Fuck You, Katie Couric: A Love Story

For those of you living under a rock or some other place where no one gives a shit about egg donation, Katie Couric recently did a segment about a donor egg conceived child and her family who met their donor for the first time on her show. The program went as one might expect: some nervousness, lots of sweetness, and tons of positivity.

Afterwards, however, the tenor of the donor egg recipient community turned a vivid shade of fury because the language used on the show was different from the language we prefer. Whereas PVED uses "donor vs. biological mother" to differentiate the roles of the women, the people on Couric's show referred to the donor as the biological mother. Gasp.

The outrage went something like this: donors aren't mothers, and Katie Couric is an asshole.

Although I'm tempted to get into the weeds of the discussion, that would require too much tedium, so instead I'm just going to piss everyone off and say that I believe we're being overly sensitive, reactionary, and irrational because we're insecure about our roles as mothers.

Or at least that's true for me.

I've written my share of posts about language, and so I know all about the emotions that propel the fervor. Differentiating genetics from biology as if genes aren't a part of biology. Proclaiming that the donor is not a mother even though the entire history of science has a very clear definition of parent to the inclusion of the source of donated gametes.

Over the last few years, I've rallied against these truths, but all the while, something about my cries never sat right. Even in calm settings, these were never calm conversations. I tended to get a little worked up when talking about mine versus the donor's roles. Defensive. I always wore some layer of I-dare-you-to-challenge-my-legitimacy armor instead of admitting that "yes, as a factual matter of science, our donor is a biological mother to my child. Now how am I going to deal with how vulnerable that makes me feel?"

Because vulnerability is where this dogma comes from. Plain and simple, I'm afraid. I'm afraid that some people don't see me as the real mom. I lay awake wondering about the effects of my slow bonding process with my daughter and whether our relationship will suffer for it, or how much. I worry that she won't have enough of me in her, and she'll navel-gaze her way through adolescence until she ultimately disconnects from me completely. And if all of these questions didn't haunt me before, now I have to deal with them in the shadow of another mother.

But all of this is OK. I don't expose my fears to solicit comfort and validation, and I don't want your hugs. I don't want to feel better. I just want to feel.

It's important for me to sit with my grief. I cozy up to my sadness deliberately, and I make myself cry because I want to see my reflection in my tears. The more I feel the truth of my fears, the more quickly I can get through to the other side, even while the darkness makes me forget that another side exists.

I imagine that other donor egg recipients share some of the same vulnerabilities, and I imagine that some women are vulnerable in ways that are wholly different from me. I also imagine that some moms feel only a teensy amount of vulnerability and rarely think about their children's not uncomplicated (yes, that's a double negative) conception.

But I'll stop short of saying that any of us are 100% OK with the world of egg donation because I suspect that we all hang on to some degree of vulnerability. Even for those who are most at peace, at some point someone might say something that will trigger us, and suddenly we need to gouge out eyeballs, which - let's face it - is not the inclination of a person who's confident and secure.

Which brings me back to Katie Couric. As it did for most of my fellow egg donor recipients, the program challenged me. I almost didn't watch it ("biological mother? Come here so I can kill you."), but then I reflected on my resistance for long enough to muster up the courage, and I clicked play. I was nervous at the start, and as it went on, there were parts that definitely made me uncomfortable ("other grandmother?"). It wasn't easy, and it raised a lot of questions for me.

What if my daughter will want to meet her siblings? It's possible that she won't think about her genetic relatives, but it's also possible that she'll feel existentially incomplete until she gets to know this other part of her family. Will she want her donor in her life for milestones like graduations and her wedding, or will she need her around more often than that? And how in the world will I handle the threats of these possible futures without removing anyone's eyeballs?

But despite my emotional response, I can't deny that Couric did a pretty good job with the subject. She showed a healthy balance of curiosity and support, and she made her guests feel open and safe. Moreover, when all was said and done, I think the segment could potentially help normalize egg donation for people considering their family-building options. And maybe it even helped normalize egg donation for a certain someone who's already used it.

So fuck you, Katie Couric, for making me feel vulnerable. I hate you.
And thank you, Katie Couric, for making me feel vulnerable. I love you.

Death and Life. Maybe.

My grandmother died this morning. Also this morning, I found out I'm pregnant.

Yesterday my father learned that my grandmother was very sick, and within a couple hours, he was at the airport. They Skyped while be was waiting to board, and she didn't recognize him, but that wasn't unusual.

Her doctor originally predicted that she wouldn't make it through the night, but when my dad video chatted with them at the hospital, they assured him that she'd hang on to exchange one last hug and kiss before she went. With that, he told his mother that they'd see each other soon.

It was their last conversation.

She and I weren't close, but my father adored her, and despite their 10-hour time difference, they spoke twice a day. His phone's alarm was set for 7:30 a.m. and 7:30 p.m., but he never needed the reminders because he was always impatient to call her. Every time they talked, she would exuberantly share whatever was on her mind, and she would always sing. She loved to sing, and my dad would chime in with her for a few bars until their melody devolved into laughter. Then my dad would ask her, "Do you know who I am?" And she would say, "No, but I'm so happy to be talking to you!"

Four of her children were there when she died while my dad was stuck on an 8-hour layover in Germany. I'm sure he cried when he heard the news because my father is a man brought easily to tears, and there's no one he loved more than his mother.

My grief for this loss is heartbreak for his heartbreak. I think of him drying tears at some terminal surrounded by Hawaiian shirts and ski boots, and I shed my own. I hate that he was alone in that moment, and I hate that he's alone still now on yet another leg of an eternal flight punctuated by peanuts and turbulence.

When I was 20, my dad told me that I should get busy finding a husband because the only reason he had children was so that he could have grandchildren. I think of that now, and it makes me wish I could tell him about this pregnancy so that I might alleviate some of his pain from this death with the promise of life.

The problem with wanting to give him good news is that I have no definitive news to give. Realistically I have to wait until my official test Wednesday. Or more likely the second test on Friday. Or most practically another 2 weeks after that when they confirm the pregnancy with a sonogram. Or if I'm truly cautious, then maybe not until I reach 12 weeks.

But what am I saying? I can't possibly be truly pregnant, and to be honest, I'm finally at a place in my life where I don't need to be pregnant. I've already wrapped my head around it never happening. I'm prepared to start the adoption process. My career search has been incredibly exciting, and I have a job interview on Tuesday. I just bought a bunch of new clothes. I'd be fine if this pregnancy doesn't stick. I don't need it.

But God, oh, God, how I want it for him.

Prospective Perspective

I have a question.

I always swore that I'd never consider egg donation. My reasons were that it'd be creepy, it'd feel false, and it'd be socially confusing. But after years of failed in-vitro treatments, my doctor said that the only way to get me pregnant was to use a donor's egg, and now here I sit with fingers crossed, Viagra in my vag, and hoping against hope that tomorrow's transfer takes.

So, have I lost perspective, or have I gained perspective?

And once these last cycles prove a bust, I'll no doubt follow the same trend down the adoption path - again something I swore I could never get into because how do you raise another woman's child and pretend it's your own? But still. When the time comes, I'll do it.

Are these moves of desperation, or is my experience allowing me to open up to other options that I wasn't previously ready for?

I don't know why this question is an important one for me. Maybe it's because I don't like to be reactionary, and I want to know that I'm making decisions with grounded perspective, but either way, it's been nagging me for months. I've been pondering it and imagining that I'd one day blog about my brilliant answers, but I don't have any brilliant answers. Just more questions.

Questions like: what the hell kind of M. C. Escher shit is going on in my head?

So if you have an answer, let me know, would you?

Festival of Lights at the End of the Tunnel

It wasn't the best Hanukkah for me. Lots of drama that's not worth getting into, so I won't, but in between the bouts of mayhem, there was an especially sweet moment.

My mother urged me yet again to think about adoption. She knows of some baby-manifesting lawyer who gives away infants, which means that (1) she clearly has no idea what she's talking about and (2) that she loves me.

Neither of these things is anything new, but then she said this:

Please think about adoption. Please. I know it's not what you wanted, but you'll love your baby so much, whoever it is. And you've been through so much. I know it's expensive, and I know you feel you can't afford it, but I'll help you. Please, let it be my Hanukkah gift to you, and your Hanukkah gift to us.

It was the "your Hanukkah gift to us" part that made me cry. It meant that she would love any kid that I would put in her lap, which was good for me to hear because I knew that, but I didn't really know that. It meant that she wanted grandchildren, and she didn't care if they didn't come from her, or didn't come from me, or did come from a shady attorney.

It surprised me to realize how much that question had been tickling my anxiety, but I feel so much more at peace now that it's quieted. Equally surprising is that I find I have a couple adoption questions for Mr. Baby Manifester, Esq. And I can see asking them, too. Although perhaps not quite just yet.

Sophie's Choice, Reprise

I've been working hard to wrap my head around the ins-and-outs of what it'll mean to raise a child that isn't genetically my own. There are a lot of layers to it, especially since my discomfort stems from some deep-seated issues, but overall, I'd say I'm in a pretty good place with it.

But in rereading a post I wrote a few months back, there's something I said that still haunts me a little. In imagining a future fight with my DE child, I wrote:

When that child's pre-pubescent voice inevitably shouts, "You're not my real mom," my response will most definitely be, "Well, I never wanted you either, Kid."

(I'll give you a moment to close your dropped jaw.)

OK, so, yes, the idea that I might ever say something like that to a child is pretty horrifying, but what scares me a little now is that - even after all this time and therapy - there's still a grain of emotional truth in the sentiment.

Let me explain: It's not true that I won't want the kid himself. Of course I will. I've pretty much let go of any doubt that I won't bond with my DE children, or any children that I might be fortunate enough to raise.

What's true, however, is that I will have never wanted a situation where I couldn't have genetic children. Obviously I'd never want that. Who would? But that's different from "I don't want you." It's different enough that I no longer feel any reticence or reservation about pursuing donor egg IVF - but it's similar enough that I have to admit to still feeling a little scared.

What if my kid discovers how much I struggled with infertility? What if he feels like he wasn't my first choice of kids? I know what I'd say, of course. It'll be something along the lines of, "I'm glad I couldn't get pregnant on my own, because if I did, then I wouldn't have you, and there's no other kid in the world I'd want, blah, blah, blah." I worry, though, that there'll be a part of him that won't believe me, just like I worry that there's a part of me that doesn't believe me.

My self-consolation is this: I probably have about a decade before this imaginary fight comes up, and I can't know what things will be like until I get there. In the meantime, all I can do is trust what I do know: between therapy, my friends, my family, and (above all) N, I'm doing everything I can to be a responsible parent to a DE child, and my intention is to continue to do what's best for the children that I'm working so hard to manifest.

In the meantime, I'm still nervous about saying the absolute right thing to my kid, but at least I'm not nervous about saying the absolute wrong thing. Hopefully that's enough for now.

Case Study: Me

I've blogged about my theory that egg donation is not that different from adoption, and I've blogged about my negative feelings about adoption, and yet, I'm trying to adopt an egg. What gives?

Turns out I'm not the first person to have strong aversions to these things even while pursuing them, but there usually are reasons.

I know of one infertile woman who became pregnant with a donor egg baby, only to immediately regret doing it because she didn't feel bonded with the pregnancy. The root of her story was that she was physically abused by her father as a child, and her way of coping with the beatings was to tell herself, "at least we look alike, so I know he still loves me." She'd subconsciously learned that children must look like their parents for there to be love between them, and that's something she had to un-learn before she could bond with the baby she was carrying, which took some work, but she eventually did.

Then there's this other woman whose husband wanted to adopt even though she hated the idea. Turned out that it was her mother's recent passing that was the issue. Her sadness wasn't so much that the kid wouldn't have a genetic connection to her (although that was a part of it), but rather than the kid wouldn't have a genetic connection to her mom, and that loss was more than she'd prepared for. What she discovered was that she needed to grieve some more before being able to fill out adoption paperwork. She now has 2 adopted children, and she adores them both.

I have a story like this. In fact, I have two of them, but I'm not going to write about them here. There's a part of me that feels like I should because I want to justify things I've written in the past by sharing the traumas and vulnerabilities that made me into a person who would feel that way, but I can't do that here.

The point of all this is to say that I know I'm as messed up as anyone, and possibly more so. At best, I'm a work in progress. The good news, however, is that a part of this progress involves therapy to help me overcome the traumas that made it difficult for me to want to raise a child that I'm not genetically related to.

The other good news is that I'm getting there.

Venngina Monologues

Everyone is telling me that using an egg donor for my IVF is almost no different from using my own egg. Their arguments go like this:

Friends: You're going to be the one to carry it for 9 months.
Doctor: It's just a genetic seed.
Scientist father-in-law: Current research shows that the embryonic environment is just as influential as genetics.
Husband: Uh...

Of all these, it's my husband who has the most insightful line of thinking because the truth is that, while there's validity to what the others are saying, the reality of egg donation is more complicated than that.

Part of the complexity is that the experience varies for each person dealing with it. For some people involved, it's closer to a natural conception, but for others, I think it's more like adoption.

To describe what I mean, I drew a continuum and plotted each player on the line: the mother, the father, the donor, and the kid.

To answer your questions in advance,
1) Yes, this is an odd thing to do.
2) No, I don't have any personal experience with any of this.
3) Yes, I'm just making this up as I go along.

OK, here goes.



For the father, having a child via egg donation isn't too different from own-egg IVF - assuming it's his sperm, that is. His wife is pregnant, and his parents' genetic lines are wholly represented in the kid. Yes, he lives in an egg donor home, but his genetic relationship to the kid is entirely traditional. Thus he's furthest on left.

For the donor, she's just aiding a couple who is having trouble conceiving, and it's a strictly medical procedure. The donor experiences no pregnancy, no labor, and no delivery, and she doesn't place a baby in another person's home, so the process is obviously very different from a birthmother's. On the other hand, she knows that the resulting children will be genetically hers. Throughout her life, she will wonder about them, and even though there won't be an emotional bond, curiosity will tickle just like it would for a birthmother. Because of all this, I've put her on the left, although not as far over as Pops.

For the child, the emotional experience will fall closer to the middle. Yes, his mother carried him, delivered him, and nursed him, but he won't remember any of that. All he knows is that he's genetically related to his father and not to his mother. Exactly how the kid will be affected by this depends on a million factors, but to some degree, when it comes to his mother, much of what he experiences will be similar to an adopted child: there will be a level of genetic loss, grief, and un-belonging. Near to the middle he goes.

For the mother, the experience really is a lot like adoption. After the pregnancy-delivery-nursing part is over, she'll have to face lots of the same things that adoptive moms do. Strangers will comment about how the kid looks nothing like her, and people will ask about the child's "real" mother. A bit of consolation is that her child is genetically related to his father, but that can also feel painful since Mom is the only one who can't experience that bond. For all these reasons, I'm putting her nearer to the right of the continuum.

Again, I've got no hard data to back this up, but I think it sounds really good.

During my philosophizing, I came to an epiphany, and while I don't like to wax feminist, I'm going to play the card: I think the reason this all gets whitewashed is that the boy doctors are running the show, and from the male perspective, it's not at all like adoption. As far as the docs are concerned, they're just swapping one egg for another. For the fathers, there's no genetic difference. And the egg donor's experience is supervised and contained by the doctor. It's understandable, then, why these folks view it the way they do.

But for the mothers and children, egg donation has more psychological, social, and emotional similarities to adoption than to any other form of family building. To illustrate this further, I drew a venn diagram laying out the overlap. (Again, yes, I'm weird for doing this. Just go with it.)



Sure, there are distinctions, and yes, there's a lot missing, but I still maintain that no matter how complete this diagram gets, the similarities between egg donation and adoption are greater than the differences.

Ultimately, I think this is a linguistics issue. It's called an "egg donor procedure," and it produces an "egg donor baby," but this language places all the focus on the doctors and the donors. Yes, she's donating, but I'm receiving, and these phrases don't say anything about my experience. Come to think of it, this woman isn't even donating; she's actually charging us several thousand dollars (which I think is fair considering all the time, effort, pain, and risks). In light of all this, I can't help but feel that "egg donation" is a misnomer.

This is an "egg adoption." Egg adoption is an all-around more accurate term, and calling it anything else undercuts the emotional, social, and practical realities of the mother-child relationship. If you ignore that egg adoption is philosophically truer, I think that will just make it harder in the future when the square peg doesn't fit into the round hole.

I need to think of this as egg adoption so I can prepare myself for what I might face when raising a child that isn't genetically related to me. The adoption community has worked hard to create a culture of openness, integrity, and normalcy, and it has a deep understanding of the social and psychological implications of the process. It's obviously not exactly the same, but I'd be crazy not to learn from them if I'm going to consider this.

Yup. I said it. I'm considering this.

Weird.

Sophie's Choice

People say that they love their adopted children as much as they do their biological children. That the connection between a mother and baby isn't inherently genetic, but that it's something that develops between two people: a woman who yearns to nurture and hold and bond, and a child that needs love and affection and care. They talk about how parents who have both biological and adopted children never think about which child came from where. Genetics don't matter. They love them both. And love makes a family.

I don't believe them.

I don't believe them because it can't possibly be true. There's a biogenetic impulse that makes us instinctively drawn to people that look like us. All examples of social bonding and interpersonal relationships have us searching for mirror images of ourselves. Granted this phenomenon has been at the core of every grotesque chapter of human history, and I agree that it's our social and cultural responsibility to challenge our propensity toward homogeneity, but that only serves to prove my point: everywhere from playgrounds to conference rooms to cemetery plots, we seek extensions of ourselves. We look for ourselves in our friends, we look for ourselves in our spouses, and we look for ourselves in our babies.

So when I say that I don't believe people who deny a difference between biological and adopted children, it's only because I know they're lying.

But I don't hold it against them. Of course they're going to say that. They have to say that. Any sentence that begins with "Let me tell you about my favorite daughter" will end with someone calling Child Protective Services because you aren't allowed to say that. Think about it, and be honest with yourself: have you ever loved any two things the same? No. You haven't. Because it's impossible.  Because two different things will, by definition, have differences, and those differences mean they're different and therefore not the same, and therefore you can't love them the same. And in the case of biological versus adopted children, 10 times out of 10 the child you look at with the deepest, most profound love in your eyes is the one who's looking back at you with the eyes he got from you.

So I don't want any part of the charade. I know that to adopt a child is to raise another woman's kid, and I'm not interested in raising another woman's kid. Pretending that it's mine. Changing diapers and feeding it and helping it with its homework when I know the reality is that that kid comes from someone else. It would be no more mine that it would be the nanny's, and I don't want to be the nanny, especially not to a child of a woman who doesn't even want that kid herself.

I wouldn't even be a mom. I'd be a "mom." Someone whose parentage would require legal documentation and whose role in the falsely-contstructed "family" could be challenged in a court of law. I'd fail a DNA maternity test. But then of course I wouldn't take a DNA maternity test because I'd never assert that I was the mother, because I wouldn't be the mother. I'd be the "mother."

Mother-ly. Mother-ish. Now, I happen to think that I'd be quite an adequate mother-ish figure. The next best thing to for child whose real mother didn't want it. And perhaps the child would be a passable substitute for the real child that I wished I could have.

But I'd know the truth. The real truth. The reality that - if I did adopt and then was lucky enough to magically get pregnant on my own - when faced with the decision to choose between those two kids, that I wouldn't hesitate: given Sophie's choice, I would save my real child and send the other one to the gas chamber.

Judge me if you want. Post comments below about how I'm a horrible, soulless person. I don't mind because I know that I'm voicing truth. And any person grieving the loss of having a genetic connection with a child - any woman facing adoption as the only means of acquiring kids - has asked herself: What am I going to miss out on that real mothers take for granted every day? Could I forgive this kid for being the distant-second-choice to the child I really wanted? Would I ever really love it?

So I'm not going to do it. Adoption isn't an option for me. I'll grieve and I'll cry and I'll continue to feel despair about my infertility, but purchasing another woman's child isn't my solution. And when people around me try to console my grief with "Why don't you just adopt?," I would tell them the truth:

Because when that child's pre-pubescent voice inevitably shouts, "You're not my real mom," my response will most definitely be, "Well, I never wanted you either, Kid."

~~~

Addendum, November 2011: Since posting this blog, I've written two others that - if you're horrified by what you just read - you might consider looking at. They're here and here.

My Comments on Your Comments

People have tried to be helpful throughout my struggle with infertility, but many times their attempts at support fail epically. Here are a few of the most frustrating.

Your Comment: All you need is to relax. As soon as you stop trying, you'll get pregnant. Just take a vacation.

My Comment on Your Comment: I've heard this a lot, and it always makes me think you're an idiot. By telling me that I'll get pregnant if I just relaxed, it tells me three things:

1. That you don't quite understand the basics of reproduction
2. That you think it's my fault I'm not pregnant.
3. And, because I'm not actually stressed, it makes me realize that you don't really know me, which then makes your advice all the less appropriate.

Your Comment: You're still young. My best friend's neighbor's dog's sister's owner got pregnant when she was 43.

My Comment on Your Comment: It may happen, and that would be great, but the facts are these:

• Women in their 20s have a 25% chance of getting pregnant each month
• By 35, the rate lowers to 10% each month. The miscarriage rate is 25%
• After 40, 90% of a woman's eggs are genetically abnormal

Could there be a good egg in there somewhere? Sure. Might I eventually get pregnant? It's possible, but I'm not going to bank on it.


Your Comment: I'm praying for you.

My Comment on Your Comment: I actually don't mind that you're turning to your mythological deity for my benefit and support, however I do ask that two things never happen:

1. You don't condescend -- and you even accept and validate -- my atheism, and
2. You don't wave your magic prayer book at me in the event that I do finally conceive

While I love, love, love that you're thinking of me during quiet moments of meditation and prayer, a surprise pregnancy doesn't qualify as a win for Team God.


Your Comment: You should see my fertility doctor, acupuncturist, yoga teacher, homeopath, psychic, astrologer, and Chinese herbalist. And also eat pineapple.

My Comment on Your Comment: See, this kind of thing'll make a girl crazy. I'm not doing all that. Also, it would be nice to feel that you trust me and my choices of providers and consultants.


Your Comment: Have you considered adoption?

My Comment on Your Comment: Simply put, Yes, I have considered adoption. Now if I may explain why this question is offensive...

The want of genetic children cannot be satisfied by adoption. The grief of infertility can only be quieted by two things: conception or time. And even when people do adopt, they're still left with the residual trauma from the ups-and-downs of medical treatments, miscarriages, and an asphyxiating level of hope. Those don't just disappear.

Think of the process of healing from grief as a continuum. On the one side of the continuum is the pain of never having kids that look like you, and on the other is peace and serenity about that reality. Wanting to adopt babies is a whole other continuum, and I'm not on that continuum; I'm on the grief one.

Adoption also isn't easy. The process costs upwards of $30,000 and takes a minimum of one to two years filled with teases of "Hey, here's a baby. Oops, just kidding." It's not any cheaper, it's not any easier, and it's not everyone's solution to not being able to conceive naturally.

Maybe one day I'll want to adopt, but right now, I just want to get pregnant.


Your Comment: Keep trying. Don't give up. It'll happen.

My Comment on Your Comment: This is a tricky one. On the one hand, because the process of seeking fertility treatments is exhausting, this kind of  cheerleading can feel very supportive. But on the other hand, people reach the end of their rope, and at some point they need to stop living in a constant state of hope. This isn't giving up as much as it is moving on, which is sometimes the best thing to do.


Your Comment: I've been so sick throughout this entire pregnancy! You're lucky it's not you. By the way, do you know of any good nurseries in town?

My Comment on Your Comment: No comment.

~~~

Tips on What to Say Instead

Nothing. Don't say anything. Really. You don't need to say a word. Just listen. I understand why you keep sticking your foot in your mouth with these idiocies: it's because you don't know how to handle my grief and sadness, and you're just trying to fill the darkness with vapid words. But I'm telling you now that nothing you say will help. It's not about words. Just nod, pass the tissues, and give me a hug.

But if you do need to talk, here are some places to start:

• This must be really hard for you.
• I can't imagine what you're going through.
• I'm so sorry that you're dealing with all this.
• I support you no matter what you decide to do.
• If I can do anything, please let me know.

That's it. Honestly. I know it's not much, but it's all I need.