Paris: The Memoir(90)
I love that Carter is still an incurable romantic. Not long ago, on our monthiversary, he set up the patio with couches, pillows, presents, hors d’oeuvres, and a big movie screen for an outdoor showing of the Marilyn Monroe classic Gentlemen Prefer Blondes—the 1953 musical in which Marilyn plays Lorelei Lee, the iconic material girl who sings “Diamonds Are a Girl’s Best Friend.”
“If a girl spends all of her time worrying about the money she doesn’t have, how is she going to have any time for being in love?” Marilyn says in her famous baby voice. “I want you to find happiness and stop having fun.”
I laughed, feeling more alive, wider awake, and deeper in love than I’ve ever been in my life. That night I slept without dreaming and woke up feeling like a skydiver, ready to step into the open air, a future full of possibility.
That’s what IVF is all about. Possibility. Hope. It’s hard, but you’re willing to go through anything to find your heart’s desire.
I’ve always wanted twins: a boy and a girl.
“It’s possible,” our doctor said. “In a perfect world . . .”
If only my world were as perfect as it looks.
Month after month of injections, several egg-harvesting procedures, more IVF injections, new ADHD meds, my natural state of chaos—it’s a lot. This is good love, a strong foundation for a family. Please, God, I kept praying, bargaining, and begging.
After Carter and I went through almost two years of IVF, there were babies on the way!
Nicky and my sister-in-law Tessa were both pregnant.
I was not.
It was a bittersweet moment. I was thrilled for them, but I always thought it would be so fun if Nicky and I were pregnant at the same time. Now she and Tessa were both gorgeous and happy and glowing, and I was jabbing another needle into my stomach, feeling left out and envious. I was sad about missing out on the whole pregnancy experience—gender reveal party, amazing maternity looks, Beyoncé-belly-among-the-roses photo shoot—but all that matters in the big picture is a happy, healthy baby. Whatever it takes.
For so many people, having babies is like plug and play, right? That’s how it seems, anyway. And when you want a baby, it seems like everyone around you is popping them out like gerbils. It sucks, but I’m not alone. There are so many young women at the fertility doctor’s office, so many families waiting to happen. My doctor says all the junk people eat and even the air we breathe has far-reaching effects we can’t begin to understand.
I think the takeaway is that young women need to control their reproductive destiny. We need to know ourselves, know what’s right for us—and when—and stay in the driver’s seat. I know it’s expensive, but if it means a lot to you, here’s some big-sister advice: Don’t put it off. Don’t wait for Mr. Right to show up. Understand your options and take charge of your future. Harvest those eggs when they’re young and feisty.
Carter and I kept trying for more girls. More injections. Another harvest. It’s a lot on my body and mind, but it’s always been a dream of mine to have two daughters and a son. The shots are painful. I felt like I couldn’t take it anymore. I had to confront the fact that my mind and body had never fully healed—and probably never will fully heal—from the trauma I went through as a teenager.
As an adolescent, I was starved and beaten, pushed to the emotional breaking point. As a young adult, I put on a lot of miles, drank a lot of alcohol, and ate a lot of junk food. For decades, I was wild and driven. I lived those years to the limit, and I regret nothing, because I love where I am now, and all those choices brought me here. But I want to continue living for another eighty years at least, and that takes self-care—which is not the same as self-indulgence.
Carter takes care of himself because he wants to bring his best to the people he loves. Wellness as an act of love was a new concept for me. I’ll never take it for granted again.
In spring 2022, I went through another round of IVF. More eggs were harvested. We had lots of potential boys, but only one potential girl. Enough for a football team, but only one cheerleader. We moved into a new house and started planning our new life: a shared nursery at first—then separate rooms, a pool where we’ll teach them to swim, a terraced garden for flowers and vegetables, a green space where Mom and I would throw epic birthday parties.
We planned to name our girl London, because I’ve always had this vision of myself with a daughter named London. Not just a whim, like, “Oh, how cute would that be?” This was more than that. It was a key part of my vision of my perfect life. My daughter London. She would look like me. I would love her to the moon and back. She would be . . . everything.
In mid-September, I went to a doctor’s appointment. When I came home, Diamond Baby was gone. We were in the process of relocating to our happy family home. The movers propped the door open, and she must have slipped through the wrought-iron fence. Maybe just adventuring.
I came unglued. Frantic.
At first, I was afraid she’d been taken by the coyotes that roam these hills, but then a pet psychic contacted Mom and told her Diamond Baby was alive and being cared for. We offered a reward, and in the avalanche of bullshit that naturally followed, someone sent a message saying that a neighbor’s child had found Diamond Baby and was instantly in love with her. They said the kid’s mom couldn’t bear to part with Diamond Baby. No reward was worth breaking her daughter’s heart. (This guy ended up being a scammer.) We thought about raising the reward, but we were afraid that, if we did, it would only make our pets more attractive to kidnappers.