Instant Mom by Nia Vardalos Read Free Book Online Page A

press interviews done. One hour before the premiere of Connie and Carla, I find out IVF #10 didn’t work either. No pregnancy. I’m now standing on the red carpet, waving and smiling, with a concave dark hole in my chest. Someone—I think it’s the Entertainment Tonight reporter—now asks on camera, “Any baby news?” I wish I could just walk away, then run as fast as I can. I don’t want to be me anymore.
    To further promote the film, I’m booked to be on The Oprah Winfrey Show again and have to fly from Los Angeles to Chicago with needles and medicine in my purse because I am preparing for IVF #11. I am standing at the X-ray machine, humiliated as I whisper, trying to explain my drug vials to Airport Security. Two of them are holding up my bag of needles and every traveler in line can see. My face feels hot. Finally, one security man takes pity on me and lets me pass. But not before telling me what an inspiration I am for writing my own movie but also that I’ve lost too much weight and look tired now. I smile wanly and board the plane, wishing so much I could be in bed.
    Being on Oprah this time is vastly different from the first time I was on, with my real family, to celebrate My Big Fat Greek Wedding . That visit was buoyant and fun. This time, it feels as if the interview is all happening with an echo. I am so pumped up with fertility drugs, I can’t think clearly. I try to remember funny stories to tell, and don’t feel up to it. I sense that ever-omniscient Oprah Winfrey can tell I’m feeling off.
    Afterward in the hallway Oprah stops, really looks at me, and asks how I am doing. I am completely aware I can’t even make eye contact with her. Infertility has taken my confidence, drained the joy from me. It seems every day, women and men are stopping me on the street, at the mall, at a coffee shop to tell me how much they love my movie and how encouraging my success story is to them. But, truly, I now feel like a failure. I can’t look at Oprah, but I murmur that all is good. She takes a moment, then lets it go. I am relieved—nobody wants to blubber all over Oprah. Pumped full of those hormones, I am always a breath away from blabbing out the whole sad story.
     
    It’s just not working . I am starting to get the huge hints I should stop the treatments. The anesthesiologist at the clinic had just told me his wife and he adopted an infant.
    I call and confide in my best friend, Kathy Greenwood. She is still living in Toronto and is now a mom of two girls. She has been such a good friend to me through all this and listens patiently now. I tell her about the anger I am feeling that nothing has worked. I tell her I am so incredibly frustrated that I am still not a mom. Kathy thinks this over, then gently answers, “Giving birth is not what makes you a mom.”
    The next week at the clinic, the fertility doctor also has a quiet talk with me. He’s been trying to suggest I stop treatments for a while now. I am resolute that I want to continue. He doesn’t think it’s sensible. I still want to go on. I ask him, “What would you do if you were me?” He sits across from me, smiles wryly, and tells me he has many adopted dogs and they’ve brought him more happiness than his children ever have.
    It feels good to laugh.
    I hear his message loud and clear. He thinks I should quit.
    But I go back for more treatments.

• 4 •
    Happy May Sucks Day
    Blegh, it’s May.
    We all know on a certain Sunday of this month, overpriced flower arrangements will brighten homes, and restaurants will serve multi-calorie brunches. Reminders will be whispered, “Hey, be nice to your mom for a minute.”
    During the fertility treatments, besides abysmally gushy baby showers, Mother’s Day is pretty much the worst day of the year for me. I avoid looking at Mother’s Day TV commercials. Just the drugstore greeting card rack makes me pale. I loathe May.
    In the spring, there are many social gatherings in Los Angeles, like this