A New Hope

It's midnight, and I'm writing a blog post.  Why?  Well, I couldn't possibly go to sleep (which I should) even if I wanted to (which I do).  Because for the first time, my daughter is sleeping in her crib... in her room... alone... and she's not even four weeks old yet.  I expected her to be within arms reach in her co-sleeper attached to our bed for a few months, but she had other ideas.  The number of days she's been alive are still only in the double digits, and she's already leaving Mom and her fragile emotions in the dust.  Figures.

But you don't need to hear a detailed account of my new-parent woes, nor do I want to write them.  There are a million and a half parenting blogs on the internets, so you can get your kicks out there if you want.  I don't intend on joining their ranks; my intent has always been to write about my experience living with cancer.  Regardless of my insomnia, I've been feeling the need to write about my daughter's birth and attempt to articulate her influence on my experience.  However, the reality is I do have an infant in my house, and this entry may take me for-ever to complete.  We'll see how I do.*

The dance of Lady Gremlin von Wiggles

It's amazing how little I have thought about cancer since Lady Gremlin von Wiggles has arrived (yeah, that's what I'm calling her... just deal with it), and I think there are several reasons for this.  The major reason, of course, is general new-parent-dom, and being completely caught up in everything baby.  All parents have this experience, it is not unique to me by any means.  Having a squirmy, needy, tiny human that you must keep alive every day certainly forces all other things onto the back burner.  Most days I am left thinking "Who got drunk and left human evolution unattended to allow such helpless creatures to be born?  How come we couldn't be like the majestic Blue Wildebeest which can outrun a hyena within their first day of life?"  Though, some may argue human babies are more attractive than a Blue Wildebeest, so that levels the playing field a little bit.

Additionally, the timing of my daughter's birth was truly perfect for ignoring cancer.  I had finally finished all my school duties, my Mom was just about to jet off to Europe for 10 days (a great story, you should ask her about it), and Crystal was so ready to be done, she was this close to performing a C-section home birth on herself.  Also, Lady Wiggles's arrival completely validated my decision to expedite my lung surgery as I discussed in my last post.  She was born the last week of June, 2 1/2 weeks before her due date, 2 weeks before the scheduled C-section, and 7 1/2 weeks after my lung surgery.  If she was born a week or two prior, or if my surgery was a week or two later, I still would have been healing.  Even so, when she was born, I couldn't yet do push ups or lift very heavy things comfortably, and carrying around an 8+ lb baby was just the right amount work for my torso muscles to handle.  I also was able to push back my follow up appointments to August, providing me with six weeks of cancer-free activities and distraction to focus completely on figuring out how wear a Moby Wrap (it took me about that long... that thing is nuts).

Remember that post I wrote about feeling overwhelmed by all the different emotions I had while anticipating Lady Wiggles's arrival?  Thankfully, since her birth, a majority of those feelings have faded into a cloudy memory of slightly uncomfortable anxiety.  In some ways, the change was measurable.  For example, my guilt over Crystal's discomfort completely disappeared when she called me saying "you're having a baby today!"  Her voice was bursting with excitement, and when I finally saw her in person, she was so visibly happy it was contagious.  Not only was her part in this crazy adventure almost done, but she was thrilled that we were about to be parents!  Thanks to all she had been through in the past year, our lives were about to change dramatically, permanently, and wonderfully, and she was genuinely happy for us.  In that moment, she made it easy to let my guilt slide away.

Other transitions were more gradual, however.  Having a child with the help of a gestational carrier because you have cancer is not something many people experience, which made me feel very different and separate from my peers.  Whenever I would tell someone new that we were having a baby in July (or June, by her schedule) without fail people would glance at my stomach with a confused look on their face, especially the closer we got to the due date.  And every time I felt the need to explain about Crystal, and my cancer, and blah blah blah.  Even though every response was always positive, because, yes, it's an amazing story, it often came with a dose of awkwardness ("oh, I was wondering why you looked so thin!" "you look great for being 8 months pregnant, ha ha!" ...thanks for reminding me of my loss, please excuse me while I don't laugh), and when you've gone through the same dance a billion and four times, it gets old very quickly.  I have a new respect and empathy for anyone who has a disability that people can see, or looks "different" in any way, because people always look, and always wonder - whether verbally or not - and you don't always have the time or the energy or even desire to explain why you're different.  And really, no one should have to explain to other people why they are the way they are or look the way they look.  Because it's really none of their damn business.  But if you're anything like me, you'd rather sacrifice a tiny piece of yourself, and tell the story one more fucking time, just to make your interaction with this person a little bit easier.  And if you're lucky, you might educate them a little in the process.

In the end, though, I have a distinct advantage that many people who look "different" do not often have.  Now that Lady Gremlin von Wiggles is here in my care, every day that goes by takes me farther away from the difference of cancer and surrogacy and closer to the sameness of parenthood.  The significant glances have faded, because some women's bodies might look like mine a month after giving birth.  And when I spend time with my new-parent friends, we can talk about spit up and sleeplessness, instead of back aches and discharge.  As I said to one of my cancer buddies, this is as close to normal as I've felt in a long time.

Even my worries about balancing cancer and being a parent have faded.  I have this new feeling of "screw cancer, it doesn't matter, all that matters is this tiny human and spending as much time with her as possible."  She's my cancer antidote.  When my psychiatrist recently asked about my mood, I gave him a clinical answer, but then I said "also, my first child was just born, so that's put me in a pretty good mood".  His response was "there's no drug that can replicate that feeling".  And he's right.  I may be worrying about typical parenting things - wondering if she's too hot or too cold, if she's eaten enough today, am I interacting with her enough, and checking the monitor every five seconds to see if she's breathing - but every parent does that.  And now that I belong to that huge, normal group of people is why you'll never hear me complain about parenting (ok, almost never complain).  When Lady Gremlin von Wiggles was born, she brought with her a big solid box of hope containing the possibility of a future so strong, shiny and bright it could withstand the vile stench of cancer's erosion and decay.  No poopy diaper can close to competing with that.  (Well... except maybe that one time...)


*It took two weeks to finish this post.