I don’t dislike babies. I don’t gush over tiny baby outfits, and I’m pretty sure I’ve never had that “ticking biological clock.” I’ve never really spent a lot of time around babies, and I’ve held two babies in the last six years. One of those babies was my niece.
I come from a large extended family, as my mom has seven siblings. I have many cousins, and now they have kids. At every family gathering, it is “pass the baby” time. I’m certain my relatives find it odd that I’m not fawning over the new infants along with everyone else. It’s just never been my thing. Their fragile necks scare me. Not knowing what they want when they cry is overwhelming to me. I remember when my niece was born, and my sister would come stay over with her. My niece was colicky, and I would sing songs from the musical Aida to her.
Small children are pretty cool, though. My niece has said some amazing things like, “Here, Aunt Sami, is leaves. Be happy. Be free.” Or she says, “You just have to keep trying in life, no matter what. If you lose an arm, you still have two legs.” She’s 6 years old. I had a fantastic time being a nanny for two small boys during college. One is now nearing the end of middle school, and the other is in high school, which makes me feel ancient. I also had the occasional babysitting job for an 8-year-old and 5-year-old who were brother and sister. We spent a considerable amount of time having dance parties and looking for bugs outside. I understand small kids, and I can keep them entertained.
I’ve never really talked about kids. To me, it’s a very future concept. I’d like to be well into my 30s before kids come into the picture, and quite frankly, I need to find a husband first. I’m in no rush. I do see so many people around me having children. My mock disdain for babies is just that. I’ve spent a lot of time avoiding talking about having kids because I am unable to do so. There is such a cultural value appointed to women and whether or not they are able to conceive. It’s awkward when conversations come up about future children, and then the person quietly mentions they can’t have children. I’m sure it’s heartbreaking and sad for so many, but it’s just not sad for me. I’d like people’s reactions to be more along the lines they would be if they heard their friend was lactose intolerant.
At a very early age, I knew I wanted to adopt. When I was 5 years old, there were these dolls out that you could “adopt” and then send in the registration papers. I thought this was the most exciting thing possible. My doll was Leah, and my niece plays with her now. My best friend from elementary school was adopted, and it seemed like such a normal thing for me. In my case, I was one of the first in vitro babies in Wisconsin, so I knew that the presence of both myself and my friend in our respective parents’ lives was a very special thing. While growing up, very close family friends also had two adopted children. Their son was pretty much the first boy I ever really liked. So many people I knew were adopted.
My mom married young, and her first husband passed away when she was 24. About six years later, she married my dad. My dad has been a huge presence in my sister’s life, and he even coached her middle school basketball team. My sister isn’t biologically his, but she’s his daughter regardless. My niece is only fractionally related to me, and not at all related to my dad. Let me tell you, though, my niece is through and through Papa’s girl.
It’s how my family is already: We’re hardly related to each other by blood. My mom kept in close contact with my sister’s grandparents on her dad’s side of the family. These two wonderful individuals, Marian and Delbert, were the best grandparents this girl could ever ask for.
They would take me on long weekends. They were farmers, and I’d get to ride around in the tractors. If we went to a restaurant, my grandpa always put money in the jukebox so I could sing. Shortly before he passed away, he put hundreds of dollars into a raffle to try to win me a puppy that would’ve had to stay at my grandparents’ house since I couldn’t have a dog in the apartment we lived in.
They never missed a grandparents’ day or a Christmas concert, even if they had to travel hours. They allowed me to do weird little kid things like eat a pack of luncheon meat for lunch, or mix a half bottle of honey in a can of cola.
There was a day that was particularly upsetting for me. Some person—I honestly don’t remember who it was—came up to me and told me that my grandparents were not really my grandparents, that they were nothing to me because we weren’t related. I was about 5 years old at the time, and I was devastated.
My grandma told me that it wasn’t blood that mattered, but love. She could still tell it bothered me. For my sixth birthday, I opened a present from my grandparents that contained papers. They had gone to the local courts to get documents drawn up, and for my sixth birthday, I was officially adopted as their granddaughter.
This is the kind of mental approach I plan to take with future kids. I knew I never actually wanted to have my own kids. I’m glad for this because I think the following circumstances would’ve been much more devastating for me.
By nature, I’m iron deficient and have been since I was 4 years old. This has led to me needing transfusions. About a year after developing blood clots, I also got menorrhagia. I had my period consistently for two years straight. I remember at one point my college roommate pulling me aside because she was concerned that it never stopped.
This situation was very difficult on top of already being anemic at baseline. With a clotting disorder, hormone treatment is very tricky. Over that 2-year span, I was placed on every hormone shot and pill possible. I even tried a low-dose estrogen pill, which can be very dangerous with a clotting disorder, to curb my growing need for a blood transfusion.
Nothing stopped the bleeding, and I was becoming very weak as a result. When I was 19, my doctor suggested that I have an endometrial ablation, a procedure that burns away the uterine lining, so that I would no longer bleed. I had to make the firm decision that I would never conceive a child while still in my teenage years.
To be honest, I was very excited that some step was being taken to stop bleeding. I had to go to a high-risk obstetrics specialist before I could get the OK to go ahead with the surgery. I met with the OB in a conference room that had stacks of my medical records in it. He asked how I felt about the surgery. I said that I had concerns that if I were to ever become pregnant, my health issues could cause problems for the baby. For instance, I have a history of cytomegalovirus, and that could cause birth defects if it were to become an active infection again. I’m allergic to numerous antibiotics, and the ones I can take wouldn’t be safe during a pregnancy.
I continued to list other things along the same lines. He stopped me, and said, “Samantha, quite frankly, I don’t think you would live through a pregnancy.” He doubted whether I would be able to produce near enough of a blood supply when I can barely produce enough blood for myself since I am iron-depleted.
He also pointed out that because my anticoagulants weren’t doing a good job of protecting me from clots, the hormones from pregnancy would put me at an exceptionally high risk for stroke and pulmonary embolism. He had only told four other people in his entire career—and he was in his 60s—that they should never become pregnant. I was number five.
When you’re 19, no one talks about having children. I had no future thought as to eventual family planning. I was very much thinking in the moment, and I was relieved that the surgery was going to take place. It worked extremely well.
As I’ve gotten older, and people discuss kids, things have gotten a bit weird for me. I remember the first guy I ever told that I couldn’t have kids. It was someone I had been dating, and he wanted to know what kids’ names I liked for my potential future children. I told him my very awesome name suggestions, which he hated. I sent an email the next day, explaining that I couldn’t naturally conceive children. He was completely OK with it.
It was terrifying for me to bring something like that up, but it was good to know that there are people who are completely unfazed by it. I always talk very candidly, and I’ve been asked when giving speeches at plasma donation centers if I could have kids. That also felt a bit stressful for me. It’s such an odd thing to acknowledge.
I’ve only become more comfortable discussing it because of talking to people within the hemophilia community. I feel like it is a topic that is frequently discussed based on the circumstances of a bleeding disorder, and I know I’m not the only one. There’s some potential for conceiving via surrogate, but the hormones needed for the egg harvesting process could contribute to me clotting.
It’s not something I would consider for the forseeable future. I would never want to significantly jeopardize my health to bring a child into the world. I know I’d need to be in as close to tip-top health as possible to care for a little one. I wouldn’t want setbacks right beforehand.
Now when people ask about me having kids, I tell them someday I’m going to adopt very attractive children. Of course, all children are adorable. It’s nice to be able to acknowledge my inability to have children without feeling damaged. I know it is just a bit of information about me, and not something that determines my worth as a female.
Someone recently told me I’d make a wonderful mom. I teared up a bit. I’ve spent a lot of time not thinking about myself in that role, and it meant a lot to me that someone else would see me as such. I hope someday I will be a great mom, even if babies and their weak necks and soft heads scare me a bit. My niece, with her insightful words, amazing imagination, and ability to somehow take up all of a queen-size bed shows me what I someday have to look forward to.