Scan Results

I find blogging slips my mind a lot these days. Aria and the boys consume every minute of every day and I wouldn't have it any other way. Of course, I did have to leave the world of Mommyhood for a few hours to get to the doctor for a mammography, CT scan of my pelvis and chest, and an internal exam of my…well, you know.

Jimmi and I met my mom at the cancer center, which we do every three months, and I shivered as I walked through the door as soon as the familiar smell hit my nose.

It never gets easier.

The combination of latex gloves and hand sanitizer made my stomach churn as I ascended the stairs to the radiology department, where I checked in for my CT scan, filled out the annoying form asking if I'm pregnant (Why, oh, why do I have to fill it out EVERY time when the answer will NEVER change?), and waited for my oral fruit punch contrast to be served in all its strawberry, pink nastiness. As soon as the nurse placed the large, plastic bottle in my hands I left my mom and Jimmi in the waiting room and scooted back downstairs to sneak in the mammography during the hour I had to wait while I drank my sickeningly sweet beverage. "Nah, you can stay up here," I said when my mom asked if I wanted her to join me. "This is the easy one." Then I smiled and bounced down to the land of breast checks.

I was escorted into a locker room to undress from the waist up, then I sat in the chair and sipped my cocktail. "Suzanne?" called the technician and I hopped up and followed her into a small room with a machine designed to crush my boobs until I winced in pain, in order to check for lumps and bumps that don't belong. It's funny to me that, when I asked my oncologist for a prescription for the tit test, he replied, "How old are you? You really don't need to start this until you're forty."

Seriously? By the time I was 36 I'd already been diagnosed with thyroid cancer and one of the rarest types of cervical cancers out there. Why would my age be an issue here?

The tech told me to pull my left arm out of the robe and place my body against the machine. "It's cold!" I jumped back then moved in to try again. I started to sweat with nervous energy and became increasingly aware of the fact that I was not allowed to wear deodorant before this exam. She grabbed my left tata and squeezed it like it was a stress ball. As soon as she was protected behind the glass the machine pressed down, a picture was taken, and I was released. Four different painful positions on each side left my chest red and swollen enough for a dance on the pole. I was escorted back into the locker room to wait for results, which were given immediately after the radiologist perused my films.

I went back to drinking my sugar water while I waited…and waited…and waited. "This is taking too long," I texted my mom in the waiting area upstairs. My palms began to sweat and I could feel my heart beating a little too heavily in my chest. One by one, the other women in the locker room were taken for their tests, sent back in to wait, then handed a clean bill of health and sent on their way.

But I was still there.

Finally the door opened and the familiar tech greeted me with a very solemn expression. She said nothing, but pointed and me and motioned with her index finger to follow her. This can't be good, I thought to myself as I stood up from my seat. And, of course, I was alone. "Is something wrong?" I asked. She didn't answer directly. Instead, she skirted the question by saying, "The doctor needs a few more pictures of your right side. I need to use a different attachment that will spread out the tissue more evenly so she can see it clearly." I had to have more information. "Did she see something in there?" My throat was dry and I wanted to run out of the room and back up to my familiar CT scan, for which I was now late. "She just wants a few more pictures," was all she would tell me.

The small room with the boob-squeezing machine seemed much scarier when I entered it for the second time that morning. My entire body was shaking and, when the technician noticed, I shrugged it off and blamed it on a chill from the air conditioning blasting down upon my naked chest.  I had about a minute to text my mom while an extra attachment that would "spread the breast tissue more evenly" was attached. "They need more pictures. I'm scared." I typed. Her response was calm and reassuring, as always, "That's happened to me, too. It's very common." But, for some reason, it didn't help.

"Ok, you can come over here and remove your right sleeve," instructed the technician. I obeyed her command then she grabbed hold of my milk jug and warned, "This is gonna be a bit more uncomfortable than last time. Hold still." I saw stars flashing before my eyes as this woman squeezed and flattened me into a vice that crushed my right mammary like it was juicing an orange. Then, finally, the torture was over. I was sent back to the locker room to await my fate. Seconds turned to minutes but it felt like days before she finally appeared again. This time, she was holding a paper, which she handed to me and said, "Enjoy the rest of your day. See you next year." A quick glance at the X next to, "Normal breast tissue" confirmed that the technician had just given me good news and I allowed myself to enjoy the relief for a few minutes until I redressed my upper half and headed back upstairs for my CT scan, for which I was now very late.

I barely had time to give Jimmi and my mom the results before my name was called again and I was brought to the room of doom. Each time I enter the CT prep room I start to feel sick to my stomach. Waves of nausea rush over me as the memories of being a "cancer patient" flood back into my brain. The situation unfolds the same way each time. I'll give my name, with spelling, and date of birth to the nurse, who will then ask me which arm is best for my IV. I'll expose both to show her that neither would win a prize for easy veins, but request that she not use the only decent one in my right arm because of all the scar tissue it accumulated during my stint as a regular medial pin cushion. She'll look, shake her head and tell me she'll try, but she might not have a choice. A stick or two, if she's having a bad day, and the bitter taste of saline will hit my tongue as the syringe is squeezed into the catheter in my arm before the drip begins. All of that fuss just to prepare me for a quick shot of contrast dye halfway through the scan. The the nurse will ask if I'm cold, bring me a blanket and tell me the tech will be in to get me shortly. I know the drill so well I could probably perform the entire operation myself.

The test itself lasts barely ten minutes, but I get most of my praying for the year done in that short time. "Please, God, let me be ok. Please don't let the cancer come back. Please let me live to watch my kids grow up." Into the machine I go. "Breathe in. Hold your breath," instructs the recorded voice. "Breathe," he commands after the picture is taken. Twice through, then the contrast is injected. Three more pictures and the IV is removed and I'm sent on my way, back downstairs to my gynecological oncologist, Dr. L's office, where I'll hear the results of the CT scan and enjoy the discomfort of an internal examination which, after a month of pelvic radiation, is not the walk in the park is used to be.

My mom, Jimmi and I sat in the third waiting area of the day and my legs bounced nervously. At least I would know soon if I could relax for a few months or not. At the beginning of my post-treatment scan days, I'd have the test on a Monday and have to wait until Friday to hear the results. One time I was having some severe back pain and the doctor sent me for a CT scan and had the report read immediately. Once I knew that was a possibility, there was no going back to the agony of an entire week of waiting.

"Suzanne?" smiled the nurse as she met my gaze. The three of us stood up and followed her through the doors where Nurse L, my favorite one, was sitting. "How's the baby?!" she gushed as I grabbed my phone to display some pictures. "Oh, she's just BEAUTIFUL!" she cooed, and, I had to agree.

We were taken across the hall to the largest and coldest exam room where, after my vitals were recorded, I was told to undress from the waist down. My mom and Jimmi went behind the curtain to give me privacy and I draped a sheet over my lap and told them to come back. Dr. L didn't make us suffer too long before bursting through the door with his mildly cocky, yet likable demeanor. "Scan was normal," he announced without even a "hello." My mom sighed audibly and Jimmi and I smiled with the relief of three more months to enjoy before the next appointment. After some smalltalk about Aria, of course, Dr. L said, "Oh, I gave your name to our public affairs department. They're doing a commercial for the hospital and they asked for interesting and unique cases. I hope you don't mind." Of course, I didn't. I enjoy being different, though, maybe for a less deadly reason. "How many of us do you still have?" I asked cautiously, knowing women with small cell neuroendocrine carcinoma of the cervix are a very rare find. "Well, I've only had five in my entire career. Unfortunately two just passed." I nodded. I knew one of them from my online support group. "But that won't happen to you. You'll be here for a long, long time," he said with positivity I've never heard from him. After all, he's a realist. He deals with cancer every day; he knows the realities of all types, especially an aggressive bastard like mine.

Then it was time to get down to the next moment of dread. I had to warn him that I hadn't done my required snoochie stretching exercises in awhile. I mean, really, who has time to stick a medical dildo into her love canal three times a week with a newborn at home? "Go easy on me with the speculum, please." He shook his head like a disapproving dad and eased the device inside me. I cringed as he slowly opened it up to get a peak at the site of my original cancer, which had been removed three years ago, along with my entire reproductive system. "Looks normal!" he announced and pulled out the vaginal opener. He followed with a quick manual check and closed with, "You NEED to use that dilater. The tightening is only gonna get worse." I nodded with no intent of following orders. I HATE that fucking thing!

As Dr. L wrote in my chart he marveled over the fact that my surgery was performed over three years ago. "Surprised I'm still alive?" I asked, only half-jokingly. "You're doing great," he said. "With most people it comes back within the first year or two. Fewer in years three and four, and, after five years, it'll rarely come back again." He looked at my eyes and knew I was secretly calling him out in my head. "Ok," he said. "You know how aggressive this type of cancer can be, but you're really doing well. I wouldn't worry." So I asked, "When will you change my scans from every three months to every six months?" He looked at my chart again, then at me, then back at my chart and said, "Well, we don't really like to over-scan people because it's not good for you, especially since you'll be with us for the next thirty or forty years." I smiled at his prediction. But then he must've remembered the severity of small cell and added, "I'll see you in three months. We can talk about it again at that point." That was fine with me.

I must say, I never thought I'd live to see 2014, but here I am! And I never ever thought I'd come home to a face like this, but...

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

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?

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.

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. 

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! ;)

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!

Checking Up on Baby A

"I guess your daughter likes Oreos," Lyndsay joked in her text to me on Tuesday, after finally feeling Baby A's first flutters inside her. A smile of relief crept over my face, followed by a pang of jealousy stemming from the realization that I can't feel the first signs of my child's life myself. I quickly brushed the negative feelings aside and focused on the fact that, while I can't actually grow my own baby, in a few short months, I'll be the one to raise her forever.

But let me back up for a minute. 

After the news of my clear scan and normal pelvic exam last Friday, I expected to feel a bit more calm and relaxed for our upcoming trip to Minnesota for our mid-pregnancy ultrasound. I guess half of me chilled out a bit, but the other half was too distracted by the aching and throbbing pain I was still feeling in my girly parts. Miraculously, the coughing had stopped completely by Sunday morning, but the lower area discomfort was getting worse. 

"Call Dr. M and have your lungs checked," my mom insisted late Sunday night. "But I'm not coughing anymore," I said. "I don't care," my mom was firm. "You don't want to get sick when you're in Minnesota. I would have everything checked out anyway." While I thought it was ridiculous to make an appointment for my GP to listen to my lungs, which I knew were fine, I figured I would do it anyway to appease my mom and maybe ask him to check me for a urinary tract infection. After all, there had to be something causing the pain that kept moving from my ass to my vag to the empty location where my left ovary used to be. 

First thing Monday morning I was sitting in Dr. M's exam room waiting for a once-over. The doctor appeared and I explained my disappearing respiratory symptoms. A cold stethoscope and a few deep breaths later confirmed what I'd told my mom earlier. My lungs were perfectly fine. I was a bit embarrassed as I explained my next set of complaints, "I'm also having some pain in the vaginal area," I said sheepishly. "It's not actually in the vagina anymore, though. It was in my rectum at one point, too, but now it feels like it's in the urethra, but more to the left." That was an awesome description. I continued, "I'd say it might be a UTI but it doesn't burn and I'm not peeing a hundred times a day," Dr. M wasn't phased by my list of woes but, instead, said, "Let's see if we can figure this out. I'll just need a urine sample." I headed to the bathroom to produce the necessary materials, which I was told to leave in the sterile cup by the sink. When I came out I chatted with the receptionist long enough for the nurse to dip the strip of mult-colored squares into my liquid waste and come back with a preliminary answer. "So where does the mom live?" the receptionist asked, referring to Lyndsay. I tried to suppress my distaste for her choice of words. "I'm the mom," I answered with a forced smile. She was a bit taken off guard, but tried to make it better, "I know. I mean where is the BIOLOGICAL mom?"

Hold it together, Suzanne!

"I AM the biological mom," I said firmly, through gritted teeth. The nurse interrupted our awkward exchange, "There are trace amounts of blood and leukosites in your urine." I stared at her blankly and waited for further information but none was offered. "So what does that mean?" I pressed. "It's just a quick screen so it could mean there's an infection or it might mean nothing." Helpful. Thanks. "So, now what?" I asked as Dr. M emerged from his office with an answer, "I'll prescribe a broad-spectrum antibiotic, but wait until we get the urinalysis back so we know exactly what bacteria we're treating." A pain shot through my love canal which ignited a sense of urgency in my treatment. "How long will that take?" I questioned impatiently. "We'll have the results of the urinalysis tomorrow. If that doesn't show anything we'll have to wait three days for the culture to grow." What?! I didn't allow my voice to reflect the stress in my head, "I'll be in Minnesota in three days. I'd really like to take care of this before I leave." Dr. M nodded and said, "We'll know more tomorrow."

Now back to Tuesday.

"Hi Suzanne, it's Dr. M." I greeted him politely than waited for the results and the next step in treating the annoying aggravation that was growing in my lower half. "Your urinalysis came back normal. No infection."

What?!

I composed myself so I wouldn't yell into his ear, "But I'm in pain! My scan was clear but something really hurts. I need it to stop!" He was understanding, "We're still waiting for the three-day culture. In the meantime, start on the medicine I prescribed to see if it'll help." I agreed, thanked him and hung up the phone with more questions than answers. But I didn't have time to consult any other physicians at that point. I had more important things to do. I had to get packed and ready for our trip the next day. We were going to see our sweet, Baby A!

Our flight on Wednesday brought us into Minneapolis at about 2:00 PM. We didn't have any appointments or plans to see Lyndsay and her family until Thursday, so Jimmi and I decided to waste a few hours at Mall of America. Born and raised a Jersey Girl, I have an inborn appreciation for malls of all kinds, especially one that is considered a tourist attraction and not just a shopping center.

My brain sent waves of shopaholic excitement through my body as soon as it processed the huge "Nordstom" sign looming ahead of us as we turned into the parking lot. I just knew it would be a dangerously expensive day. Jimmi parked the car and we entered the Mother Ship through the shoe department door, immediately stopping to browse the sea of Jimmy Choo, Ferragamo and Burberry. "The thing about shoes and bags," I explained to Jimmi, "is that they'll always fit." I'm not sure if I was trying to convince my husband or myself of that point, but I offered more support for my claims, "You couldn't pay me to try on jeans right now because I know I've put on a few pounds, but these boots will fit no matter what!" I exclaimed as I grabbed the studded, Frye cowboy boots with an embossed leather skull. "Try them on," Jimmi suggested as the typical enabler he is. The sales vultures swooped in for the kill and it was only after one of them flew off to find my size that I noticed the price tag on the bottom of my awesome find. Jimmi watched as I turned the boots over, gasped and went pale. "How much?" He asked with a devilish smirk. I shook my head, not even wanting to say the number out loud. "Do you want the good news or the bad news," squawked our vulture as he returned from his size search. He didn't wait for more than a shrug before offering, "We don't have your size in the store," Oh, thank GOD! "but," he continued with a relentless need to bankrupt me during the first five minutes of our shopping experience, "I can totally order them for you!" Be strong, Suzanne! You do NOT need those boots! "Yeah, but I really need to try them on." His answer proved that this man was well-trained in dealing with the weak. "No problem! We have this pair in your size and the fit is exactly the same!" I stared at the plain black boot in his hand and quickly concocted another excuse, "We literally just got here from New Jersey. Will you be here in a few hours? We have to pass through again when we leave and I can try them on at that point." He knew he was defeated and I forced myself to be strong and avoid looking back at the beautiful studded works of art I so desperately wanted on my feet. "Ok," he submitted. "Here's my card. I'm here until eight tonight." I grabbed the information and turned quickly before my will power weakened and my credit card popped out of my wallet. Whew! That was close.

Ring! Ring!

It was Dr. M's office. "Hello?" I answered, expecting to finally find out what was causing the pain that was now pulsating in the lower left side of my back and radiating tingling and numbness down my leg. "Hi, Suzanne. The results of your urine culture were clear. There's no bacteria." That can't be. "But I'm in pain!" I whined, practically begging the nurse to give me a diagnosis that could actually be treated. "Can I finish up the medicine anyway, just in case?" I knew I was grasping at straws but I needed to try something, anything, to make this agony stop. She put me on hold to ask the doctor his opinion and came back with, "Dr. M said to try it. Can't hurt." That was good enough for me.

As our walk through the mall continued, I realized quickly that I was not impressed by the selection of stores in what I'd hoped would be the epitome of shopping Heaven. Jimmi and I breezed by most of the shops without entering and only stopped to marvel at the roller coasters and thrill rides in the amusement park that was built right into the center of it all. We completed our round of Level One with only a Mr. Hanky, The Christmas Poo t-shirt for each of the kids to show for it. Up the escalator we went, hoping for better luck. "Have you seen a bathroom at all?" Jimmi asked as we neared the top. Come to think of it, I hadn't, and I actually had to go too. "I'm sure we'll pass one at some point," I assured him as we started our loop of the second level. Store after store, hallway after hallway, candy shop after candy shop we searched. But no bathroom was found. And then I spotted the place I was sure we'd find relief. "American Girl will have a bathroom," I announced. Jimmi looked mortified, "I'm not going to the bathroom in there!" I giggled, "You don't have to carry a doll to use it. I'm sure they have a men's room. Let's go look!" I opened the door the the three-level store and visions of my future flooded my mind. But then I remembered our purpose for the visit and I quickly found the sign that would lead us in the right direction. We approached the American Girl Cafe, with the girliest set-up I've ever seen. Tables with flowers and hearts and frills were just begging for little girls and their matching dolls to grab a seat and order from the dainty little menu. And, in the back of the restaurant, were the bathrooms. "Want me to hold your stuff?" Jimmi asked. I was confused, "Don't you have to go too?" The look of "Hell, no!" came over his face and I had to laugh out loud at his horror. "Oh, stop! There's a men's room! Look! Believe it or not, you're not the first man to come into this store. There are lots of daddies here!" I had to smile at the fact that I'd just lumped Jimmi into the "Daddy" category. "Oh, fine!" he huffed as he stomped away and pushed open the pretty, pink door.

Our second floor perusing had come full-circle and we were still only carrying our small purchase from Level One. "I'm hungry," I said, which was perfectly timed with our ascent to Level Three, where we could choose from a variety of restaurants or a large food court. An hour later our bellies were full and we realized we'd completed the entire Mall of America in under two hours. That must've been some kind of speed-shopping record. Now we just needed to avoid the Nordstrom shoe vulture and find our rental car so we could drive an hour and a half to the hotel.

It was a fairly uneventful drive and we pulled into the hotel parking garage around 8:00 PM. There weren't any available spaces so Jimmi waited in the car while I went to check in and ask about other parking options. I gave our name to the man at the front desk who checked his computer and said, "Oh, ok. It looks like your reservation is for our sister hotel down the street. Pull out of the lot and go down about two blocks. You'll see it on the right." Confused, I nodded my head and walked out. I got into the car and said, "I guess I made a reservation at the wrong place. I thought I chose this one, since we stayed here last time, but I guess I didn't. This is the Inn & Suites and I reserved The Grand Hotel. Oh well. It sounds nicer, anyway."

We found the hotel without much trouble, parked and walked into the lobby, which was noticeably more upscale than the last one. I was immediately proud of myself for accidentally booking this place. On our way to the front desk a store caught my eye that nearly caused a full-blown panic attack. It was a wig shop. What's the big deal, right? It's just some fake hair on some fake heads in the window. No, that's not all. To me it was a reminder of the months of Hell I'd been through in 2011. It was trip back to the agony of losing my reproductive organs and my hair. A painful visual of all that cancer takes from so many of us. I averted my eyes and made it to the counter without looking back. A few signatures and a swipe of the credit card later and we were on our way to the 9th floor to rest for the night. I slid my key into the slot, turned the handle, opened the door and froze at the first site of our room. Old, dingy and dark were the first three words that came to mind. But I know I'm extremely spoiled, so I kept my mouth shut and walked inside to get settled. Jimmi dropped his stuff and headed to the bathroom (the man has a bladder the size of a pea). I sat down on the bed, which was way too small and bounced back as if the mattress was made of rubber. It's only for three nights, I told myself. You can handle it for three nights. Jimmi appeared a minute later with a look of disgust on his face, "The bathroom is gross. The sink is so dirty it looks like they've never cleaned it." Ok, if Jimmi's complaining, it must be bad. This is a man who's slept in more cheap motels while touring than most people could ever imagine. I got up to check it out. The first thing I noticed was the 1960's, brown and tan, patterend-tile floor staring up at me. The sink, toilet and shower looked as if they'd never been cleaned and the light was so dim I wasn't sure I'd be able to see if I needed to use the facilities in the middle of the night. I couldn't say anything. I just had to suck it up. As I walked back to the bed where Jimmi was sitting, we exchanged glances and each of us knew what the other was thinking. "I don't want to stay here," I said. "I don't either!" he agreed, to my surprise. "Maybe they can switch us to the hotel we went to first. We stayed there last time and it was fine. They're owned by the same place." Jimmi picked up the phone and called the front desk. "Hey, man," he said to the receptionist, "I really hate to be a pain, but is there any way we can switch to the Inn and Suites?" I assume the man asked the reason for our need to leave because Jimmi replied, "I don't want to be a dick," nice one, Jimmi. "but it's just…well…the room is kind of disgusting." I guess the guy appreciated Jimmi's candor because he thanked him for his opinion and put him on hold to see what he could do. A few minutes later we were booked into the Inn and Suites for the remainder of our stay. All we had to do was stick it out in the land of dirt and grime for the rest of the night.

Morning couldn't have come soon enough after a sleepless night of too hot, too cold, flat pillow, hard mattress, weird smell. I checked my phone and saw a text from Lyndsay, "Kid number one is puking." Oh, no! Her daughter had been sick a few days earlier and the bug had now made it to her son. We decided to cancel our plans together for later in the day and let Hunter rest and get better, which left the day free after our hospital tour. I got up and hobbled into the bathroom, not quite sure how to pinpoint the growing list of pain, numbness and tingling that was moving around the lower half of my body. I glanced at the shower and contemplated stepping inside for less than a minute before deciding against trying to clean myself in a dirty cell. "I'll take a shower once we check into the other hotel, after our Maternity Ward tour," I said out loud to no one in particular. We packed the few items we'd removed from our shared suitcase and headed to the garage to load the bag into our rental car. From there, we walked back into the hotel and took the elevator down to the Subway level. No, there weren't any underground trains. The hotel had underground walking tunnels connecting it to the hospital where our baby will be born in about five months.

"Ok, let me see," I said as I read the signs pointing straight ahead, left and right. "I think it's that way." Luckily, we managed to find the Maternity Ward where Nurse G met us for our private tour. "Hello!" she chirped cheerily as she welcomed us with a genuine smile. She didn't waste any time in her explanations, "So, this is where you'll report when Lyndsay goes into labor, then we'll bring you right down to her room to…" I cut her off, "We won't be in the room with her until she's ready to push." I explained. "Oh, ok. It's great that you already know this stuff so I can put it in your file," she wrote some notes and pointed to the rooms on either side of her. "You'll wait in here until she's ready." We peeked through the windows of the rooms which contained TVs, couches, snack machines and drinks, then continued on through the large double doors marked, "Special Care Nursery." Nurse G spoke, "If your baby is a few weeks early or needs just a little bit of extra help, she might have to be in here for a day or two. This isn't a NICU; that would be in the other building. This is just for mild issues." I immediately noticed the letters that were cut out and taped onto the windows of each door. "Mary," "Christina," "Jackson." It was so cute the way they personalized the rooms to give them less of a hospital feel. The loud cry of a newborn penetrated the silence and I looked up at Jimmi who seemed to smile in anticipation of hearing those cries. Ha! We'll see how he feels after a few hundred sleepless nights.

The tour continued into the main area of Labor and Delivery and Nurse G explained where "the mom" would go and where "the mom" would have the baby if everything was normal and where "the mom" would be if she needed a c-section. I bit my tongue, though each time she said those words it felt like a knife was cutting away a piece of my heart.

I'M THE MOM!

We ended the tour in an actual room where a woman would give birth, then stay for the rest of her hospital time. Nurse G showed us how the bed breaks down when it's time to push and we saw the little bassinet for the baby. "The babies used to stay in the nursery unless it was time to eat, but we've changed that now. The baby will stay with you the whole time." Then she remembered she needed to go into further detail about the sleeping arrangements, "We'll try to find two rooms next to each other, or at least in the same vicinity, one for the two of you and one for Lyndsay. The baby will stay with you in your room, but Lyndsay will be nearby. The mom and dad will get a bracelet that is connected to the baby but visitors, including the dad, will have to wear a name tag." I had to ask, "So, I'll get a bracelet?" The nurse was quick to answer, " No, Lyndsay gets the bracelet because…" but her words fell off and she looked very confused by my inquiry. "Hmmm," she started. "I'm not exactly sure how that will work. I'll find out for you." She went on to talk about the legalities of our situation, "You should have all of your documentation in place very soon so we can put it in your file that you two are the biological and intended parents of the child, that way there are no mistakes. When she's born, we'll have you sign the papers for the birth certificate so we can register everything right away." I broke in, "What if we don't make it here for the birth?" It's a possibility I've been worrying about for months. I realize it's only a 3-hour flight to Minnesota from New Jersey, but there's much more to it than that. If Lyndsay calls and says she's in labor, I'll first have to call and find a flight, get to the airport two hours in advance, fly, rent a car and drive an hour and a half. The whole process will take at least eight hours. Her labor might not last that long. And what if she goes into labor right after the last flight of the day leaves the airport? Then there's no chance at all. And, no, I can't really go out to Minnesota a few weeks before her expected due date because I have kids who need me here. Also, Lyndsay was a week late or more with her last two pregnancies, so who knows how long I'd be waiting? "I'm not sure what would happen if you aren't here. I'll ask about that, too," Nurse G said. My eyes started to tear up a bit, "If we don't make it, who will hold the baby? Will someone cuddle her so she doesn't feel like she's all alone?" Nurse G tilted her head to the side, "We have PLENTY of baby-cuddlers here. Don't you worry about that!" The thought of someone else being the first person to hold my daughter made me feel a bit sick to my stomach so I chose to push away the thought for the moment.

When the tour concluded, Jimmi and I headed back to the Subway of the clinic and started walking toward the parking garage. We passed a few shops along the way, but one seemed to call to me as I walked near it. "Can we go in?" I begged Jimmi with batting eyelashes. He looked behind me to see the small, frilly, pink clothing donning the windows and he knew I really wasn't giving him a choice in the matter. Less than 60 seconds later I'd already pulled a tiny pink, ruffled pair of leggings with a matching pink kitty-cat shirt and coordinating crib shoes, hat and blanket from the rack. "This will be her going home outfit!" I squealed as I tossed the bundle into Jimmi's arms and continued my search. One more pink and white ruffled outfit, a pink jacket with bows, a pink and black hat with matching shoes and another pair of shoes in a lighter shade of pink and I was on my way to the register, dreading the total cost of my 10 minute browse through only one section of Baby Baby. "Oh, and these!" I said at the last minute as I grabbed the little white, lacy socks from the rack next the the cashier. I don't want to tell you the number that rang up before I handed over my credit card, but I promise the stash of Pepto-Bismol colored clothing was so worth it! The "No Returns! Exchanges Only!" sign I noticed as we left the store forced me to turn to Jimmi and ask, "What if she's a boy?" His eyes grew wide and I laughed it off, "I'm kidding!" But I really wasn't.

Is it possible that Baby A is actually a boy?

We trudged through the parking lot to the car, ready to leave for the next hotel, when I saw the sign on the other side of the parking lot. "Maybe we don't have to leave," I suggested. "The Marriott shares this parking lot and is also connected to the subway to the hospital. It would be much more convenient to just go there. Plus, it's a Marriott. How bad could it be?" Jimmi agreed with my logic so we crossed the lot and entered the large-chain hotel's lobby. "How may I help you?" said to midwest-friendly receptionist. "Hi. We stayed next door last night and we were a bit disappointed in the condition of the room," I explained as nicely as I could. She was already nodding with understanding, "Yes, I've heard that before." Ok, this was a good sign, "We're supposed to go to the Inn and Suites, but we were wondering if maybe we can just stay here?" She picked up the phone and started to dial, "You're in luck! We're all sister hotels and our reservation specialist handles reservations for all of us." She quickly explained our dilemma to the man on the other end of the line then handed me the receiver, "Hello, this is Lenny. How may I help you?" I repeated our situation and Lenny said, "Yes, I always tell people to stay away from that hotel. Honestly, it was built in the twenties and I don't think they've EVER renovated the rooms! You'll be much happier at the Marriott." So it wasn't only us! Whew!

A few minutes later we were settling into our very comfortable room on the 5th floor of the Marriott. Now to figure out what to do with the rest of our day. Hunter was still sick so visiting with Lyndsay was out of the question. I Googled some options but came up empty. "Maybe I'll check Pollstar," I said as I typed in the web address for the concert listing site. "No way!" I screeched. "Bret Michaels is playing in Minneapolis!" I couldn't believe the singer of Poison, whom I'd had a crush on since the seventh grade, was playing 80 miles from where were were staying. What luck! But my excitement came to a halt when I realized, "Oh. That's tomorrow night. Oh well. It's no fun seeing my lover when I'm with my husband anyway," I joked with a wink.

I decided to call my mom while we had a few minutes to chat. As we spoke I noticed the lights in the room started flickering. The smell of smoke caught my attention even more and I turned around to see the white cloud billowing from the wall-lamp. "Oh my GOD!" I shouted, "Jimmi! The lamp is on fire!" Jimmi appeared from the bathroom in his underwear, ran to the wall and started blowing out the lamp like it was a candle on a birthday cake. The smoke was really coming out now and Jimmi was trying to reach in and grab the flaming bulb. My brain finally focused and I decided to turn off the lamp to avoid having my husband fried to a crisp in the middle of a hotel room in Minnesota. The fire died quickly and Jimmi and I looked at each other in shock. Then I remembered my mom was still on the phone, which I'd thrown on the floor. "Hi, sorry. We're ok but I'm gonna have to call you back." Jimmi picked up the hotel phone and dialed the front desk, "Hi, ummm, our lamp just caught on fire. Can you like bring up another bulb?" He hung up and I asked what the guy said. Jimmi laughed and shook his head, "He said he'd have someone bring up two bulbs, just in case. Oh, and a fan to get rid of the smell."

Finally, the next morning arrived. It was Baby A Appointment Day! We would start with our big anatomy ultrasound, followed by an appointment with the nurse, then Dr. C, then, finally, the social worker, who would be in charge of making sure everyone at the hospital understands that we are Baby A's parents.

We met Lyndsay and Josh by the elevators leading to the OB/GYN floor and it was great to finally see them. An adorable baby bump was protruding under Lyndsay's coat and it made me feel warm all over. Hugs were exchanged and then we were off to the waiting room. Not long after, the ultrasound tech came to get us. She looked at the four of us before allowing us to follow her and said, "You can't have all of these people in the room." Josh was about to gracefully bow out when the tech realized what was happening, "Oh! Is this a surrogacy situation?" We nodded. "Ok, it's fine. You can all follow me."

The room was small but there was ample space for all of us. Lyndsay positioned herself on the table and lifted her shirt. Jimmi averted his eyes and asked if he should step out of the room. I was confused until I realized that the last time he'd been there for an ultrasound it was an internal one since it was so early in the pregnancy. "No, it's ok!" I explained. "This one goes over her belly." He quickly turned back, "Oh, ok!" I forgot that Jimmi was the only one in the room who had really never experienced an ultrasound before. Well, not one where the baby actually looks like a baby. I couldn't wait to see his face.

The tech got to work rolling back and forth over Lyndsay's abdomen. I quickly picked out Baby A's beating heart and my pulse slowed to a normal rhythm. That was a great start. "I'm gonna begin at the head and work my way down," explained the tech about her method for measuring every part of the baby to make sure she's growing normally. "Do we know the gender?" she asked as she started scanning. "She's supposed to be a girl, but I'm hoping you'll confirm that today." She didn't say much as she started measurements on our little one's head then moved on to check her brain. "Yes! She has a brain!" I quipped. As if he was reading my mind, Jimmi added, "Then she's definitely not mine!" I giggled and the tech said, "Head and brain look normal. Let's move on to the heart." I watched as the tech revealed a beautiful, four-chamber heart that was pulsating at 141 beats per minute. "Heart looks normal," confirmed the tech. A scan of the baby's abdomen showed two kidneys, a liver and a stomach. "Organs look normal," we were told. Quickly but thoroughly, the technician measured two normal arms with two perfect hands and ten little fingers, followed by two amazing legs, two adorable feet and ten tiny toes. "Arms and legs look normal." Our squirmy little monkey was hard to chase but we got a glimpse of a beautiful spine with a nice, smooth bottom, ruling out spina bifida. "Spine and back look normal." I couldn't help noticing the noises of amazement coming from Jimmi's mouth as he watched his baby on the screen. But I was getting antsy now, "You're making us wait until the end to confirm she's a girl, aren't you?" I asked. Without hesitation, the tech responded, "She's a girl. I was just looking at that." And she pointed to three white lines on the monitor, "Those are the labia." Honestly, I had to take her word for it because it certainly didn't look like any female genitalia I'd ever seen! But she's the expert. If she says we're having a girl, I guess we're having a girl.

Oh my GOD!

We're having a GIRL?

We're having a GIRL!!

Do you have any idea how long I've wanted a little girl? Don't get me wrong. I love my boys with all my heart, but after growing up with four brothers then having two sons, I could really use a little estrogen in my life! Plus, my mom is my best friend. I've always wanted to have the same relationship with my own daughter but I'd never been blessed with one.

Until now!

"Well, she looks great!" the tech said as she finished up. "Congratulations to all of you."

Our next appointment with the nurse followed immediately and the four of us jammed ourselves into an exam room to wait. She entered with a handful of pamphlets and I could tell she wasn't sure if she should be handing them to Lyndsay or to me. After thinking about it, she made the logical decision to give Lyndsay the information about signs of pre-term labor and when to call the doctor and she gave Jimmi the "Tips for Dads" booklet. She started a conversation about postpartum depression with Lyndsay, then turned to Jimmi and said, "This condition affects one in ten dads as well." I had no idea.

Finally, Dr. C appeared and Jimmi was able to meet him for the first time. "I'm sure you've heard that everything looks normal," Dr. C said happily as he turned his computer screen in our direction so we could read the report along with him as he went through it. "Brain is normal, heart is normal, organs are normal. No remnants of the second gestational sac present." That part was new. "What?" I asked, even though I totally understood what he had said the first time. He confirmed, "The sac with the twins is completely gone now." I don't know why it hurt to hear him say it. Baby B and Baby C had passed almost 12 weeks earlier. I'm used to the idea that we are having one healthy baby and not three. I guess the memories came flooding back and I wasn't prepared. "Oh. Ok," was all I could say.

Dr. C went over the birth procedure again as the nurse before him and the tour nurse had the day before. I asked questions about vaccinations and the necessity of the hepatitis B vaccine when the baby wasn't going to be using IV drugs or having promiscuous sex any time in the near future. All he could tell me was that was the recommendation of the CDC, so I made a note to discuss it with our pediatrician. Then I asked the burning question, "When do you think I should come out here to wait for the birth?" It was an impossible question. Dr. C had no way of knowing the correct answer, but he tried, "Based on Lyndsay's history, we have no reason to think she'll go before forty weeks. Honestly, I think this might be a perfect situation for induction at forty or forty-one weeks so you can plan." That was the first time he's mentioned inducing labor for anything other than a medical reason. "That would be ideal," I answered, even though I know in my heart it's much better for the baby to come when she's ready and not when it's best for our schedules. "I guess we can figure it all out further down the road," I said and Dr. C agreed. "Ok, I'll see Lyndsay again in four to five weeks," instructed the doctor before wishing us all happy holidays and heading out of the room.

One more meeting and our appointments were done for the day.

The social worker appeared and her sticky sweet voice made my teeth hurt. She was nice enough, but I just couldn't take anyone who sounded like a cartoon character seriously. I sucked it up and listened as she talked about getting the legal documents in order so Jimmi's and my name would appear on Baby A's birth certificate. After printing out a paper with all the necessary information for our attorney, Nurse G, from our tour the day before, came by to answer any remaining questions. "Ok," she started, "I found out some answers for you from yesterday. If you don't make it on time for the birth the baby will still be registered to you on the birth certificate as long as you're here when she's discharged." Well, I sure hope we'll be there by then! "Yes, that shouldn't be a problem," I assured her. "Also, about the bracelets. I found out that Lyndsay and Suzanne will have the bracelets that are connected to the baby. Jimmi will have to wear a visitor's name tag, but he will not have a bracelet." That sounded a little odd to me since Jimmi is the baby's dad but, hey, I was just happy that I'd actually have something to show that I'm the mom. I remembered a question, "Will Jimmi be able to cut the chord?" Nurse G smiled, "Of course, he will!" Good news. "And when she's born they'll put her in my arms?" I needed confirmation. "Yes," she said, followed by the most incredible three words I've heard in a long time:

"You're her mother."