Michelle Buteau's Long Road to Family Bliss
One year, my mother got me health insurance for Christmas. Then two months later I found out I had a benign brain tumor. I told her not to ever get me another present again. I first knew something was wrong when I wasn’t getting my period, and I knew I wasn’t pregnant.
It’s amazing how much we don’t know about our bodies until something goes wrong and we have to fix it. When you have a mass on your pituitary gland like I do, it makes your body think it’s pregnant. Fun, right? All the negatives but with no registry at Babies R Us. And apparently, you’ll know it’s getting worse if your peripheral vision gets blurry and you start lactating. Milk. Out. Of. Yo. Breasts. Periods. Shown. For. Effect. Congratulations, Michelle! It is a tumor!!! (In Arnold Schwarzenegger’s voice.)
A couple of years have gone by, and I’ve got my levels down to normal. Like most thirty-somethings, I have my annual MRI and cow-milking appointment. Oh, you don’t do this once a year? Good for you. The tumor hasn’t grown, which is great. I’m taking medication to shrink it, and it’s far too small for surgery. So the question I’m faced with now is, if your body thinks it’s already pregnant, why not actually get pregnant? My husband and I were ready to have a baby, ’cause let’s face it, we’re too cute to stop here. Plus when you’re in an interracial relationship, the first thing anyone ever says is, “Awww, your kids are going to be so cute.”
Husband and I tried and tried, but no baby. I went to an infertility doctor almost as a joke. Being Jamaican and Haitian, I knew girls personally who got pregnant while salsa dancing to Marc Anthony or twerking to Beenie Man. The doctor explained that in vitro fertilization, IVF, would be my only option. I learned how misogynistic health care is when we had to pay $20,000 out of pocket, even though I have to do it because of a preexisting condition. By the way, that preexisting condition is called “being a woman.” I’m a tough and strong Caribbean woman and thought it would be easy to have a baby. All of a sudden, I’m a science project.
Everything with IVF is about timing. You’ve got to take your progesterone shots in the morning. Progesterone is a steroid hormone that you absolutely need in order to stay pregnant. Doctors mix it with olive oil so you can inject it in your arms, thighs, or upper booty. All dark meat situations. The needle is huge and thick and it’s more painful than watching people find love on 90 Day Fiancé with someone twenty-seven years younger than them. You have to follow this shot with a blood thinner called Lovenox, which is small shot in your tummy. When your blood is thin you bruise easily, so your tummy ends up looking like Apollo Creed’s face at the end of Rocky II. Every day you have to find a new place on your body to take a shot because the good ripe spots are bruised and tired. When someone gives you a hug you try to not scream, “Ouch, bitch!” ’Cause you also, like, need that hug. Another fun thing you have to take is progesterone suppositories three times a day. So if you’re like me and you have three or four meetings in a day in different offices all over town, you have to make sure you bring enough suppositories for the rest of the class. Oh! And they have to be refrigerated.
Turns out I got pregnant! I thought, yeah, of course I’m knocked up! I’m Caribbean! I was about nine weeks. And I was very excited! Finally it was all falling into place. I was working on The Nightly Show with Larry Wilmore on Comedy Central. Water had just been discovered on Mars, and Bill Nye the Science Guy was the guest. The producers’ angle for me was “Why wasn’t this trending?” And they handed me a couple of terrible lines to say because they think “talking heads” shows need a variety of opinions in order to keep things interesting. One of them was “If the water on Mars was Caitlyn Jenner’s tears, perhaps people would be more interested.” Because Caitlyn had just come out that week, the whole thing blew up and I got bullied for the whole week.
Internet bullying is really the worst. You feel helpless, and people say the worst, most vile shit. I received death threats, was labeled “fat,” “not funny,” “anti-American,” “anti-science,” and, my favorite, that I would be lucky to be raped by Bill Cosby. When you receive a certain amount of death and rape threats, Viacom security steps in and starts investigating. I had stand-up shows booked and wasn’t sure if people would come after me. I feared for my safety. I went in for my weekly sonogram and lost the baby. I’m very sure it was stress. So a big shout-out to the trolls who bully people—I hope it’s worth it.
There’s never a convenient time to get bad news. Especially when it pertains to your body when you’ve gotta make money moves like Cardi B’s first record deal out the strip clerb. My doctor said I had to schedule a D&C and he wanted me to have it on a Wednesday because that’s the “only day they do them.” Apparently it’s safer to have a procedure than to let it happen naturally. And while the procedure takes a toll on your body, it’s really good for the hospital’s billing. My head was all over the place. I didn’t know I could be so sad over someone I’d never met, but I was. At the same time, the pressure was on to tape a pilot in Los Angeles ’cause this business don’t stop for anyone. I asked what would happen if I went to L.A., and the doctor said a natural miscarriage could happen anytime. On a plane, during my shoot, buying plus size nonsense at Forever 21. If not, I’d still be okay to go in for my procedure. So I hopped on a plane to Los Angeles to shoot this damn pilot ’cause, let’s be honest, how else can I pay for all of this?
I just played happy clown ’cause that’s how I know how to get through the day. I kiki’d with Wanda Sykes, who was producing the pilot and that took my mind off things for a time. Then I took a red-eye back to New York. On that Wednesday I had the procedure. I rested for two days, then hosted for Rosie O’Donnell at Gotham Comedy Club. Even though I was crushed, I decided this would not be my ending.
I dove right back into IVF. I went the holistic route this time and got pregnant again. I did everything I was supposed to. As I was out to dinner with Husband’s Dutch friends I felt a weird pain in my stomach. And I knew it couldn’t have been the overpriced shrimp ceviche. I went to the bathroom and had my second miscarriage.
I was pretty worn out. I read a bunch of stuff online about how people usually have two miscarriages, and you should be okay with that. But no matter how many stories I read, no matter how many other women had gone through it, it didn’t matter.
I didn’t care how beat-up I was, as long as I was hitting the finish line. I went right back into IVF. I was like, Tick tock bitches, ’cause now I’m 39. I know I look good ’cause Blackish Don’t Crackish ABC Family Tuesdays at 9:00 p.m., but let’s go and get this done. This baby we ain’t even had yet has already cost us over $40,000, so they better be like a video ho or pro athlete right out the gate.
I got pregnant. Again. Thank you, Ancestry.com. I’m fierce; I’m strong; I can do this. This is what my body was essentially made for. Even though I was sad about the other miscarriages, I always thought I had a chance. When I was about six weeks pregnant, I got a call from my manager. “Channing Tatum is producing a live version of Magic Mike in Vegas and they’re looking for a dynamic host that owns her sexuality and keeps the party going.” I mean, minus the benign brain tumor and failed IVF attempts, I’m a perfect mix of sexy and cute as fuck, which is a very hard combination. (It also just naturally sort of happens when you’ve got big tits and freckles.) I go in to meet with the creative team. They’re showing me videos of half-naked men bumping and grinding on women, women losing their shit, and then all of a sudden, yep, I feel like I’m bleeding and not in a good way.
I didn’t get the job. And I didn’t have the baby. And every time I see Channing Tatum I’m reminded of miscarriages. I can’t help but laugh out loud while writing this, because there are so many other things to think of when you see Channing. Also, who is named Channing?
My husband and I thought about selling our Brooklyn brownstone, buying a house a bit up north, and using the extra funds for surrogacy or adoption. My doctor persuaded me not to give up our slice of Brooklyn, as he was sure we could stay pregnant.
Six months later, we dropped another ten thousand dollars. Back to three shots a day, sore arms, bruised stomach, crazy up and down everything, and trying not to cry when passing the baby aisle in Target.
I did another transfer, and you guessed it. But I never imagined I’d hear “You’re pregnant” and feel so sad about it. I couldn’t enjoy it at all. I couldn’t swim, ride a bike, have a drink, sushi, or fun overpriced French cheese. Nothing about this brought me joy.
At our seven-week sonogram, there wasn’t a heartbeat. My doctor was speechless. And for the first time through this whole thing, my husband wasn’t. He spoke up for me and said, “Enough. She’s done enough. She’s tired and she needs to be happy again.” Feeling deflated and beyond depressed and wondering why in life I was back there again, I finally FaceTimed my mother. I wept as I told her what happened and told her I’m officially done trying. That Gijs and I are going to refinance our house. She was crying as well and said, “I was waiting for this phone call. Stop doing this to your body. Your father and I have taken money out of our retirement; don’t refinance your house or anything. We’ll pay for a surrogate. Find an agency and let’s make our dreams come true.” I’ll never forget those words. I felt free, sad, tired, relieved, happy, and finally comforted by the one woman whose love meant more to me than anyone’s. Then she asked, “The baby will look like us, right?” Aaaaaand here we go.
Copyright ? 2020 by Michelle Buteau. From the forthcoming book Survival of the Thickest by Michelle Buteau, to be published by Gallery Books, a division of Simon & Schuster, Inc. Printed by permission.
A version of this article appears in the December 2020 issue of ELLE.
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