole lot more to me. To my family, it's not your words that show your concern and your love for someone, its your actions - so keeping quiet was their way of respecting my privacy.

What I learned is that if you're looking for support, you need to ask for it. That said, when you're looking for information the principle is the same, but there are a few things that you need to remember.

Everyone is different and so is their journey. There are some people that don't want to talk about their struggle at all, and there are people like myself and K who talk incessantly about our ordeal. This means that when approaching the subject with someone dealing with infertility, you could end up with more than you bargained for, so be concise with your question. For example, if you were to ask me what step we're at in the process, what you're probably meaning to ask is "is she pregnant yet?" but by wanting to be sensitive, you now have an explanation of the actual entire process of IVF on your hands. Why? Because for the most part, in order to understand what step we're in, we likely have to explain the entire process to you which will probably include a list of side discussions required to define certain terms.

There are also many people that have gone through loss, and people that found out they would never even be able to experience that - and every one of those people deals with those situations differently.
So there is a level of sensitivity that you will have to show but if you want to know something - ask. Trust me, if they're not comfortable talking about it, they will tell you that. Keeping that in mind, think about the question before you ask it. Kay had an encounter with a co-worker that consisted of him asking her "Are you ready to deal with your first pregnancy basically being a write-off?" - Kay was confused and asked him what he meant, so he said "You know that most women's first pregnancies result in miscarriage don't you?" I mean, the guy was obviously misinformed, but his message was not the problem. It's the fact that he is asking a woman, who is already having difficulty conceiving, if she is ready to lose her first baby. Dude, the answer is no, and also, no -you idiot. He got off lucky because Kay is not the burst-into-tears-at-work-at-shit-said-by-morons kind of person, but most women, would not have been so understanding.

I think it's also important to mention that unless you're asking for it, it's not your responsibility to navigate the feelings of a person dealing with infertility. Doing so is difficult at that best of times and downright impossible for most others, so in my opinion somebody dealing with infertility shouldn't be making you walk on eggshells around them all the time. If they are, you need to lay your cards on the table and tell them that straight up, but be mindful and supportive when you do it.