Friday, January 31, 2014

Viable




"24 weeks," read the text accompanying Lyndsay's bulging belly photo this past Sunday. After the grin wrapped across my face I let out an audible sigh of relief. I'd been waiting for this day since our first meetings with the high risk OB/Gyn in MN at the beginning of the pregnancy, when we were still expecting triplets. He mentioned, on more than one occasion, that getting to 24 weeks was imperative. Before that magical moment, our baby (babies, at the time) would not be able to live outside the womb. But getting to the 6 month mark makes all the difference.

Baby A is now viable!

Don't get me wrong, here. We absolutely want her to cook in Lyndsay's oven until she's pink and plump and ready to face the world but, if she decides she's in a hurry to meet us, with a menagerie of medical help and a very long stay in the NICU, she could survive.

"Look," I held the phone in front of Jimmi's face and he smiled at the visual reminder that he is going to be a dad. For him this situation is a bit like "out of sight, out of mind." I'm always thinking about our baby but I really don't know if he's doing the same. When you're not actually watching your wife's changing form, is it still real?

Well, today it was real, if only for a few minutes.

I logged onto Skype and waited anxiously for Dr. C to call. I looked at Jimmi, who brought back a nasty cold from a convention in California last week, and asked in my wifely way, "Do you have a hat you can put on?" Jimmi's expression showed confusion so I continued, "It might help you look less…ummm…" He didn't allow me to come up with the word I was trying to find, "That bad, huh?" My sick husband's glassy eyes and red nose made his appearance less than pleasant and the slack jaw that comes with the territory when you're forced to breathe out of your mouth didn't make it any better. I shrugged and said, out of pity, "I'll just tell them you're sick. It's ok."

Beep! Ring!

The annoying tones announced the call we were waiting for and I aimed the computer's camera away from the mess in my kitchen before clicking "answer" on the screen. Dr. C's newly bearded face appeared, "Hi Suzanne!" he said cheerily. Jimmi stood by my chair, only allowing his body to be seen from the neck down. Dr. C turned his computer so we could see Lyndsay and her daughter, who was with her. "You look pregnant!" I joked with Lyndsay, then turned my attention to the little blonde pixie at her side, "Hi Hallie!" Her enormous smile made her dimples pop and her blue eyes sparkle and she waved with excitement, as only a 3 year-old can. "Where's Jimmi?" she asked, clearly showing favoritism. My husband leaned down into the line of sight just long enough to give Hallie a peek at his feverish face, "Hi Hal!" But that was enough for her to be satisfied.

Dr. C asked Lyndsay to hop up onto the table and I noticed she was wearing the shirt we sent her a few months ago. A picture of a female figure with the words, "Baby Mama" appeared on one side of a black triangle and a male figure with the words, "Baby Daddy" appeared on the other side. At the bottom of the triangle was a pregnant female figure with the word, "Me" underneath her. But the best part were the words inside the triangle… 

"It's Complicated." 



She lifted the shirt and exposed her midsection, which was obviously holding a baby. "I'm just gonna measure her now," Dr. C explained as he took out a tape measure and pressed down to find the bottom of Lyndsay's uterus. He stretched the tape across the bump and announced, "Twenty-six centimeters. She's almost twenty-five weeks now, so that measurement is perfect." Then he grabbed a tube and squirted some clear gel onto Lyndsay's stomach. He turned and picked up a small machine, which I remember from my pregnancies, called a doppler. "Have you heard the heartbeat yet?" Dr. C asked. I was almost embarrassed to answer, "Not really." He pressed the little microphone down and moved it around a bit. We heard some static but nothing more. "Don't worry," he said. "I'll find it."

And he did.

The "whoosh whoosh whoosh" of Baby A's heart was loud and strong and my eyes stung with tears as I listened to it. "Whoa," said Jimmi as the reality registered in his ears. We had seen heartbeats in previous ultrasounds and the tech allowed us to listen for a second or two last time, but it wasn't as clear as this. "One-hundred and forty beats per minute," said Dr. C. "Normal rhythm, strong. Sounds perfect!" Then he jumped ever so slightly, "Wow! I even felt that one!" he laughed as Baby A gave him a swift kick in the doppler. Then he said to Hallie, "Have you felt the baby kick yet?" Hallie shook her head, "No." She said simply. And that's when my heart started to ache.

Neither have I.   

Saturday, January 25, 2014

Baby A's Daddy Needs You!

When I was writing my first blog, the one I kept while I was going through cancer treatments, I spoke about my husband, Jimmi, a lot. Of course, when the blog started, he was still my fiancé and I wasn't sure we'd even make it down the aisle, as I was so sick from the chemo and radiation I could barely walk. Not to mention the fact that I wasn't thrilled about being a bald bride. But, with a little luck and a lot of drugs, we did get married as planned, wig and all!

During the six months of treatments I consistently wrote about Jimmi's support and strength through it all. Let's face it, not many 30 year-olds expect that they'll be dealing with a spouse with cancer four months before their wedding. But Jimmi stuck by me every step of the way. The egg retrieval, the hysterectomy, the loss of my fertility, the temporary catheter, the chemo, the hair loss, the nausea, the radiation, the diarrhea, the crying, the pain. All of it.

Now I need everyone to help me support Jimmi.

If you didn't already know, Jimmi is trying to make a living as a professional drummer. He's been on so many roller coaster rides attempting to reach his goal but each time, as soon as he gets a taste of the top, it seems he's shot right back down to the starting line. Recently, Jimmi found out about a contest called Be My Band. An amazing guitarist named Orianthi, who has played for Michael Jackson, Carrie Underwood and Alice Cooper, as well as having a solo career of her own, is looking for one guitarist, one bass player, one keyboard player and one drummer to "Be Her Band" for one night at The Troubadour in Los Angeles. The event will be televised and it will be major exposure for the winners. The biggest problem is that the first phase of the contest, happening now through February 1st, is based solely on votes. Up to ten semi-finalists for each instrument will move on to the finals, but they are not totally chosen based on talent or skill. This part is based on how many people you can get to vote for you or, more simply, how many friends you have on Facebook who will vote and share and get their friends to vote and share.

That's where you come in!

I hate to use my blog to beg but I think Jimmi deserves this shot. Don't you? 

Please help Baby A's daddy!

Click or copy and paste the link below to vote for Jimmi. I believe you can vote once per day (ONLY UNTIL FEBRUARY 1ST) on each of your devices (phone, iPad, computer) through Facebook and/or Twitter. Please vote daily and SHARE the link with your friends so they can vote, too.

THANK YOU!

http://www.talenthouse.com/creativeinvites/preview/ad142a22371e8af0cf4d31dd998d3a5b/7433


Friday, January 17, 2014

Left For Dead

Writing my last post brought back memories from the time of my diagnosis that I think I'd tried to forget. The details were fuzzy until I started typing, then they poured out of my mind as if a dam had broken and the words were flooding the computer screen. Every detail, no matter how minute, became clearer and clearer as the sentences spilled out across the page. I could hear everything my gynecologist said to me in his office that fateful day in April of 2011. I could see the look on his face when he gave me the pathology results of my LEEP, "There was some cancer there." My body shuddered at the thoughts and I shook my head to try to make them all go away. 

But I couldn't.

The funny thing is, what bothered me about the memories almost more than the cancer diagnosis itself, is what happened with my trusted doctor of 11 years.

I first met Dr. F in 2000, when I was pregnant with Dylan. Because it was impossible to know which of the doctors in my OB's office would be on call when I went into labor, I was required to meet all of them at least once. I have to admit, my first appointment with Dr. F started out on the wrong foot. He showed up very late and seemed completely distracted and almost annoyed by my questions. I felt as if he wanted to be anywhere else but in that exam room with me at that moment. He tried to apologize for his lack of concentration by explaining that one of his patients had just miscarried in the room next door, but that just made me more upset because, honestly, what pregnant woman wants to hear about someone losing a baby? I refused to see Dr. F again throughout my pregnancy and I just hoped he wouldn't be the one on call when it was time to deliver Dylan.

Thank God, he wasn't!

My water broke on November 18, 2000 at 3:00 AM, three weeks before my due date. I stood in the bathroom staring at the mess on the floor, half in shock and half in denial. "Do you think you should call the doctor now?" my ex-husband asked, obviously wondering if my brain was registering what had happened. I nodded and he handed me the phone. I left a message with the answering service and, almost immediately, the phone rang back. I was thrilled to hear the very familiar, yet very sleepy, voice of my regular gynecologist, who I'd been seeing since my periods got all out of whack when I was 16 years old. "Get yourself together and I'll meet you at the hospital," he instructed calmly. I couldn't believe my luck! My doctor was actually on call and I didn't have to worry about Dr. F anymore!

Or so I thought.

Dylan seemed to be in a hurry to get out of me until I got to the hospital. The crisp, November morning was probably enough to convince him that it was much warmer where he was and it might be best to just hang out in there a little bit longer. Sadly, my OB's shift came to an end and I was still only three centimeters dilated. "You'll be fine," he told me as he made his last round. "Dr. F will be in to see you soon." 

Nooooooo!

I was already on the defensive when Dr. F entered my hospital room to check on my progress. "Hmmm, I'm not liking your contractions," he said. Yeah, well I don't like you! Get out! Send the other guy back! But he didn't leave. In fact, he grabbed a chair and proceeded to sit with me and watch my monitor for the next hour to make sure my contractions and Dylan's heart rate stayed on track. I couldn't just ignore the man in my room, so we chatted while he watched and I realized he wasn't such a bad guy after all. In fact, I was even beginning to like him. By the time he delivered Dylan, what seemed like days later, he had been bumped up to the top of my "Favorite Doctors" list. Maybe it was because he was the one to finally get the damn kid out of me but, whatever the reason, my initial distaste for Dr. F had vanished and I hoped to see him again.

A year went by and a letter arrived from my OB's office explaining that my regular doctor was moving and, if I wanted to stay with his practice, I needed to choose one of the other doctors as my primary. And that's how Dr. F was able to step in and take over as the man in charge of my hooha.

Justin was born in 2003 and, while Dr. F didn't actually deliver him, he was still the go-to guy when it came to my vag. My yearly visits were with him and, after he told me I had HPV, I started seeing him every 6 months. He performed two colposcopies and two biopsies on my cervix between 2009 and 2011, and he was the man under my gown when I had the LEEP to scrape out all the bad cells.

And, finally, Dr. F was the lucky one who got to tell me I had cancer. 

He tried to sound positive, like this monster growing inside of me was weak and I could beat it easily with just a little bit of help. "I'll be with you every step of the way," he promised. "I know it's a lot to take in right now and I'm sure you'll think of questions. I want you to call me if anything comes up and I'll get back to you as soon as I get the message." Then he stood up and gave me a long, emotional hug that I thought was genuine. He let me cry in his arms and he promised, once again, that he would not desert me even though he needed to refer me to a gynecological oncologist to take over my care.

By the time I woke up, the morning after diagnosis, the questions had already started building in my head. It was Easter week and every oncologist I'd called was on vacation and unable to see me until at least 14 days later. I was terrified and I needed someone to tell me what would happen next. I felt alone and I needed answers. Now. I put a call in to Dr. F because I thought he could at least talk me down from the ledge. After all, he sees women with cervical cancer all the time. He'd know what to say to make it better. An hour went by after I'd left my message and my call hadn't been answered. I figured he was seeing patients and I just needed to chill out. He's a doctor and other people need his wisdom, too. Another hour passed and then another. No phone call. Maybe he's waiting until after office hours when he has time to talk to me without interruptions. Before I knew it, it was 10:00 PM and I hadn't heard from Dr. F.

Maybe he didn't get the message?

I woke up early the next morning expecting a phone call and an apology. But I didn't get either. I waited until early afternoon and called the office again. Another message was taken and the promise of a return call was made. The afternoon went by and, still, the phone didn't ring. My fear was turning to anger and my anger was making me incredibly impatient. Why wasn't he calling me back? He promised!

By the time I woke up the next morning I was really pissed off. I called Dr. F's office and asked for an appointment with the man himself. "Is it an emergency?" asked the receptionist. "He's pretty booked up." I started second-guessing myself. Is it an emergency? Hell, yes, it is! "Yes," I answered, without further explanation. But that wasn't good enough for the keeper of his schedule. "What's your emergency?" I tried to come up with something really good. Something she couldn't deny an immediate appointment. But nothing came to mind so I decided on the truth, "He told me I have cancer a few days ago and promised he'd be there to answer any questions. Well, I have questions. I've left two messages for him but he hasn't called back and…" She cut me off, "He's very busy. I'm sure he'll get back to you when he has a free minute." I calmed my voice before I let it out of my mouth, "I need to see the doctor. Now." Somehow, she found an opening in Dr. F's schedule that afternoon and I grabbed it.

I waited in Dr. F's office, ready to pounce as soon as he walked through the door. I tried to remain calm as the heard the footsteps drawing nearer and saw the knob begin to turn. "Hi, Suzanne," he said, looking surprised to see me. "What's up? Have you seen an oncologist yet?" The man was oblivious. "No, everyone's on vacation. I've thought of some questions since you told me about the cancer a few days ago and I…" His face contorted into what looked to be annoyance that I'd actually taken time away from his other patients, who might actually have emergencies, by asking to be squeezed in for a Q&A session. "I told you to call me," he said. "You didn't have to come to the office." I picked my jaw up from the floor where I'd dropped it and steadied my voice enough to say, "I did call you. Twice. You didn't call me back." He fumbled around his desk and found some Post-It Notes stuck to his computer. "Yeah, I just got those messages this morning. Sometimes it takes a few days." He could see by the look in my eyes I was not accepting his excuse. "You know what I'm gonna do?" He asked. "I'm going to give you my cell number. I always have it on me and that way this won't happen again." I took that gesture as a real attempt to get back in my good graces. We spoke for a few minutes and he answered whatever questions he could then instructed me to make another appointment to see him after I'd met with each of the three oncologists I was planning on seeing over the next two weeks.

Exactly fourteen days later, my mom and I sat in Dr. F's office, again, ready to catch him up on all of my meetings. I had just recently heard the words "small cell neuroendocrine carcinoma" for the first time, but none of the oncologists had officially confirmed that diagnosis yet. Dr. F was friendly with Dr. T, the first oncologist I had seen. He was actually the one to mention the possibility of SCCC first, but I knew I wasn't going to choose Dr. T to perform my surgery anyway. He was probably a great doctor but his bedside manner left a lot to be desired. Dr. L, the surgeon I had chosen, was still studying my tissue slides before giving me an official yea or nay on the super scary cancer. Dr. F entered the room powerfully and plopped down into his chair. He wheeled himself around so he was facing me, grabbed a file and asked, "So? What's the plan?" I started to explain, "I saw Dr. T first. I wasn't crazy about him. The next doctor was nice but she can't do the surgery robotically. I think I'm going with Dr. L. They all seem to think we caught it very early and Dr. L said I might only need a larger LEEP unless it's this rare cancer called small cell neu…" He interrupted me, "It IS small cell," he said as if the word of God had been whispered into his ear. "What?" was all I could say. Dr. F continued, "I spoke to Dr. T and he told me it is small cell." I was silent. Apparently Dr. F knew more than I did, at that point, and any hope I'd had of saving my uterus and my hair, for that matter, had just flown out the window with his announcement. "Well," I tried to hold onto the belief that Dr. T had made a mistake. "Dr. L is still looking at the slides and I'm gonna wait and see what he says. I want to try and work it all around my wedding in four months." Dr. F didn't want to hear it. "Small cell is a much more serious diagnosis than we'd originally thought. I wouldn't wait too long to treat it. You should probably just postpone the wedding." I was now holding back tears, "I'm NOT canceling my wedding!" I shrieked, louder than I'd anticipated. "I'm meeting with Dr. L again next week and we'll work it all out." Dr. F stood up and my mom and I followed his lead as he walked us to the door, "After you figure out your treatment plan I want you to call me and let me know. I gave you my cell number, right?" I nodded. "Ok," he continued. "Keep me posted so I know what's going on with you. I promise, it's just a bump in the road." He'd used that phrase a few times since my diagnosis and it couldn't have been more inaccurate.

After Dr. L confirmed small cell neuroendocrine carcinoma of the cervix and had me sign off on the waiver he needed to remove my entire reproductive system, I wasn't really in the mood to discuss it with anyone. I went into a cocoon of depression for a few weeks, which is when I started blogging. Writing was my way of getting all of the information to my friends and family, without actually having to speak to anyone and have the same conversation over and over again. Weeks went by and my surgery date was drawing near. "I should probably call Dr. F," I said to Jimmi. "It's been over a month since he's heard from me. I'm actually surprised he hasn't called me." I checked my phone contacts, found his cell number and tapped "call." After a few rings Dr. F answered, "Hello?" I stuttered, "H-h-i, Dr. F? It's Suzanne." There was silence on the other end of the line. It seemed as if he was trying to remember who Suzanne was. "Oh, hi," he finally placed me. "I was just calling to update you on my treatment plan." And his reply sent chills of anger throughout my body, "Well, it's about time. Truthfully, I thought you would've called me sooner." 

What?

Are you FUCKING kidding me?

You tell me I have cancer and leave me hanging for days even though you know I'm terrified. You then find out I have this super rare and aggressive type of cancer that will probably kill me. You know I don't know where to turn or who to believe. You must also know the treatment for this cancer wouldn't be just a "bump in the road." You must assume I've had more on my plate than I can handle and that a phone call to you wasn't my top priority! If you wanted to be in the loop so badly, or if you cared, as you swore you did, why the HELL didn't you call me? It would've been nice to feel like more than just a chart in your filing cabinet. It would've been nice to feel as if your promises mattered. It would've been nice if you were actually sincere. I finally spoke again, "I'm having a hysterectomy tomorrow and chemo and radiation starts in a month." He replied, "Are you still thinking of getting married in September?" I told him I was. He said, "Ok, well, good luck. I still think you should postpone the wedding and concentrate on your health. Keep me posted."

And that was the last time I spoke to Dr. F. 

But it wasn't the last time his office contacted me. About six months later, when my hair had just started growing back and my wedding ring had a few scratches from two months of daily wear, I received a letter from Dr. F's office:

Dear Suzanne,

It's time for your PAP and well-woman exam. It is very important that you do not miss this very important appointment. Early detection of certain strains of HPV is key in preventing cervical cancer.

I didn't even bother to read the rest. "They really need to update their files," I said to Jimmi as I tossed the paper on the counter for him to read. And then I got angry, "He doesn't know if I'm alive or dead!" Jimmi looked up at me, "Maybe you should call him." And my blood pressure shot up even higher, "I'm not calling him! He promised he'd be there for me! He promised he wouldn't leave me! He promised he'd check up on me! I haven't heard from him since the day before my surgery. How does he know I even made it through treatments? He obviously doesn't care." Jimmi just nodded and shrugged. There was nothing he could say.

I ignored the letter and chose not to give Dr. F the satisfaction of knowing I was still alive. I received another letter from his office, same as the first one, about six months later and I tossed it in the garbage without responding. The letters have now stopped. 

I wonder if they've marked me as "deceased" in their files?

Tuesday, January 14, 2014

Cervical Cancer is NOT 100% Preventable

Because January is Cervical Cancer Awareness Month, please allow me to take a break from the Baby A play by play to bring you a very important and very serious public service announcement that could save the lives of women you love.

CERVICAL CANCER IS NOT 100% PREVENTABLE. 

ALL CERVICAL CANCER IS NOT CAUSED BY HPV.

CERVICAL CANCER IS NOT ALWAYS TREATABLE.

Are you surprised? 

Most of you know that I was diagnosed with a very rare, highly aggressive form of cervical cancer in April of 2011. After he broke news I questioned my gynecologist, "How did this happen? What caused it?" He looked right into my terrified eyes and said, "HPV. Cervical cancer is always caused by the HPV virus." Of course, my trusted gynecologist, the man who had delivered Dylan in 2000, must have known what he was talking about. He's a doctor, after all. His job is to know this information and pass it on to his patients. Little did I know…

He was wrong.

Two years before my cancer diagnosis I had been told there were abnormal cells, or dysplasia, in my PAP smear. They were following me very closely to make sure the cells didn't become precancerous which, interestingly, they never did. Yes, I had HPV, as most adults in the world do at some point or another, but the dysplasia was mild and nothing sent up a red flag for cancer. I followed up with my gynecologist every six months, as he'd suggested, to keep on top of any changes, but everything stayed mild. Then, at the two-year mark of my first abnormal PAP, the dysplasia showed up as slightly higher risk. My gynecologist performed a biopsy and, in no uncertain terms, assured me, "This is NOT cancer, but I think we should do a procedure to scrape out the abnormal cells and let new ones grow back in their place. That should get rid of the HPV for good." So that's what we did. On April 1, 2011, I had the LEEP procedure. In no way was I prepared for the words I heard on April 14, 2011, "There was some cancer there…" My doctor was so matter-of-fact; like he was telling me there was some mustard on my lip from a sandwich I'd eaten for lunch. "It's just a bump in the road," he continued. "This is an easy cancer. Very slow-growing. Very treatable. They'll probably just have to do a little bit more surgery to get the rest out. Maybe you'll have some radiation, but that might not even be necessary. Don't worry!"

Wrong again.

One month and three oncologists later, I finally chose Dr. L as my surgeon. Sometime during those four weeks, my initial, basic, run-of-the-mill, cervical cancer diagnosis had changed to a much scarier and much less familiar cancer called small cell neuroendocrine carcinoma of the cervix. Dr. L insisted that I should not Google my illness because I wouldn't find any helpful information online. Not enough was known about the disease so I should bring any questions I had right to him. He was very straightforward and easygoing at the same time, and the fact that he couldn't squeeze me into his surgery schedule until June 14th led me to believe we weren't in a race against time. That was ok with me, though, because it gave me a chance to harvest my eggs for future use with a gestational carrier. Who knew that extra six weeks could've killed me?

At the end of May I put 12 embryos on ice and started preparing for my surgery date a few weeks later. My regular gynecologist's original statements of, "Just a bump in the road. Easy cancer. Very treatable," flew out the window as I got ready to say a final farewell to my uterus, fallopian tubes and ovaries. Then, looming on the horizon, was the promise of 4 cycles of chemotherapy, each lasting 3 days, with a two-week break in between. Oh, and on top of that, I would have a bonus 28 rounds of external pelvic radiation. Piece of cake! Did I mention that all of this was happening four months before my wedding?

On June 14, 2011, I walked into the hospital a complete woman and was wheeled out of the operating room, just the shell of one.

The pathology report was the next shocker. What was originally thought to have been stage Ib cancer had actually spread enough in a few short weeks to be classified as stage IIb, with one lymph node showing disease as well. I thought this was a slow-growing cancer?

While recovering from surgery and dealing with my anxiety over starting chemo and radiation, I searched online for a support group for this bitch of a cancer I had. I was careful not to read anything about my disease, as Dr. L had warned, but I just wanted to talk to other people who had been through what I was going through. That's when I found a Rare But There Facebook page for women who had received a diagnosis of small cell neuroendocrine carcinoma of the cervix or her sister, large cell neuroendocrine carcinoma of the cervix. There weren't very many of us, but what we lacked in numbers we made up for in strength and encouragement for each other. At that point I was too wrapped up in questions about what to expect during radiation and chemotherapy to really pay attention to what the other "sisters" in my group were discussing around me. The only thing I remember from that time was that six, yes SIX, women lost their battles to the disease between Thanksgiving and Christmas of   2011.

My treatments began on July 19, 2011 and ended on September 30, 2011. By November, I was starting to feel slightly normal again. Well, aside from the Sinead O'Conner hairdo. At that time I was given the name of a filmmaker who was looking for women for a documentary about cervical cancer for HBO. I jumped at the chance to get involved and the interviews began. The filmmaker came to my house on numerous occasions to talk to Jimmi, my kids, my parents and me. I realized quickly that the focus was mainly on the relationship of HPV to cervical cancer and the need for everyone to be vaccinated against the virus so we can wipe out cervical cancer altogether. Sounded like a good plan to me!

But then the research I'd been careful to avoid smacked me in the face so hard I couldn't ignore it any longer.

One of my small cell sisters made a video for Cervical Cancer Awareness Month in January, 2012. I hit play and watched as photos of my new friends flashed across the screen, followed by statistics and facts about the disease that had turned my once healthy body into a scarred up, bald, menopausal mess at the tender age of 36.

- 12,000 cases of cervical cancer in the country are reported every year. 1% of those cases make up small/large cell neuroendocrine carcinoma of the cervix (SCCC/LCCC)

- The 5-year survival rate for SCCC/LCCC is only 15-20%

- There is no precancerous phase of SCCC/LCCC

- There is no known link between HPV and SCCC/LCCC

I had to rewind and replay the video five times to make sure I had read that information correctly.

The 5-year survival rate is only 15-20%? That means there's an 80-85% chance I'll be dead before I turn 40? Is that why Dr. L didn't want me to read about SCCC? I immediately disregarded all of the warnings and went straight to Google to type in "small cell neuroendocrine carcinoma of the cervix." Every website said a different form of the same thing, "Prognosis poor. Death likely." And, even worse, the survival rate for patients in stage IIb or higher was almost nonexistent.

I was stage IIb.

I was so hung up on the fact that I'd been staring death right in the eyes, without ever knowing it, that I missed the part about HPV not being linked to SCCC/LCCC. Once I'd calmed down a bit, I went back to read the facts in the video again. Wait, SCCC and LCCC aren't linked to HPV? But my gynecologist said all cervical cancer was caused by HPV. I think I'd read that online as well. The information in the video must be wrong. Luckily I had an appointment with Dr. L that day and I planned on asking him directly.

The filmmaker arrived at my house in time to go with me to my appointment at the cancer center because he wanted to be there to film the results of my 6-month, post-treatment scan for the cervical cancer documentary. Unfortunately, we couldn't get permission quickly enough for him to film inside the building, but he had no problem waiting for me outside. On the car ride over, Jimmi drove and I was interviewed on camera. I couldn't wait to spill the big news. Not all cervical cancer is caused by HPV so not all cervical cancer is preventable! I knew this information was huge and so important for all women to hear. I was so lucky to have this documentary as a platform to get the word out to so many people at once! A negative HPV test does NOT mean cervical cancer is impossible. I was gonna help save lives with this information! To my surprise, the filmmaker didn't seem as excited about this new and important data as I was. He urged me to double-check with my oncologist to make sure what I was reporting was actually accurate. I planned on doing so.

Upon arrival at the cancer center, Jimmi and I left the filmmaker outside to wait for us while we met with Dr. L. "Your scan was clear!" announced the doctor, almost as surprised as I was that I was still cancer-free. "I Googled small cell," I confessed. He could see by the look on my face that I knew all the grim facts about my chance of survival. But I had more important things to talk about, "Is it true small cell isn't caused by HPV?" I asked. Dr. L was frank with me, "We can't find a definite link. We know for sure that the regular cervical cancers, squamous cell, adenocarcinoma and adenosquamous, are one-hundred percent caused by HPV, but not small and large cell. We really don't know what causes those." I still had questions, "But I had HPV." Dr. L nodded, "Yeah, it was just a coincidence. Honestly, most adults have HPV at some point or another and may not even know it. It's in something like eighty percent of the population. Chances are, if you've had sex, you'll have HPV in your lifetime. That doesn't mean you'll definitely get cancer. You just happened to have HPV and cancer at the same time, but your small cell was not caused by the HPV."

I couldn't wait to tell the filmmaker! This was gonna blow his documentary out of the water and help to disseminate the correct information to so many women!

The camera was rolling as I exited the building. My giant smile already told him what was about to come out of my mouth, "Clear scan!" I announced. "And," I went on, "small cell is NOT caused by HPV! Not all cervical cancer is caused by HPV so it's not all preventable." Again the filmmaker's face reflected disappointment and I couldn't imagine why.

A few days later, I got my answer.

"Hi Suzanne, it's F." This didn't sound positive. "So, I was discussing your new information with the producers of the documentary and we have a small problem." I listened. "You see, the producers are the manufacturers of the HPV vaccine and they are funding this project. Since your cancer isn't directly linked to HPV, it really doesn't fit the message of the video so they've asked me to let you know we won't be needing you anymore." For real? "They're cutting me out?" I asked. He replied, "Unfortunately, yes. It's just that, since your cancer couldn't have been prevented by their drug, your story really doesn't fit." I was livid, "I understand that, but don't you think women have the right to know that there are different types of cervical cancers they can get without HPV? You can help me get the word out. We can save lives!" He tried to ease the blow, "Yes, I think you have a good point. I think your story needs to be told and I plan on making a totally separate video with you and anyone else you know with small or large cell. You could really help a lot of women. I'll be in touch."

That was January of 2012. That was the last time I heard from the filmmaker.

And here we are, two years later, with two more Cervical Cancer Awareness Months that have been promoting only HALF of the awareness women need. I don't understand why it's so difficult for the correct information to reach the public. Don't believe me? Go online and read. The National Cervical Cancer Coalition says, "HPV is found in about 99% of cervical cancers." The Centers for Disease Control says, "Almost all cervical cancer is caused by HPV." These are reputable sources for medical information. I know I've never been good at math but, as far I can tell, if "HPV is found in 99% of cervical cancers," that leaves another 1% where it is NOT found, right? On the other hand, I am very confident in my verbal strengths and I know for a fact that "Almost all cervical cancer is caused by HPV" does not actually mean all cervical cancer is definitely caused by HPV.

Do the math, my friends. Read the words. Educate yourselves. Educate others. Pay attention to your bodies. Whether you've heard the words, "You have HPV" or not, if something doesn't feel right, it probably isn't.

Please share this post anywhere you can. Help save lives.





Sunday, January 12, 2014

Bun in a Borrowed Oven

22 Weeks

Gestational surrogacy is a beautiful thing. Through this scientific miracle, women, who aren't able to carry their own baby, can still have biological children. Without a gestational carrier, my only chance of having more kids would've been through adoption. And, while I'm so thankful to have this option, having my bun baking in a borrowed uterus leaves my broken oven feeling very empty.

I'd been looking forward to yesterday for weeks. It was finally time to order our crib! I was heading out the door to meet my mom at the store when a wave of embarrassment came over me. I stopped to consider a thought that was rolling around my head. Maybe I should stuff my shirt with a fake baby bump to avoid the confused stares from customers and salespeople. I really wasn't in the mood for the inevitable up and down once-over I've grown accustomed to whenever I tell people I'm expecting a baby in May. I always feel the need to explain myself and then I have to listen to all the ridiculous questions and inappropriate remarks that will come when strangers feel uncomfortable with the information I've provided. I posted my dilemma on Facebook and a well-meaning friend suggested I tell any interested parties that I'm purchasing the furniture for my sister or friend as a surprise. I practically jumped down his throat when I responded, "No. I want the joy of 'having' the baby." 

But, the sad truth is, I won't have anything to do with "having" the baby until she's actually here. 

My mom says I should be thankful I even have this option. I'm lucky to have found Lyndsay. It doesn't matter how Baby A gets here, as long as she gets here. These are all true statements but they don't take away the huge piece that is missing from this experience. 

I still can't have my own baby.

My mind shifted to a scene from one of those cheesy made-for-tv movies I watched on Lifetime last week. I had seen it before, years ago, but it took on an entirely new meaning this time. The movie was called The Baby Dance and it starred Stockard Channing and Laura Dern. Stockard and her on-screen husband were a married couple who, after something like nine miscarriages, became desperate for a baby. Laura Dern played a married woman with four children and no money, who just found out she was pregnant again. In the best interest of the baby, Laura decided to give her up for adoption and Stockard and her husband were the intended parents. So, at one point, Stockard goes to visit Laura in her trailer and she's upset to learn that the money she sent for an air conditioner, prenatal vitamins and healthy food was spent on fixing Laura's husband's truck. The two women get into an argument and Laura screams at Stockard, "Anything you can't do as a woman you can just buy!"

My heart stopped beating in my chest for a minute. Is that what I'm doing? 

I can't have a baby, which is something a woman is "supposed" to be able to do. This is the hand I was dealt. Am I supposed to just accept it and move on? Am I wrong to try and do whatever it takes to have a baby with my husband? Do people think I'm buying my own baby?

I shook the negative energy from my head and drove down to meet my mom. As soon as my eyes caught sight of the virtual Babypalooza in the window, excitement took over and I forgot about the fact that I am not actually pregnant. I walked into the store and was overwhelmed by cribs and bedding and gliders, oh my! I was in my glory as I selected shades of pink, grey and white to don the coffee-colored, wooden crib. It was hot in the store but I kept my jacket zipped to conceal my small frame and missing bump. After my choices were made I chatted with the owner of the store while my mom ran to the bathroom. I had been in there many times before and had told him my story each time. When I came in that day he'd acted as if he remembered me. I told him the baby was due in May and I was so excited that it was finally time to order the furniture. He made a comment about being small and I said, "Well, I don't think I'll get much bigger unless I eat too many chips." He smiled and said, "That's what they all say until they pop. It happens to everyone." I had to hold myself back from gripping his neck with my sweaty hands. I talked myself down. He probably just doesn't remember. Chill out. Don't say anything. But I couldn't help myself, "Well, it won't happen to me since I'm not the one who's pregnant." Before he had a chance to react, my mom came back from the bathroom and saved him from anything else my mouth might have said without my brain's permission.

So now our registry is done and the crib is ordered and I still don't feel like I'm having a baby. 

My baby is kicking but someone else is feeling it. My baby is growing but someone else's clothes are getting tighter. My baby's heart is beating but someone else gets to listen to it at her prenatal visits. My baby can hear now but someone else's voice is speaking to her. 

I had no idea this would be so emotionally difficult for me.

I try to talk to Jimmi about my sadness but he doesn't really understand. My mom sympathizes with me but doesn't have the same day to day struggles I have. Luckily, I do have one person who gets it. Back in May, when we switched from Surrogacy Agency A to Surrogacy Agency B, the latter agency gave me Sara's name as a reference. Sara had been through a similar Hell with Agency A and had just been matched with a carrier through Agency B. As a side note, I'd like to give props to Tina and The Surrogacy Experience so I can stop calling them Tara and Agency B! Anyway, Tina at The Surrogacy Experience reached out to Sara to ask if I could contact her about her experience, which I did, and we've been friends ever since. Sara is about two months ahead of me in her journey so I was able to annoy her with tons of questions about what to expect during the all-day clinic meeting, the embryo transfer and anything else that I needed to know at the very beginning. She's been an amazing resource for me and she's expecting twins in March through her gestational carrier in Iowa. 

Though we'd tried a number of times, Sara and I had never actually met…until today! Since her babies are due in a few weeks, Sara needed to pick up some necessities at Babies R Us and I offered to tag along and help her out. I'm sure it was very confusing for the customers who heard us comparing bottles or discussing sleep sacks versus swaddlers. There we were, two expectant moms who couldn't have weighed more than 115 lbs. each, walking around the store talking about what we'll need for our babies, who will be here very, very soon. I even offered advice to a woman who was shopping for her grandtwins, and was clearly lost. She tried to keep her mouth closed when I mentioned the last time I'd had a baby was almost eleven years ago, but I was getting ready to do it again in about four months. For some reason, with Sara by my side, I wasn't quite as self-conscious and I embraced my empty, flat stomach for a few minutes. After checking out, Sara and I went to dinner and talked about our babies, as any expectant moms would do, but our conversation included some unique subjects like hoping to actually make it to the birth of our children or the best way to get newborns home from halfway across the country. 

Oh, what I wouldn't give to just be able to carry my baby, go into labor, give birth and drive home from the local hospital.

Venting to Sara was therapeutic for me. While she may not be as neurotic and upset over things that are out of our control as I am, she definitely knows what's going on in my crazy head. Having just one person who is going through a similar experience makes the road a lot less lonely. 












Saturday, January 11, 2014

Pictures

Friends, family and fans, I know you won't laugh or make fun of me when I break the news to you that, after two blogs and over two years, I have just now discovered how to add photos to my posts. I promise, in the future, I will make a habit of adding colorful images for your enjoyment. But, for now, I thought it would be nice to catch you up on the visual highlights of our journey so far. 

August 30, 2013 - Transfer Day! (left to right: Me, Lyndsay & Jimmi)

The embryos to be transferred. #13 was already "hatching."

You can almost see the needle squirting the embryos into Lyndsay's uterus.

The first positive home pregnancy test! It's a VERY faint plus sign.

 The second line is a bit darker two days later.

And really dark two days after that!

A gift from us to Lyndsay.

First ultrasound revealed two gestational sacs with one baby in sac A and a surprise split gave us two babies in sac B. TRIPLETS! A clearer shot of the second sac, below, shows the two distinct circles in sac B.
At 6 weeks 2 days we could see them more clearly.
And we heard all three heartbeats.


But, two weeks later, Baby B and Baby C stopped growing. only Baby A remained.

Baby A was waving at us at 10 weeks.

At almost 12 weeks we could really see a baby growing in there!

And at 14 weeks it was becoming obvious to everyone.

 15 weeks

16 weeks

17 weeks

It's hard to tell but the one on the right means "Baby A."

 Shopping in Minnesota during our downtime.

The three white lines supposedly mean she's a girl!

3D face!

 Lyndsay's daughter beat Jimmi in Memory. Twice.

 Jimmi and Chloe both pass the baby test with my friend's son.

Our 2013 Holiday card.

Last Christmas as a family of 4.

 Baby A's closet! It's nice to have hand-me-downs!

20 weeks!

Happy New Year!

Tuesday, January 7, 2014

Nesting

If you know me at all, you know how much I despise cleaning. I absolutely loathe it. I would rather stick needles into my eyes than organize my closet and I'd prefer to throw important documents in the trash than file them away where they can be found if I'm ever audited. Don't get me wrong, I HATE having a messy house and I can't stand looking at clutter. I just want someone else to take care of making it all look pretty. Luckily I married the most anal-retentive, obsessively clean, overwhelmingly neat straight man I've ever met and my "I'll run behind you with a vacuum and a dust cloth" mom comes by to help me organize the big stuff once a year, or whenever she can't stand looking at it anymore. It's not that I'm lazy; I just have strengths in other areas. I'll cook you the tastiest homemade baked ziti with sautéed green beans and fresh garlic bread, followed by a batch of insanely delicious chocolate mousse, from scratch.

Just don't ask me to do the dishes.

Armed with this information, you'll understand the confusion I felt when I had a sudden urge to grab the Swiffer from the laundry room closet, dust it off, start yelling at Jimmi about dog hair all over the kitchen floor, and go to town mopping it up. He watched me with wide eyes and a gaping jaw as I moved the handled pad around, under tables and chairs and counters, ripping off the used, dusty, hair-filled cloths, one after another and sticking them under his nose asking, "See? SEE?"

When I finished the kitchen floor I moved on to the family room. I plopped down onto my hands and knees, peered under the couch and started pulling out dog toys, cat toys and Legos. "Does anyone ever look under here?!" I screeched with that "Mommy's had it up to here" tone. Jimmi didn't know whether to laugh at me or run from the house screaming, but he chose to face my wrath, head on. "Relax! We'll take care of it!" But he had to leave for the gym a few minutes later and I was so overwhelmed by the sheer amount of cleaning and organizing I wanted to do RIGHT NOW that I just froze up and couldn't get myself to do anything at all. "We can do it together when I get home," Jimmi assured me. "Don't worry!"

So I let it sit for a few more hours.

I was sure the urge to purge everything from my house would dissipate as quickly as it had hit me but it didn't. I found myself counting the minutes until Jimmi reappeared so we could eat a quick dinner and get started. But first, we needed supplies. Off to Lowes! We scoured the aisles, filling our cart with paper towels, bleach, a new Swiffer mop, a Swiffer duster, Windex and, most importantly, a Dyson vacuum made especially for picking up pet hair. The cashier rang up the hefty purchase and I joked that my credit card company would be calling soon to check if my card had been stolen due to unusual activity. I never hear from them when I purchase a new Louis Vuitton bag, but a truckload of cleaning supplies from Lowes might raise a few red flags on my account.

After dinner I elected to start in the master bathroom, which hadn't had a good cabinet cleaning in at least a year. Jimmi decided to get rid of empty boxes in the storage area of the basement to make room for anything we needed to move down there. Unfortunately for them, Dylan and Justin were at my house this past weekend and not their dad's. That meant handing them a box of huge, black garbage bags and sending them into the basement to clean out their toy and game closet and their art supplies pantry.

With the men downstairs and out of sight, I headed up to my bathroom with determination. I opened the cabinet under my sink, let out an audible whine and closed it again. I stood there for a few minutes, assessing the job in front of me. I'm really not a Take Charge type of woman when it comes to cleaning. What I need is someone to take everything out, hold it up and say, "yes or no?" I'm really good at making the decision to toss away the junk, I'm just not good at getting started. Another whine and a loud sigh and I was on my way to the basement to see how the boys were doing.

Jimmi was cutting and tying up cardboard for recycling and the boys were emptying the game closet, seemingly doing more reminiscing about their old toys than getting rid of anything. An invisible force took over my body and I pushed past Dylan and positioned myself in the large, three-shelved closet. "Here," I said to my older son as I handed him a garbage bag. "Hold this." I went to town pulling out each board game and puzzle I found and asking, "Is it missing any pieces?" If the answer was "yes" the box went right into the black abyss, if it was "no" I assessed the age level of the toy and instructed Justin to put it in either the "Keep" or "Donate" pile. I was a wild woman and emptied and categorized all five gazillion items in the closet in about fifteen minutes. Two full garbage bags, 6 games to donate and 20 games to wipe down and put neatly back on the shelves later, we were ready to move on to the art closet. "Justin, take everything out of there so we can look at it." He moved at a snail's pace, clearly showing that his enthusiasm for cleaning was inherited from his mom. "Let's go!" I snapped and he got his little butt in gear. Unusable paints, dried clay, hard and crumbly Play-Doh, half-peeled stickers, fake tattoos and capless markers were dumped out of perfectly good storage containers, right into a black plastic grave. Two more bags were tied up and ready to go, leaving the entire closet empty, minus a bin filled with colored pencils and crayons. "I'm gonna put my game stuff in there!" Dylan announced, moving Xbox 360 accessories from the couch and the floor into the newly functional closet.

Getting there!

I looked around at the piles of Legos in different areas of the large, finished basement. I hate Legos. They're everywhere in my house and they make my life Hell. "Mom! He broke my Lego car and I worked FOREVER on it!" "Mom! I'm missing ONE piece in my 738093248 piece set and I can't finish it!" "Mom! Where can I put this gigantic, useless, Lego Star Wars spaceship so I can save it forever and ever?" "Mom! The dog swallowed my Lego piece and I NEEEEEEDED that one!" And then I remembered all the other sets and random pieces strewn all over the playroom on the mail floor of the house and visions of a 6 month-old baby finding and choking on one of them sent my heart into palpitations. "I have an idea!" I announced. "I think we should make the basement the Man Cave." All three of my boys, the young ones and the tattooed one, looked up at me for clarification. "How about we move all of your stuff down here and make it a baby-free zone?" Three instantaneous smiles wrapped around their faces and Dylan let out a, "Really?" I nodded, proud of my decision, and a little annoyed at myself for not coming up with it sooner. It just makes sense. Jimmi and Justin's drums are in the basement and Dylan plays Xbox on the big TV down there. The only time I descend the stairs is to tell them it's time to come up and eat. It's the perfect solution to get their choking hazards out of little Aria's grasp. By the way, I love that I can call her by her name. Anyway, the boys deserve their own space. They're getting older and they'll need to escape the craziness that will be coming in less than five months. We've already started redecorating their rooms to transition them from the Batman and Spider-Man themes of their little boyhoods, but having the basement to "hang out" will be special for them and it made them happy.

Ten points for Mom!

When Jimmi and the boys finished their tasks and the closets were closed and the empty bins were stored, Jimmi put the new vacuum together and I went to work on the carpet, which looked as if the entire house had exploded onto it. "No way!" Jimmi exclaimed as he grabbed his phone to take a video of his spoiled wife doing housework and send it to my mom, who would never have believed it otherwise. And, I'll admit, it wasn't that bad. Actually felt great to look at it when it was all done.

But that was just the basement.

The next night Jimmi and I tackled the master bathroom together. Melted candles were tossed, empty shampoo bottles were dumped and feminine products, which I haven't needed since my hysterectomy in 2011, were finally discarded for good. Memories, that were better left repressed, resurfaced as I emptied drawers filled with wig tape, synthetic hair shampoo and countless headbands I had to wear when my post-chemo hair was in its awkward in-between phase after it started growing back. I contemplated keeping some of the bands then shook my head emphatically, as if to ward off the evil cancer spirits, and dropped them all into the bag. I don't know how a bathroom could take so long but, two hours later, we finally wiped the last counter clean and shut the lights.

Done.

But we have so much more to do! This need to clean isn't waning and I've figured out the reason.

I'm nesting.

For those of you who are new to the term, nesting is a phenomenon shared by expectant mothers all over the world as they prepare to bring a new baby into their home. I brushed it off at first, thinking 21 weeks of gestation was way too early to start this task but, seeing how long it took to clean a basement and a bathroom, I'm glad the urge came on halfway through the pregnancy and not a month before the due date. I'm just gonna need to warn Jimmi not to get used to the new me. Once this house is torn apart and put back together again, my cleaning days are over! ;)

Wednesday, January 1, 2014

What's in a Name?

Happy New Year, family and friends!

As you all know, we're now just over 20 weeks pregnant with a baby girl and I've been teasing all of you about spilling the beans and announcing her name for weeks. Well, here's the post you've all been waiting for! And don't cheat and skip to the end, my impatient friends. If I'm taking the time to write it, you need to take the time to read it!

Allow me to rewind a bit…

After my two boys were born and years went on without another baby, life started to change. My first marriage ended, five more years went by before Jimmi and I got engaged and then the whole cancer debacle entered our lives. I was convinced I would never have another baby again.

Enter the miracle of modern science and Lyndsay, the woman who has sacrificed her own body to give our baby a womb to grow.

At first we were expecting three babies. Triplets. All girls! Names flashed through my mind like bulbs on the old camera I had when I was a kid in the 1980s. I had always had a problem finding names I liked for my boys but the possibilities for girls were endless! And now we had THREE girls to name! We started out calling the little pumpkins Baby A, Baby B and Baby C. If you remember, Baby A was in a sac by herself but Baby B and Baby C began as one embryo that randomly split to become identical twins who were sharing a sac. 

As far as I was concerned, at least one of my babies had a middle name immediately upon conception. You see, from the moment I found out I was pregnant with Dylan, 13 years ago, I had chosen a middle name for him. Well, it would have been his middle name if he had turned out to be a girl. Which, clearly, he did not. A few years later my hope of using this super special middle name was, once again, sparked. But, alas, Justin couldn't have pulled it off either.

The name was Eileen.

For those of you who don't know, Eileen is my mom. My mom is, and has always been, my best friend. While my dad has both children and grandchildren named after him, my mom has never been given the honor. Of course, being that my mom is Jewish, it's technically against tradition to name a child after a living family member but, since I was baptized Catholic, I think I'm given a pass in this case.

But we still had three first names and two middle names left to choose!

There were some definite criteria any name had to pass to even be considered. First, it had to be easily pronounced and sound exactly as it's spelled. Trust me, growing up with a name like Suzanne is nothing short of daily torture. You'd think it would be simple, right? Suzanne. Su sounds like Sue and zanne sounds like Anne with a z in front of it. Nope, not so much. I am called "Susan" literally every day of my life. When I correct the mispronouncing fools I'm always given dirty looks and questioned with, "What's the difference?" Well, you ignorant asses, it's a totally different name! Is Lauren the same as Laureen? Is Kara the same as Karen? No! The spelling is different and the pronunciation is different! Places like doctor's offices have become battle grounds for me. Each time a new nurse enters the waiting room and calls for, "Susan?" I have to resist the urge to jump up and beat her face down into the file to read my name as it's written and not as her lazy brain wants to decipher it. 

Another no-no for names is the alternate spelling craze. Don't get me wrong, here. I actually think it's cute when people change up a "y" for an "i" or "ley" for "leigh" but, after my rant in the last paragraph, you'll understand why I feel the need to keep things simple. Easily said and easily spelled will illicit less anger on my part.  

I also wanted to make sure we didn't name our babies anything too common or anything too weird or trendy. I remember growing up with at least three Jennifers in my class from first through sixth grade. I didn't want my kids to have to be known by their last initial. Then there are the names that aren't actually names but people have somehow made them into names. I wanted to keep those out of our thoughts as well.

So now we needed to choose three first names that fit the criteria and one of them needed to flow with my pre-selected middle name, Eileen. I don't know what it was about Baby A but for some reason, right from the beginning, I felt I needed her to have my mom's name no matter what her first name would be.

Options started to flow, mainly on my part, during dinner conversations with Jimmi. Being that both of us are musical, I really liked the idea of a name that expresses our love for the art. Choices like Melody and Harmony briefly passed my lips but disappeared into the air. Then I started thinking along a different line and my openness to some more unusual choices began to grow. Jimmi has always been a huge fan of The Beatles. Personally, I could take them or leave them, but some Beatles-influenced names were real possibilities for me. "How about Lennon?" I asked and Jimmi didn't seem as turned off by the suggestion as I'd assumed he'd be. I got more creative and further away from my own rules, "McCartney?" Jimmi wrinkled his nose at the sound of it but I thought it was pretty cute. The Beatles' catalogue played through my head and names came out, one after another, "Lucy?" "Prudence?" "Penny?" "Elenor?" Only Lucy peaked our interests enough to be added it to the list, along with Lennon.

As days went on I continued brainstorming. The same few names kept coming back to me and I decided to mention them to Jimmi. "I've always loved the name Lily," I said. "Suzanne actually means Lily or Rose, so she'd technically be named after me. I like Lily and Rose together, too. My biggest problem is that Lily is so common now. Seems like it's everyone's daughter's name." How could we make it different without changing the spelling to something crazy like Lileigh? "How about Lilyrose?" I asked. "Her first name could combine Lily and Rose in one and then her middle name could be Marie, like my middle name. Lilyrose Marie." Jimmi was in full agreement with that choice and it was instantly bumped to the top of the list. "I was also thinking of Isabella," I suggested to Jimmi, fully aware that the name isn't too far off from Lily in its popularity of use these days. "Her middle name could be Christine, after your mom." Again we had a winner and I only had one more option for Jimmi, which was my favorite, and my selection for Baby A. "Scarlett Eileen," I announced proudly. Jimmi's face didn't light up the way I'd hoped. In fact, it seemed to scrunch up into a wince at the thought of his baby being called Scarlett. "What?" I asked sadly. "You don't like it?" He shrugged and shook his head, "Not really." I put my hands on my hips and insisted, "There are three babies! We'll use the names you like for the twins and Baby A can have the unique name because she's off on her own. She doesn't follow the crowd!" Jimmi smiled and nodded, "Ok, that's fine. As long as we can use Lilyrose and Isabella for the twins, Baby A can be Scarlett." And it was settled! Scarlett Eileen, Lilyrose Marie and Isabella Christine were officially named.

Until we lost the twins.

Since Baby B and Baby C were gone, common sense would dictate that our remaining Baby A would still be called Scarlett Eileen, right?

Wrong.

"I really don't like the name Scarlett," Jimmi told me after the shock of losing the twins started to calm down. "I agreed because I liked the other two names but, now that there's only one, I'm not so sure." I felt like all three of my babies had perished at that moment. In my mind, even though we were only 9 weeks pregnant, Baby A was Scarlett. How could we change her name? "I really like Lilyrose," Jimmi said. "Can we just use that name for her?" I shook my head, horrified by the suggestion, "We can't do that!" Jimmi clearly didn't understand my reaction. "That was Baby B's name! They weren't just interchangeable to me. Each baby had her own name. If we're not using Scarlett we need to pick a completely different name."

And we started all over again.

All the former suggestions were dusted off and presented again with little to no excitement. Not one new or old choice was able to give us the same warm feeling as the three names we'd fallen in love with for the triplets who will never be. "I keep going back to Lennon," I said to Jimmi one night. "It's different, it's cute, it's musical, you're a huge fan of The Beatles. We could call her Lenni for short." Again I thought back to my name criteria and Lennon, along with the middle name Lenni, was basically a laugh in the face of all of them. Oh well. It's a sweet name and there won't be many other little girls walking around with it. So, that was it. We settled on Lennon Eileen for Baby A's name.

But something about it just didn't sit right with me and, after a few days, I brought up my issues to Jimmi. "I'm not sure I like the name Lennon anymore." My husband looked at me with desperation in his eyes, clearly not ready to start another name debate. I explained myself, "First of all, it's not very feminine. I think I want something that's REALLY girly and not gender ambiguous. Also, if people don't understand the reference to John Lennon, they might think it's Lenin. L-E-N-I-N, like the communist leader." I could see Jimmi's thoughts in his head and "my wife is nuts" was spinning around  up there, more than any other. "And," I went on to finalize my reasoning, "I think her name should start with an A. We've been calling her Baby A for so long that it would just make sense to give her an A name, don't you think?" Jimmi couldn't say much. As any man knows, once his wife has something in her mind it's nearly impossible to change it. "Ok, I understand," he said.

And we started all over again.

Days went by and I would shoot Jimmi name texts as I'd think of new choices:
"Aubrey?" 
"No."
"Ava?"
"No."
And then I came up with what I thought was the winner:
"Aurora?"
"Maybe."

"Maybe" was better than "no"! We sat on that name for a few days and it started really growing on me. Until Jimmi nixed it with, "I really don't like that one."

I threw myself into Googling and researching and questioning FaceBook friends, looking for the perfect A name for Baby A. I decided to go back to the original list of musical names I'd seen so many months ago because I remembered one I'd initially skipped right over. For some reason, now, it intrigued me.

Aria.

I loosely knew the meaning of the term as a word, not a name. I knew it came from opera and I believed it was a song with a beautiful melody. I looked it up to get an actual definition: 

A long, accompanied song for a solo voice, typically one in an opera. 

I couldn't believe the symbolism I read from just that line. It's been a long journey, accompanied by doctors and Lyndsay, in order for us to complete our family. Baby A, who started out with Baby B and Baby C as a trio, was now continuing on, alone, to make her solo performance in a few months. This baby is, by definition, our Aria. I texted Jimmi, "How about Aria?" He responded quickly, "That's kind of cool. I think I like it!" But after I explained the meaning behind the name the discussions ended and Baby A took on a new identity. 

And, let me tell you, I was really excited we'd found such a simple name with such an obvious pronunciation. That is, until we told a select few people who instantly massacred it upon speaking it from their lips. So, before I have to go ballistic on all of my friends, here is your friendly lesson in how to pronounce our daughter's name:

Aria. Ah-ree-yah. It seems like the first A sound is the real problem here. Just try to remember it sounds like, "Ahhh, that's a refreshing glass of water!" If you're pronouncing it like the word "area" you're wrong. If you're using the same A sound as the one in "apple" you're wrong. It's such a beautiful and melodic name, but one mistake in the vowel sound can screw it up so quickly! Ok, everyone, give it a try. Ah-ree-yah. Ah-ree-yah. Aria. Aria Eileen. Aria Eileen Kane. 

My baby has a name!