Branecdotes – Page 3

November 7, 2013June 27, 2014

I Wonder, Wonder, Wonder…

On the radio today, they talked about a story that was in the paper, about a 15 year old kid who goes to my old high school and has that same last name as someone I had gone to school with from first grade until we graduated. I thought, it couldn’t be his son, we aren’t old enough to have 15 year olds. And then I remembered that his girlfriend had gotten pregnant shortly after we graduated, which means by now, his oldest would be about 17.

Fuck, that makes me feel old.

But more than that, it makes me wonder.

We’ve struggled with infertility since we got married 11 years ago. It was something we knew we would be facing. I lost an ovary at 15, and found out I had Polycystic Ovarian Syndrome (PCOS). So, it was no surprise that we would be heading down that road, but it hasn’t made the journey any easier.

When we were younger, and the rest of the fertility treatments hadn’t worked, we decided that we would not spend $10,000 on IVF treatment. We were young, we had plenty of time, and ten grand is a lot to spend on the possibility to have a kid.

Now we’re older, still childless, the clock is ticking and I now have a hypothyroidism, which will make getting pregnant even more difficult. And now that we know we would gladly be willing to pay for the possibility of having our own, or adopting one to make our own, our financial situation has drastically changed, and we can no longer afford to do so.

And so, I look at my friends teenagers, and my brother’s grandkids, and I wonder.

I wonder how much time we have. I wonder if we will resolve our financial mess in time to have a child. I wonder if I should take my dad up on his offer to loan us the money for IVF, even though it would be incredibly financially irresponsible. I wonder if there is anything I could have done – lost weight, stuck to a low carb diet, stood on my head for 2 hours, sacrificed small, woodland creatures – that would have allowed me to get pregnant. I wonder if I will ever know the joys of holding my own child in my arms. I wonder if the empty spot in my heart will even go away if I don’t.

November 4, 2012June 28, 2014

I’ll Never Dance With Another

I didn’t realize it at the time, but I had seen him before. He was friends with Donnie and Scott. The three of them had decided to put their pants on backwards, like Kriss Kross, at a dance a few weeks before (he and Donnie were wearing baggy pants, so it worked; Scott, in his fitted jeans…notsomuch). But he was a Freshman and I was a Sophomore, and I was oblivious to most of the kids in the school younger than me, unless we had a class together. We didn’t. But he and Donnie had lived down the road from each other for years, and Donnie had been folded into our group when he became friend with Scott and started dating Heather.

Scott was one of my best friends, and I was also enormously, unhealthily infatuated with him, which was, of course, unreciprocated. I hadn’t even considered liking someone else in a year and a half. And since Scott’s locker was on my way to the cafeteria, I stopped by everyday on my way to lunch. That day, he was also there. I had no idea who he was, and probably would have remained oblivious to him for several more weeks, despite the fact that he was adorable (it was a very unhealthy infatuation).

But as I stood there talking to Scott about some undoubtedly stupid bullshit, this adorable kid I had never met took my bottle of Pepsi out of my hands. I felt a small, confused smile spring to my lips, and I started watching him from the corner of my eye as I gabbed with Scott. He had full lips, huge beautiful brown eyes under a heavy brow, short dark hair with long side burns and a big nose (how I love big, nicely shaped noses). Without saying a word, he looked at me, looked at the Pepsi and then nonchalantly stuffed it down the front of his baggy jeans. I laughed and shook my head in bewilderment and continued talking to Scott.

A minute later, Scott left for his next class. Now it was just the two of us. He smiled, but still said nothing. I smiled back and said, “Can I have my Pepsi back?”

With very convincing innocence, he replied, “What Pepsi?”

Still smiling, I said, “The one you just stuffed down your pants.”

He attempted to look appropriately chagrined, but his playful smile crept back onto his face. “Oh. You saw that.”

“Yeah, I saw that.”

With a shrug, he reached into his pants and pulled out my bottle of Pepsi. “Thanks,” I said when he handed it back to me.

“Anytime.”

He headed toward the stairs. I headed toward the cafeteria, the smile on my face growing as I made my way.

When I told Chessa the story that afternoon, it started with, “I have a new crush.” She told me his name was Nick.

Over the next several weeks, he would become a part of our ever-expanding group. And though my crush on him would grow stronger every time I saw him, it would still be a year and a half before he found out how I felt, and another 9 months before we finally started dating. A little over 8 years after he stuffed my soda down his pants, I would marry him. We just celebrated out 10th wedding anniversary. He’s still adorable, he still makes me laugh every day and I still have an enormous crush on him.

May 9, 2012June 27, 2014

Just Look At Them And Sigh

The pain is excruciating. It had started 12 hours earlier, a ball of agony on my right side that radiates across my abdomen. The 3 doses of Advil has not dulled it in the slightest. Nor have the laxatives. What the fuck is wrong with me? Is this was appendicitis feels like? My brother’s girlfriend drives me to the ER. Apparently, my mother has better things to do today. Probably getting drunk.

On the drive to the hospital, the pain starts to loosen its grasp a bit. I sit in the waiting room for over an hour, and then wait some more once they get me into a room. By the time the doctor finally sees me, I’m almost fine. Has the Advil finally kicked in? Hopefully that doesn’t mean the laxatives are about to follow.

They take blood. They ask me for a urine sample, which I am barely able to provide. They give me a pelvic exam. I’m 15 years old. I’ve never had a gynecological exam before, and now a man I just met is sticking his fingers into my vagina. What the fuck?

The blood and urine tests come back fine. He tells me I’m just ovulating. The severe pain was just from the egg sack bursting. I have my doubts. I have ovulated before. It never felt like this. He tells me I should be fine. I go home. And I am fine for the rest of the weekend. I guess my mother was right not to be too concerned.

On Monday morning, I start to feel queasy on the bus ride to school. I skip home room, and go straight to the nurses office. Where I immediately throw up my breakfast. And then the pain comes back in full force. They call my mother, who comes to get me. She calls my regular doctor who can’t see me until the next day. I take more Advil and more laxatives. My mother does not approve, but frankly, I don’t give a fuck. I’m in the worst pain I have ever felt in my life. And it worked the first time.

But my mother has nothing to fear, as I quickly puke everything back up. I can keep nothing down, not even water. I spend the entire night sitting on the floor curled into a ball with my forehead resting on the edge of my bed, rocking myself back and forth. It is the only thing that dulls the pain. At times, it dulls it to the point were I can actually fall asleep. But when I fall asleep, I stop rocking, and the pain comes surging back, which wakes me up and I start rocking again. The cycle continues until I have to get ready to leave the next morning.

My regular doctor also performs a pelvic exam. Wonderful. At least this is a man I know and trust. It still would have been embarrassing, if not for the intolerable pain that comes when he presses on my abdomen obliterating every other thought in my mind. He says he can feel a large mass on my right ovary. He says he doesn’t know how the hospital could have missed it. He says he wants to take an x-ray. Don’t they usually block your reproductive organs when they take an x-ray?

The x-ray shows that I do, indeed, have a large mass on my right ovary. A mass about the size of a grapefruit. I’m a little chubby, so there is a little extra padding on my abdomen, but, still, I would think a grapefruit where a kiwi should be would be noticeable. I immediately do not trust the hospital.

My doctor says he wants to call an ambulance to bring me to the hospital. To my relief, it is not the same hospital. My mother wants to drive me, but my doctor insists. The ambulance arrives. I’m in too much pain to even think about what is happening to me as I’m strapped to the gurney. All I want is relief.

My mother follows the ambulance as they hook me to the IVs and take my vitals. When we get to the hospital, they admit me and bring me to my room. My mother is joined shortly by my dad. The doctor comes in and tells us that I am to be prepped for surgery to remove the mass immediately. Withing 25 minutes of arriving at the hospital, I’m on my way to the OR. At no time do I wonder why this is being treated as such an emergency. I just want the pain to stop.

After the surgery, they tell me they not only removed the mass, but also had to take the ovary. The emergency was that the mass, a cyst, had caused torsion. The cyst was so large that it had twisted around in my abdomen, cutting off the blood supply to my ovary. My ovary was atrophying. They could not save it.

I have 9 staples in my abdomen, and a 10 inch scar. The scar is thankfully low enough that, should I ever want to wear a bikini (hahaha) that it should not show. As long as said bikini is wide enough. It is a 10 inch scar.

I am on a machine that will administer morphine when I press a button. The nurses tell me that if I press the button too often, it will cut me off. Scared that I will be in immense pain and not be able to get relief, coupled with having recently read To Kill a Mocking Bird, I am terrified to use the morphine unless absolutely necessary.

I’m in the hospital for 4 days, bed bound for the first 2. They wake me up a couple times every night to make me cough, so I don’t develop pneumonia. It hurts so much to cough, I’m willing to take that risk, but they insist. On the third night, having had the catheter removed (holy fucking shit), I get up to pee. They don’t make me cough. If only this had been an option on the first 2 nights. I hobble around the hospital like a 90 year old woman for the last 2 days. On the morning of the last day, they remove the staples, which is less painful than the coughing. They also remove my IV, which is fine with me. It was starting to burn, and I really don’t want to end up like Mrs. Dubose. I find out that I could have used at least 5 times the amount of morphine I did without being cut off or becoming an addict. Now they tell me.

They tell me I can finally take a shower. I lean my head back to wet my hair and almost fall over backwards (thank god for the metal handles lining the shower). They have severed all my abdominal muscles. It would have been nice to know this ahead of time. Perhaps they assumed I knew. It does explain the hunched old lady walk. It will be months before I can stand fully erect again. Or safely lean my head back in the shower.

Before we check out, the surgeon tells us that I need to make an appointment to see him for a follow up in 4 weeks. I’m not allowed to go back to school for 4 weeks, and not allowed to participate in any physical activity for 8.

At the 2 week mark, I think I’m feeling strong enough to try to go back to school anyway. I make it through half the day before the fatigue sets in. Walking around and sitting up is much more work than it seemed to be. I don’t go back for the remaining 2 weeks.

After 3 1/2 weeks, I call the surgeon’s office to make an appointment. His receptionist snidely tells me that I was supposed to call the week I got out of the hospital. They do not have any appointments for at least 3 weeks. I take the first one available, and then never go. Bitch.

At my regular doctor, they tell me I need to start having a gynecological check up every year, even though I’m not 18 or sexually active. Awesome. They put me on birth control pills. It is supposed to keep me from ovulating, which will keep me from developing another cyst. The pills make me gain 20lbs, but I’m happy to keep my one remaining ovary functioning. I stay on them for years.

It will be years before anyone tells me what is wrong with me. I decide to go to a Gynecologist at around 21 because I am terrified that I am going to lose my other ovary any time I feel an odd pain on my left side. I don’t trust that my GP is knowledgeable enough about what is wrong with me. And I am right. On my first visit to the OBGYN, she gives it a name: Polycystic Ovarian Syndrome or PCOS. And tells me that the birth control pills I’ve been on do not work all that well at preventing cysts from PCOS. It isn’t entirely my GPs fault that they don’t know what was wrong with me. In teenagers, it is hard to detect. The symptoms vary for each person (which in itself makes it harder to diagnose), but can include hirsutism (male pattern body hair), irregular menstruation, being overweight and migraines. I don’t have any abnormal body hair, I have always been overweight, I have headaches, but not migraines, and irregular menstruation is normal in teenagers. But ovarian cysts are a big clue, and they still never said a word about PCOS, not even that it was a possibility. I would later learn that the real problem in diagnosis is that GPs don’t know enough about it. I would also later learn that Gynecologists only treat the gynecological aspects of it. And there is so much more to it than that.

I’m 25 when we get married. We decide to start trying for kids immediately, knowing that it wasn’t going to be so easy for us. We had been having unprotected sex for a couple years, and nothing has ever happened. My periods are still wildly irregular (I once went 6 months without one, and once had a 3 months stretch of 3 weeks of bleeding followed by a week without). And, I only have one ovary. Even with all that, the OBGYN says we needed to try for 6 months before they will talk to us about infertility treatment.

So, I go to Border’s and start combing through the infertility books. Most mention only a blurb on PCOS. So I turn to Amazon, I find PCOS: Polycystic Ovary Syndrome : The Hidden Epidemic. It’s written by a Reproductive Endocrinologist (a fertility doctor). This is exactly what I’ve been looking for.

I am appalled at what has not been relayed to me by the doctors I depend on. On top of the fertility issues I’m facing, there are major health issues that come along with PCOS. Women with PCOS are more likely to face high cholesterol, diabetes and heart disease. The book also explains exactly what is going on in my body, why I don’t have regular periods, why I ended up with a huge cyst, why I may end up with another, why getting pregnant on my own will be a struggle at best. It explains that insulin resistance is the underlying cause of all these issues, but doctors still don’t know what causes the insulin resistance. It explains that there are other things we can do, other drugs I can take besides birth control pills, to not only reduce my chances of infertility, but also decrease the chance of the other health risks. It also explains that women with PCOS are more likely to develop uterine, cervical and ovarian cancer which apparently has something to do with those organs not doing what they are designed to do. I decide to seek out a specialist in spite of what my gynecologist has told me about waiting 6 months.

On our first visit, our doctor explains how he will go about diagnosing and treating us. First is the testing. He knows I have been diagnosed with PCOS, but he needs to confirm that for himself, as no one has ever run any tests, and also make sure there are no other fertility issues at play. The first step is blood samples (for me) and a sperm sample. The fertility clinic is an hour from our house. So they look up the place closest to us for my husband to drop off a sperm sample. It is half an hour from our house. The nurse tells us I should keep the sample cup in my bra on the ride to the lab so they stay warm. There is no end to the amusement this give my husband.

We arrive at the lab with a cup of sperm safely nestled between my breasts, only to be told that they no longer handle sperm samples. Fucking fantastic. They tell us we need to go to a nearby hospital for that. But since he has already given a sample today, he has to wait, to make sure it is a full sample. My husband is no longer amused. He had taken the afternoon off from his business (he works for himself, by himself) for nothing. Since the lab does still do blood testing, I get 11 vials of blood drawn for the half page list of tests they need to perform, and we go home.

My husband calls the hospital that afternoon to find out if he needs to make an appointment, and if he needs to bring the sample with him, or if he can make the deposit there. They tell him no appointment is necessary, and yes, he can do it there. So the following Monday, he drives the half hour to the hospital. He calls me in a rage 10 minutes later after being told when he arrives that the lab is closed that day, due to one of the holidays that not all businesses observe in our state. Fucking wonderful.

He calls me in a rage again the next day, after returning to the now open lab, only to be told by the lab technician that whoever told him he could produce the sample on site was wrong. He will have to go home, produce the sample, and return with it. Are you fucking kidding me? He takes the sample cup, goes into a private bathroom in the hospital, produces a sample, drops it at the lab and returns home. Fucking finally.

At our next appointment, my blood tests reveal that I do have an elevated insulin level (a sign of insulin resistance, and therefore, PCOS), but that have detected no other issues. My husband is delighted to find out that he has an abnormally high sperm count, good motility (percentage alive), mobility (amount of movement) and morphology (shape). I am relieved that there isn’t a secondary fertility issue to deal with. At least not for him. My testing isn’t quite done.

I need to have the endometrial lining of my uterus tested. This is shed during menses, and when it is not shed often enough (and I don’t because I don’t have regular cycles), it can build up and cause precancerous cells to develop. Fucking seriously? Yay for me. I also need to have the size, shape and position of my uterus checked, and to see if there are any blockages in my fallopian tubes to make sure there are no physiological issues keeping me from getting pregnant. Having a tipped or split uterus can keep the sperm from getting to the egg. Having blocked fallopian tubes can keep the egg from getting to the uterus (where the hell do they go? do they just float around in your abdomen forever?).

My OBGYN can’t get me in for a the endometrial biopsy for 2 months, so I return to the fertility clinic 2 weeks later to have it done there. My doctor is not there, but the doctor that performs the procedure is incredibly nice. I have no idea how painful this will be. Turns out, pretty painful. They place a long thin tube on the end of a syringe and vaginally insert it into my uterus. It hurts when they touch the wall of my uterus. My ass comes completely off the table when they start to suck off some cells. So they have to do it again while I stay still. When I sit up after the procedure, I am as white as a sheet. They have me lay back down for 15 minutes before they let me leave.

The next week, I go to the hospital to have a uterine dye test to check the physiology of my uterus and fallopian tubes. Again, I have no idea how painful this procedure will be. Turns out, even more painful. For this test, I am placed on an x-ray machine (really? more x-rays of my reproductive organs? like they aren’t fucked enough already?), while iodine dye is vaginally injected into my uterus. The dye then fills my uterus and travels up the fallopian tubes as the radiologist and I watch on a screen. My severed fallopian tube is blocked, which is no surprise, and does not matter, since there is nothing left on that side anymore. This is likely where most of the pain comes from. Apparently, for some women, this procedure will unblock a blocked fallopian tube. If it has enough force to dislodge a blockage, I’m guessing the pressure against the scar tissue on my severed tube is considerable. I’m in so much pain after the procedure that they make me lay down. Unfortunately, the only place for me to do so is on a gurney in the middle of a hallway. I’m in too much pain to give a fuck about the people passing by, but laying down is doing no good, so when the radiologist asks me it I feel better, I lie and say yes. I have Advil in the car. I just want to take something to dull the pain.

The car ride home is awful. I end up laying flat on my stomach in the passengers seat, as that is the most comfortable position I can find, while my husband freaks out about how dangerous it is to ride in a car that way. He has no idea how much danger he is in, as I would like nothing better than to punch something. Repeatedly.

The next week, we get the test results back. Everything is fine. I have no secondary issues. I do, however, have a very thick endometrial lining that I need to shed before we can proceed. So they give me some drugs to make that happen, and I have to call them when I start to menstruate.

We started off with just insemination. 14 days after menstruating, we go to the clinic, my husband deposits some sperm, we drive around for a couple hours while they “wash” it (removing the seminal fluid, basically condensing the sperm into a “ball”), and then return for them to insert it into my uterus. We do it again the next day. 14 days later, I take a pregnancy test. It’s negative. We wait a couple months for me to get another period. It doesn’t happen. They put me on drugs to make me have one. After the next failed insemination, I go on birth control pills for a month to ensure that I will get a period.

We also move on to a new treatment. This is the only other treatment our insurance will cover. 3 days after menstruating, I have to go get a blood test and an internal ultrasound done. This makes sure my ovaries are clear from cysts and that my hormone levels are where they are supposed to be. On day 5, I start injecting myself with follicle stimulating hormone (FSH) (thankfully, this just uses a small needle and I can inject it into my belly fat. There is another form of the drug, that would have to be injected into the muscle in my ass. If we need and decide to do IVF, this is likely the drug we will have to use. And my husband doesn’t do needles. I don’t trust my mother to do it, and I feel a little weird asking my mother-in-law to stick a needle in my ass). I go in for blood tests and internal ultrasounds every few days so they can determine when I need to inject myself with the human chorionic gonadotropin (HCG), which triggers the egg(s) to be released. I get excited every time I see follicles on the screen (there’s 3, we could have triplets!). The next 2 days we return for the insemination process. We aren’t allowed to have sex from the day before the first insemination until the last insemination. Being pumped full of hormones designed to make you want to have sex makes this much more difficult than normal. 14 days later I take a pregnancy test. It is negative.

It is always negative. My spirits dwindle as we proceed. My lowest point in the process comes shortly before Christmas about 2 years in. I had been hoping to tell our parents they were going to be grandparents on Christmas morning. Instead, we get yet another negative the day before a family Christmas party. I love this Christmas party. It is literally my favorite day of the year. The day of the ravioli party. I spend the entire morning in the kitchen with my husbands aunts and grammie and cousins, all of whom I adore. There is usually nothing that makes me happier. And I am doing my best to enjoy it this year. Until one of the cousin’s little girls walks in wearing a t-shirt announcing that they are expecting another child.

My husband and his mother immediately look at me. I just shrug my shoulders and walk into the next room. My husband pulls me into a room where we could be alone, and I break down. It’s so unfair. We’re still trying for our first, and now everyone else is starting on their second. I’ve been part of this family longer than any of his cousins wives. And we are the only married couple in this generation of the family that doesn’t have a child. I collect myself and we go back to the party. I later find out that the cousin who is expecting his second asks my husband when we’re gonna get started. I’m grateful I was not there for that conversation.

Shortly after Christmas, my husband tells me he doesn’t know if he wants to continue trying to conceive. He hates how upset it makes me when we find out we’ve failed, I’ve failed, yet again. But the thought of giving up is even worse than seeing a negative pregnancy test. So, I take some time to think things through. And I make a major adjustment to my views. I won’t let the fertility process ruin my life. I won’t let it change who I am. Being upset that someone else has a child, or is about to have a child, is not who I have ever been. And it is not someone that I want to become. I love children. I love babies. I love baby showers. Children are a reason to celebrate life. I refuse to become someone who cannot look at a baby or a pregnant woman without being filled with indignation.

And I’m not. I never become a bitter, angry women because other women have children and I do not. I cuddle every baby my friends and family have. I attend every baby shower with genuine happiness.

We try with help for 3 1/2 years. Then my insurance changes. And we no longer have any infertility coverage. A couple years pass where I have no better luck getting pregnant on my own, even after losing weight and using ovulation kits to make sure our timing is right. We decide to save up for IVF. We estimate the procedure will cost between$10,000 and $25,000. I’m 31. I want to start the IVF treatment before I’m 35, because the changes of pregnancy decrease after 35. We have plenty of time.

We get about $4,000 saved up before the economy turns to shit. We cancel our cable. We trade in his car for something that gets better gas mileage. We change grocery stores. We cancel every unnecessary bill we have. We use up every penny in our savings trying to stay above water. We were such idiots to spend money the way we did when we were making lots of it. All thoughts of IVF fly out the window. We need to keep our house.

Even with tightening our belts, things continue to get worse. I haven’t had a raise in 3 years, but I’m happy just to have my job when so many others are losing theirs. Eventually, my husband has no choice but to close down his business, because we’re drowning. He takes a job working for someone else for the first time in 12 years. We slowly start to crawl out of the financial hole we’ve gotten ourselves into.

As I write this, I am 35. We still have no savings. We’re still crawling out of that hole. And I have no idea if we will ever be able to afford IVF. Nor will an adoption agency grant a child to a couple who is in financial trouble. And although I am still not full of indignation, I am full of sadness. For the first time in my life, I do not see a future with children. For the first time in my life, I do not picture my future at all. For the first time in my life, I am afraid to dream. For the first time, I am letting my infertility change who I am.

July 24, 2011July 4, 2014

Dream Until Your Dreams Come True

We leave the house at 5:30am. Since it’s only a 4 1/2 hour drive, we end up getting arena a little after 10. My arrival time was scheduled for 2 (but Nick’s head would have exploded if we had been late), so we grab some lunch and kill some time. We get back to the IZOD Center around noon, and I spend about 15 minutes warming up in the car – and watching other singers smoke their last cigarettes (wha?) – before we finally step out into the sweltering heat. Nick spends about 15 minutes in line with me outside, and then they won’t let him go any further. When he asks about how much longer the process takes from that point on, they tell him about 3 hours. Now I feel horrible, because, not only does he have to spend 3 hours outside alone, it’s also over 100 degrees out.

I continue on, on my own, and finally get into the building and out of the sun. After about 10 minutes, they send us through security, and then down to the next holding section, on the floor of the arena. When we come in, they assign us to one of 14 lines, where we wait to go through registration. And wait. And wait. While waiting, I absorb my surroundings. There are at least twice as many women as men, almost everyone is between 16 and 35. Apparently, allowing your bra to show is in this season. I hear opinions on the first season of The Voice, stories of other audition processes (including one guy who said he was rejected from the American Idol auditions for being too bold, having too much bravado, and “basically being too good to be put on the show”), and even a little singing. There are people of all sizes, colors and personalities, but the overwhelming majority of them are incredibly nice.

When I’m about 3 people from the front of the line, they stop the registration process to let the next couple holding areas thin out a bit, so we wait some more. I message Nick and tell him to go find someplace with air conditioning to hang out in for a couple hours. At least.

Finally, we start moving again. They check our paperwork again, give us wrist bands, scan the barcode on our passes, and send us on to the next holding area, splitting us into 2 groups on either side of the arena, lining us up in rows of 10 or so. At this point, the woman directing us tells us that they are looking for contemporary artists, so we should be singing some newer songs. This is when I start to panic. The song I have chosen to start with, Sooner or Later, is from 1990. The second song, Crazy on You, is from 1976. So I start to think I should go back to another song that I had planned as an alternate that’s a little more recent. But then she says that they want you to choose songs from your genre. If you are an R&B singer, then don’t sing Jazz. So now I’m stuck. My preferred genre is rock. But I chose songs that compliment my voice and the strong aspects of my ability. My panic rises.

There are 2 sections in the stands on either side of the arena where we will be moved next. When one section is completely empty, they sit us. At this point, my throat feels like cardboard from the AC and I’m almost out of water. Dammit! Why did I not take a free water before getting in line? And why is there none here? It is also at this point, when I look down on the arena floor, at the rows and rows of people waiting to register or waiting to be seated in the stands, that I start feeling like a cow in a giant herd.

They are grabbing people in groups of 10 to go to in front of the producers. While waiting to be called down, the guy directing us in this section tells us they do not want people to sing really old songs like Somewhere Over the Rainbow or At Last because they’ve been done a million times. Not for the first time, I think this would have been helpful information to put on the web site (which literally said any genre, any artist, any song). I sit and contemplate what the hell I am going to actually sing when I get in there and still don’t have a firm answer when my group gets called.

A young woman herds us into the last standing area, a hallway with many rooms off to one side under the stands (there are other rooms in the hallway above the stands where they are also holding auditions, but we were sent down instead of up). They line us up against the wall and explain the process to us (which I am only half listening to, because they are explaining a different thing to the group directly to my left, and I’m so thirsty that the sight of the water bubbler next to me and my quest to refill my water bottle takes precedence over all else, even if it is city water). I miss some of it, but the basic gist is you know before you leave the room if you are selected of not, or are a maybe. If you’re a yes, you get escorted to a “yes room” to fill out paperwork and schedule a callback. If you’re a no, they cut off your wrist band and you take the walk of shame down the hallway, out of the building and back to your normal life. It seems that about 95% of people are doing the latter.

After several minutes, they move us to stand in line at a different room that is “moving faster”. Unfortunately, the producer needs to take a break, so this rooms ends up not, in fact, moving faster. The guy working outside this room is super sweet, asking us all lots of questions, and genuinely excited for all of us. He collects our paperwork (finally, I’ve been carrying this thing around for 3 1/2 hours) and tells us that they want us to sing songs that showcase out talent. They don’t care about genre or when they were written. I think, since he is the one physically closest to the producer, he would probably know best, and finally breathe a small sigh of relief about my song selection. But I’m so nervous about the actual audition that my legs feel like they are made of jello. I talk to a couple of the other girls in our group while we are waiting, admitting I’m afraid my pitch is going to be off because of my nerves. Some of them admit the same fear. None of us has ever auditioned for anything like this before. We can here some people in the rooms singing, even through the cinder block walls, though it’s muffled to the point that I can’t tell if it’s any good. And dammit, I’m out of water again! I contemplate if I have time to hit the water bubbler again and decide I probably shouldn’t risk it. Which means I had plenty of time. After a few more minutes, the producer gets back from her break, our guy wishes us all good luck and sends us in.

We sit in chairs around the perimeter of a small room. The producer tells us to stand at the back of the room when she calls our name and sing a verse and a chorus. Hmm. The verses to Sooner or Later are 2 lines long, and the choruses are 2-3 lines long. A few people go up, and I can tell by the order of the paper work that I will be 3rd to last. So much for getting it over with quickly. A few people sing much more than a verse and a chorus, but the producer says nothing. So, I decide I will go with 2 of each when it’s my turn, since they’re short. Just before my turn, Ilya, the only boy in our group, a 17 year old from Hoboken (Belgium, not NJ), stands up and sings Fly Me To The Moon, snapping his fingers to the beat. Everyone in the room is tapping their feet.

Then it’s my turn. I stand up on my jello legs. When I start to sing, my nerves don’t get the best of me, and I don’t get pitchy. Yay! And then. On the second chorus. I flub the lyrics. FUCK. I stop and whisper “shit”. And one of the woman in our group, and older woman with a lot of experience says “It’s okay, you got it”. And the producer says it’s fine. I start the chorus again, and finish my selection. Apart from the flubbed lyrics, I feel good about my audition. My voice was strong and in key, and I demonstrated how big my voice is and my ability to hold notes for a long time. Ilya’s dad whispered that I was great when I sat back down.

The girl who went after me flubbed her lyrics, too. I felt bad for her, but it was kinda nice not to be the only one. At the end, the producer asks Ilya to stay behind and thanks the rest of us for auditioning. We walk out, and have our wristbands removed. We tell each other how great we all did as we make our way down the hall, and congratulate each other for having the courage to go through with it in the first place. No one cries. No one complains. I think being dismissed with 8 other women who can all sing takes the sting out of the rejection a little. None of them sucked. It just wasn’t what they were looking for.

I message Nick and tell him I’m finally on my way. We make our way up the stairs, into the lobby, out into the baking heat, and head our separate ways. I climb back into the car with a smile on my face. It may not be the outcome that I wanted, but I still got a lot from the experience.

Things I learned from the audition process

1. I have the best. husband. ever. I already knew this. But he just reaffirmed it in a very big way. His support and belief in me means the world to me.

2. My friends and family are awesome! Again, I already knew this. But the outpouring of support as soon as they found out I was planning on doing this was amazing, nonetheless.

3. I never ever ever want to audition for anything in this manner again. I want to audition for things, and I want to be able to stand on a stage and sing. But being herded around made me realize that in that type of setting, it is unlikely I will be heard. I will stick to smaller stuff.

4. I can take rejection. The first time it felt like someone stabbed me in the gut. For a few days. And then I got over it. This time, I was fine as soon as I walked out the door. I’m sure there will be times when it will hit me harder, especially if there are any harsh words to go along with it, but I will survive it. As Tony says, not everyone will like my singing. And that’s fine.

5. Getting over a fear is so very hard. But it’s so very worth it.