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.

Gray Matters

You know the feeling: you're starving, and you really want a burger, but all you have is salad, so you eat the salad, and technically you aren't hungry anymore because the salad was huge and had lots of avocado and sunflower seeds and stuff like that, but it wasn't a burger, so you aren't fully satisfied.

I spoke to a friend today who asked for the lowdown on how it feels to be the mom of a donor egg baby. Is it everything that it promises to be? Is it worth the financial cost, the emotional roller coaster of hope-turned-grief, and the risk of having yet another miscarriage? Or should she consider moving forward with her life and live child-free.

She wanted an honest answer, so I gave it to her. It's kind of like a salad. It's good, but what I really wanted was a burger. And I'm not fully satisfied.

I'm not sure who these women are who say that a donor egg baby is the same as an own-egg baby. That they never think about the donor again after getting a pee-stick positive, seeing the heartbeat, feeling a kick, or whatever other milestone is met. I guess these women exist because boundless baby bliss is all I ever heard about; all I know is that I'm not one of them.

I think about the donor all the time. She's who I see when I look at my daughter's smile or wonder how I'm going to tame those crazy eyebrows. She's the person I think about when my husband talks about the family that we've built. She's what comes to mind when I see that my kid should have met some developmental skill and I wonder what consequences there'll be from being deceived about my donor's smarts on her profile.

This haunting motivated me to meet today with a therapist who specializes in infertility and third-party reproduction. I love my long-time therapist, but I'm not sure if she can help me with what I'm going through. As I mentioned in my last post, when I asked her why I'm feeling disconnected, she said that the why didn't matter and that I just needed to work on connecting with my kid. You know: "process my intimacy issues."

She's wrong, I think. I think it does matter. If I'm uneasy about qualities in my donor that I see in my daughter, I need to work through that. If my involvement in the donor egg community is making me think too much about my baby's conception, then I need to find a new distance with that world while still respecting whatever responsibility I owe my daughter. If there remains a shit ton of grief at the loss of my genetics, then I need to resolve that, too. And yes, process my intimacy issues blah blah fuck you.

So was my baby pursuit worth it in the end? I think so, but it's not exactly black and white. Raising my daughter is a thousand times better for me than being childless, but it hasn't been easy. She isn't a burger, but she is pretty damn good, and what I hope is that this work will turn these salad days into salad days.

Eat, Play, Love

Eat.

I have video footage of my baby crying while nursing my left tit because I have almost no milk. She had better luck on the right, but not much. I won't go into the details of how awful breastfeeding has been, but suffice it to say that it's been both physically and emotionally painful for both me and my kid.

Now at 5 months, she's almost exclusively formula fed. I have one last bottle of breast milk left, and I think I'll cry when I feed it to her. The few successful breastfeedings were profoundly sweet. In those moments, I felt like a mom. But still, quitting will be a relief. But also sad. But also a relief.

Play.

The truth is that I don't know how to interact with infants. Don't get me wrong: I took great care of her and held her almost constantly when she was teeny tiny, but infants are incredibly stupid, and playing with an infant isn't much different from playing with a bale of hay. You get about as much reciprocity: no eye contact and none of that cuddling that you imagine happens between mother and child. I tried to play with her as best I could, but really she was just a lot of noise and shitty diapers.

This changed over the last couple of months, and the 5-month mark was a special turning point. She laughs freely now, and it's easy to get her to smile. We spend a lot of time dancing around and roughhousing; she likes getting thrown in the air, getting tickled, and when I fling her upside-down. Sometimes our games make her throw up, but bales of hay don't throw up, so we're moving in the right direction. And I'm having fun.

Love.

For these and other reasons (hello, 5 hours of sleep!), parenting has gotten easier, but to be honest, there remains a bit of discord in our relationship: I'm not sure if I'm fully bonded with my kid, and I can't help but feel that it's because of the egg donation thing.

I don't know how parental love is supposed to feel, and maybe this is it. You hear about rainbows and unicorns popping out of women's vaginas together with their spawn, and all that came with my baby was blood and slime, so it's hard for me to tell.

It's possible that this emotional barrier is just a part of my psychology because of my broken upbringing. My childhood had a good bit of neglect and some physical abuse, so I might feel this way no matter how my child came about. I tried to flesh it out in therapy, but when I asked my therapist why I was feeling this lack of connection, she said that the why didn't matter and that I just needed to work on increasing my capacity for intimacy. (Intimacy issues? That's real original, Therapy. You fucking whore.)

I do really like spending time with the kid, but as often as not, I look at her like I'm not sure who she is. But maybe that's normal. Or maybe it's not. What the hell do I know? I still can't believe that the hospital let me take her home, to be honest. I mean, they don't even know me.

Hell. I don't know me.

You Came Out of My Vagina

You came out of my vagina, but that's not when our story began.

Seven months before you came out of my vagina, I got a positive pregnancy test on the day my grandmother died, and I hoped this time I was really pregnant so that my dad (your granddad? weird.) could get some cheery news. Also, it would make me happy. I guess. Yes, of course it would. Happy. Obviously.

Five months before you came out of my vagina, I saw you on an ultrasound and found out you're a girl. Bummer. I don't like girls. Don't get me wrong: I like women; I just find little girls to be annoying as shit - all that squealing and crying and frilly pink shit. It's so much easier to deal with boys' broken bones than girls' broken hearts. But hopefully you'll be an athlete or a lesbian or into cool music, and you'll hate pink, too.

Three months before you came out of my vagina, I was scheduled for another ultrasound to get a better picture of your hands because so far it looks like you have no fingers, and I don't know if I can love a kid with hand stumps. But no matter what the ultrasound shows, 50% of you comes from your dad's genetics, so I'd be stuck with you. I wondered if this would be different if you were also 50% me, and this is when it becomes clear that I may not have been the best candidate for using a donor's egg.

One month before you came out of my vagina, conversations with your dad go something like this: But what if I don't love her? Don't worry; you will. But what if I don't? I know you; you will. But what if I don't? Stop over-thinking it; you will. But what if I don't? Etc. etc. etc. You can see why this is a problem, right?

The day you came out of my vagina, labor was short, and during the last few minutes, I wondered whether I could stop pushing and change my mind about the whole thing, but there were all these people around me saying things like "you're almost there" and "I can see her head," so I plowed forth.

You were a gross, slimy, wrinkly thing.

When it was over, a gross, slimy, wrinkly thing was handed to me, and I asked, "is this her?" Considering that the other end of your umbilical cord was still inside me, it should have been obvious that I wasn't looking for an answer from the nurse as much as I was looking for an answer from myself.

"Is this her?" meant "Is this it?" It meant is this really happening and did seven years of wanting a baby just come to an end? It meant who will I be as a mom and who will you be as a daughter and what will we be to each other?

It meant that I really wished someone would help me figure out a game plan for what to do if I don't love you.

During the first couple weeks after you came out of my vagina, you wouldn't look at me. You just peed and cried and ate and slept and shit. No eye contact whatsoever, which - frankly - wasn't a great way to get started on your part, now was it? As it was, what with our lack of genetic connection, how did you think we could build a relationship if you wouldn't even look at me?

It was during this period that your dad asked me if I loved you. I said I didn't know yet, which upset him. I guess he thought that the reality of your existence would melt my heart, but he overestimated my capacity to adore people that come out of my vagina.

I felt fiercely protective of you, though. I got pissed when you were left unattended on the changing table for a millisecond as if you could somehow leap to your demise at 2 days old. I woke up several times a night in a panic that you'd been scratched or had a fever or died from SIDS. And every time I picked you up, I was terrified that I'd trip and fall and smash your tiny skull into a wall. My every moment was riddled with anxiety that something awful would happen to you, and that with that, my world would crumble. But anxiety is not the same as love.

You looking at me.

And then some time later, you looked at me. Not a passing glance with untamed eyeballs, but actual eye contact. And that's when I thought, "Oh, hi, baby. How nice to meet you."

Was it love? Well, let's not get crazy. I mean, we don't really know each other yet, and one can't rush into things like this.

But you came out of my vagina, and a little while after that, we met. And now that we have, and our story has begun, it's possible that I'll love you after all.

And as it turns out, you look seriously fucking cute in pink.

Stunted

This blog isn't developing the way I thought it would.

Over the past 2 months, I've started two posts that have yet to be completed: one about the effects of this pregnancy on my sex life (short answer: not good), and another on how I feel about being pregnant with a girl (short answer: not good).

Truth be told, I may still finish these posts and predate them for purposes of chronology. Yes, I realize that's cheating, but I'm a woman pregnant with a donor egg baby, so clearly I'm an ends-justifies-the-means kind of girl.

Aside from this blog, another thing that appears to be stunted is my baby's growth.

All was well at the anatomy scan 8 weeks ago. No cleft palate, no incomplete organs, and no structural issues. They couldn't confirm 10 fingers, though, and I was told that either she was making fists (more likely) or she that had no fingers (less likely). In any case, we needed a follow-up.

Six weeks later, my baby was indeed found to have 10 fingers, but she was also measuring 11 days behind. This puts her in the 10th percentile of fetal development. This isn't good.

They say it might be nothing. That it could be a blip. That she could catch-up over the coming months, and none of this will have been an issue. On the other hand, her small size could be the start of a pattern that will mean a very risky third trimester of pregnancy, premature delivery, and/or developmental delays. They just don't know yet.

And they're making me wait 4 weeks for a follow-up. Their rationale is that the baby needs time to have measurable growth, but I'm pretty sure they're just fucking with me.

So I'm two weeks post-shitty news, and the only thing keeping me afloat is that I think my baby might be growing. My belly has gotten bigger, and I've also been feeling more movements. Like, a lot more movements. Like, the kind of movements where you see limbs protruding from the surface of my abdomen like something out of Alien. It's gross, but I'll take it if it means that my baby's stunted growth will prove to be an inconsequential blip after all.

Either way, it puts the whole "I wish I were having more sex and also not having a girl" thing into perspective, doesn't it?

Tiers of Joy

Admitting that I don't know what to write isn't the best way to up my readership, but what can I tell you? I have no fucking clue what to say.

No, I still don't trust that this is happening. No, I'm still not telling people. No, I'm still not excited. Nothing's going on, and no one wants to read about my continued reservedness, so what am I supposed to post?

I will tell you, however, that I'm not alone in this. Case in point: something a fellow PVED gal said over lunch last week.

I couldn't trust that I was pregnant until 20 weeks, and then I still couldn't get excited for several weeks more. Now I'm almost 34 weeks, and I'm still not at ease, but I am starting to believe that it might really happen.

I've heard other infertile women say similar things, so this timeline is the one I'm counting on. And since I'm 17 weeks today, I might be getting close.

But in the meantime, I got nothing, because you know what Bob Dylan says, ...

One

So, I was certain there'd be no one in there, but it turns out there is.

One heartbeat. We saw it flicker. It was awesome.

I'm not the kind of blogger that's going to post pregnancy play-by-plays, although I'll be adding updates to this page just for posterity (also linked in the header above under "Pregnancy Timeline").

PS: Seriously, though. There's a heartbeat. Can you believe it?

Up's Tears, Down's Tears

I cried twice today.

Once from overwhelming sadness for my father's grief at the loss of his mother, and once when my doctor called to say that I'm pregnant.

They were very different tears.

Yes, my official test came back positive. Any number over 100 is considered great. Mine was 241.

Let's just hope whoever's in there sticks around for a while.

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?

Dietary Supplements

Here's what happens 3 months into quitting gluten, soy, dairy, nightshades, caffeine, sugar, and alcohol:

1. You never have any gas or stomach pains
2. Your previously painful period cramps completely disappear
3. You have long, regular, perfect poops
4. Your donor gets pregnant

It's possible that the last of these things has nothing to do with my food intake, but they say dietary changes can be powerful, so I'm going to assume a correlation. I'm also going to assume that you've heard enough about my periods and poops, so here's more about the donor thing.

She texted me three weeks ago, which she does every once in a while just to say hi or to update me about things going on in her life. The conversation went something like this:

How's it going? I'm good! Still not pregnant, but otherwise great. That sucks because you're going to be such a great mom. Aw, you're very sweet. How are you? Really good! I met a guy, and we're probably moving away together, so I'll let you know when that happens. Oh, yay! I want you to be as happy as can be. Me, too, for you! You're the sweetest. No, you're the sweetest.

There were lots of exclamation points, exes, ohs, and more exclamation points -- all of which were sincere, mind you. I think there may have even been a kitty emoticon in there somewhere, although I'm not sure why. Then there was this:

Me: Hey, one last thing before you go. Have there been any other pregnancies with your eggs since the first recipient? I'm just curious if there's anything I should know about your fertility.

Donor: Well, I didn't want to say anything, but I took two tests this morning, and it looks like I'm pregnant. That's why I texted you today. I wanted you to know right away, but then I wasn't sure if I should tell you because you've been going through such a hard time.

Can I just say how much I've grown to appreciate my donor? Yes, I had reservations about her in the beginning, but when it comes to my donor's personality, thoughtfulness, and adherence to the parameters of our contract, this girl's been awesome. She knows that medical and fertility updates are important to me, and she's unendingly thoughtful, sweet, and respectful about it. Personality-wise, I couldn't have chosen better.

And I'm actually excited about her pregnancy. To ride a wave of delusion for just a moment, I LOVE the possibility of my child having a genetic sibling who'll be the same age. My donor and I both intend for her to meet my child(ren), and it would be so wonderfully cool if she and I had virtual twins. Very Post-Modern Family, no?

I'll concede that if my quest ends in a bust, then her child will be a reminder of mine that never was, but then again, if I never get pregnant, then we probably won't stay in touch, so it won't be an issue. (My avoidance coping mechanism is smarter than your honors student.)

But back to the diet, here are a few tips that have helped me get through being denied the most delicious foods on the planet:

1. For meals, all you can eat are fruits, nuts, legumes, gluten-free grains, vegetables, meats, and eggs. Just accept it.
2. For flavor, because so many spices are made from peppers (a nightshade), you're limited to salt, peppercorns, cumin, turmeric, garlic, ginger, and fresh herbs. Outside of that, squeezing a little lemon or lime onto veggies can be good, and a modified peanut sauce works, too.
3. For dessert, you can alter cake and muffin recipes, but otherwise the best thing I've found is tahini mixed with honey and spread on rice cakes. It's better than it sounds, but I won't refuse your pity.
4. The West Wing is streaming on Netflix, and it's just as compelling today as it was when Jed Barlet was my presidential antidote to Bush 43.

Once more, it's possible that the last of these things has nothing to do with my diet, but you can't prove a negative, so let's assume a correlation.

Speaking of negatives, my pregnancy test will be on April 7, which is also my 41st birthday. That'll be fun.

Psychopathic Naturopathic Medicine

(Three posts in three days, I know. Shit's getting real.)

I've started seeing naturopaths. That's naturopaths plural. Meaning three of them.

My main naturopath says that the reason I can't carry a pregnancy is threefold: lack of circulation, elevated toxicity, and increased inflammation. To ameliorate those things, I am two weeks into abiding by the following protocol.

1. Acupuncture. For full-body circulation and not just infertility. (Once a week.)
2. Homeopathic Unda Numbered Compounds. If you're thinking "what the fuck," then we're on the same page. I'm not sure, but they seem to be magic medicine that's taken in a magical way. All I know for sure is that they taste like booze, which is the only good thing about them. That, and I like saying "unda." (Fifteen drops three time day, an hour away from food.)
3. Pregnancy Prep Enzyme Pills. I actually used to take these a few years ago because the cross-eyed chick with the tattoos at my health food store recommended them. They didn't work. (Two pills twice a day away from food.)
4. Curcumin Pills. I know what you're thinking. "Cumin," right? Well, you're wrong because they're made of turmeric. I'm taking them because turmeric apparently decreases inflammation. Doesn't seem to be working for folks in the Middle East, but what do I know? (Two pills twice a day away from food.)
5. Abdominal Castor Oil Heat Packs. I used to do this, actually. Not on myself, because it's disgusting, but back when I was a massage therapist, I would use them on clients. You put a gross amount of castor oil on your stomach, place a disposable cloth on top, and apply a heat pack wrapped in plastic on the belly. It draws out icky stuff and makes nice poops. (Daily for 20 minutes.)
6. Mayan Abdominal Massage. This is exactly what it sounds like: a Mayan Shaman created a massage that makes people pregnant. If you stopped reading after "Shaman," then you'll never know how badly I want to be your best friend. (Once or twice a month by the therapist. Daily on myself for 10 minutes.)
7. The Anti-Inflammatory Diet. This means:
   No gluten
   No soy
   No dairy
   No nightshades
   No sugar or sweeteners
   No caffeine
   No alcohol
   (Forever, or until I kill myself.)

Of these seven dos and don'ts, it's the diet that's most impacting because it means I can't eat out, and this is a HUGE problem because restaurants are my hobby, my sport, and my most favorite thing that N and I do together. And if you're about to say that I can find a way around it, then you haven't thought it through.

Think I can get away with Mexican food if I order rice, beans, and corn chips with guacamole? Not if the rice is cooked with tomato, the beans have chili powder, and the guac has sour cream. Perhaps some sushi? Sure, as long as I stick to sashimi and plain white rice, since I can't have soy sauce, miso soup, or sushi rice (which is seasoned with sugar). Or maybe some breakfast? It's easy to modify a cheese omelet with a side of potatoes, toast, and coffee with cream, because all I have to do is order plain eggs. Problem solved.

Truth be told, at 2 weeks in, I'm starting to get used to it. Or, at least I've stopped crying about it (yes, literally). And I do feel better after I eat, so I suppose something's working. I am not happy about it, though.

But I mentioned that I'm seeing three naturopaths, so here's the scoop on that: the first doctor is the one overseeing my whole treatment, giving me my herbal meds, and doing my acupuncture. The second naturopath is the one doing the Mayan abdominal massage. And the third naturopath warrants some storytelling.

The third naturopath likes every bit of this protocol, but she feels it's not quite as insane as it could be, so I need to add three more things:

1. Pregnancy Tea. Your basic raspberry leaf concoction. (Two or more cups a day.)
2. Utrophin PMG. The main ingredient in these pills is bovine uterus, which means that they're pills made from a bovine's uterus, which means that I'm taking bovine uterus pills that are made from a bovine's uterus. (Two pills twice a day with food even though the thought of consuming bovine uterus makes me want to vomit.)
3. Pelvic Floor Massage. How is a pelvic floor massage different from Mayan Abdominal Massage? Well, only one involves getting massaged inside my vagina. (Once a month.)

Allow me to elaborate on this last point, if you will. While others before me have paid good money to have their pussies rubbed, I never imagined that one of those people would be me. However, a friend of mine had it done after 2 years of trying to conceive on her own, and the month after her first treatment, she got pregnant. I don't think this will happen to me, but it also seems worth trying. Besides, it's something to blog about.

So, in conjunction with the adjustments that my doctor recommended, this is the Kitchen Sink Cycle. Although truth be told, it will probably more commonly be referred to as the Final Cycle, because it's official: after this, I'm done. And while I'm scared about what this might mean, it feels good to have made the decision. Infertility has taken up too much of my life and my body, and -- although I will continue to try and manifest a kid or two by other means -- I need to take my body out of the equation. Enough is enough.

In the meantime, I'm going to do everything the naturopaths tell me to do and hope that the pelvic floor massage will get me my happy ending.

Second Helpings

I've switched doctors at my clinic. I loved Dr. M, and I miss him terribly, but he seemed to be out of ideas, and I wanted a fresh set of eyes on my chart.

So, Dr. H and I sat down to discuss a March transfer, which would normally mean that I wouldn't be taking any pills right now, but he actually wants me on daily doses of:

1. Baby Aspirin for increased blood flow,
2. Vitamin D because normal Vitamin D levels are above 50, and mine is 12, and
3. Prenatal Vitamins with DHA for increased folic acid and increased whatever DHA is.

The big change, though, is that there will be a couple of shifts to my medication protocol in February. He's going to add:

1. Estrace, which is estrogen to strengthen my uterine lining, and
2. Viagra, which is either to thicken my lining, increase my blood flow, and/or make me grow a big, hard cock.

There's more going on, too. Just you wait.

A Funny Thing Happened on My Way to Committing Murder

From the start, I had an "unexplained infertility" diagnosis. Or rather an "unexplained infertility, but we think it's an egg issue" diagnosis. As in:

You can't get pregnant on your own, but we think it's an egg issue, so let's introduce the sperm as close to the egg as possible. Four times.

Nope. Inseminations didn't work. What else you got?

Boy, that's strange. But we still think it's an egg issue, so let's do IVF and only use embryos that we know will make babies. Three times.

Hmmm. Wrong again. Is there a Plan D?

Really? It didn't work?? That's shocking, but as a matter of fact, we do have another idea: because we're absolutely certain it's an egg issue, let's use the eggs of some young woman that you don't know, fertilize those, and get you pregnant with embryos that aren't genetically related to you. Two times.

OK. I didn't love it, but I tried it, and still no dice. So, what's next?

Wait, what?? That didn't work?!? I guess that means.... You know, it's kind of a funny thing. Come to think of it, did we say "egg issue?" Because what we really meant is ... well, it's possible that.... It really is funny, if you think about it, but it now appears that you might not have had an egg issue after all. Well, at least not at first, although you certainly do now, because now it's 5 years later, and you're really old. But at this point, -- and when I say funny, what I mean is that you should get ready to laugh because you're totally going to think this is hilarious when I tell you, but -- we now believe it's been a uterine issue the whole time, and you never could carry a pregnancy in the first place.

Yes. Yes, that is funny.

Now, if you wouldn't mind holding my drink while I shoot you...

Bust

About a month ago, I went lingerie shopping and bought myself six new bras. Three are basic black, but two of them are pink, and one has a leopard pattern -- the one I love wearing most of all.

For a while there, I was bummed that getting pregnant would mean that my boobs would engorge, and I wouldn't be able to wear any of them anymore, but judging from the negative home tests I've been getting, this isn't anything I have to worry about.

What a relief.

Nightmare on Elmo Street

I've been having baby dreams. Three in a row. Not good ones.

In the first, I give birth to a baby, but she isn't legally mine, and in order to file for custody, I need her verbal consent, which I can't get because she's a baby.

In the second, I give birth to a baby, but because she isn't really mine, my breasts won't produce milk, but I nurse it anyway by attaching a tube of milk to my nipple.

In the third, I have a baby girl, and it's not until she's 6 months old that I realize I've never said anything nice to her because I don't feel I have to because she isn't really mine.

Um,... so,... yeah.

Getting Testy

I took a home test this morning. It was negative.

Naturally I got pretty bummed out, but then I Google-stalked every woman who's ever peed in the history of sticks, and I accumulated a 6-point plan of rationalization for why I should stay hopeful. It is:

1. Testing 7 days after a 5 day transfer (7dp5dt) is still early
2. I had just peed 5 hours before my test, which didn't allow enough time to let the hCG hormone build up in my urine
3. I drank 12 gallons of water last night, and my pee was way too diluted
4. Turns out, I miscalculated, and I'm actually only 6dp5dt
5. Apparently frozen embryos take longer to implant than fresh embryos, so my positive wouldn't show up until after others'
6. If you think about it, my transfer wasn't until 1:30pm, which means that 7:30 this morning was actually still 5dp5dt, which really is too early, even when you aren't searching through Google's entire caché for flimsy evidence to support your mania

Speaking of mania, I have 3 more sticks to pee on. Stay tuned.

Pro-Choice versus Pro-Life

I discovered a secret to life.

Or rather, I discovered fractions of a secret to life. The first half is that "choice yields unhappiness." The second half is that "choicelessness yields happiness." And the third half is that I'm doing it wrong.

At least these secrets are true according to the dozen or so TED Talks I've been watching lately. They say, for example, that if the only pair of jeans in the world were Levi 501s, then you'd either like jeans or you wouldn't like jeans, but your emotional connection to denim would pretty much end there. As it stands, though, you go into a department store and try on 5 different brands and 12 different styles in 4 different washes and 3 different sizes, and you leave with nothing except feeling short, fat, and out of sync with fashion. Hypothetically.

Translated into donor shopping, this would mean that instead of trying on 18 pairs of jeans, you pore through 5,000 donor profiles, and instead of leaving the store with self-esteem issues, you just pick someone.

That's what I did. She wasn't a perfect fit.

The TED folks would say that this is because I had 5,000 choices, which would naturally lead to 10,000,000 miles of expectation, which in turn would get me galaxies' worth of disappointment. (Measurements are approximate.)

Honestly, though: what are the odds that I would have found her perfect? As anyone who's sat across from me at dinner knows, I'm seriously picky, and that's just with things that go into my mouth. Imagine how much more particular I am about things that go into my vagina?

But the premise of this TED-sourced phenomenon is based on choice, and the truth is that I no longer have a choice of donors. I had a choice 6 months ago, and I made it, so what choice is making me unhappy now?

To help explain what I'm babbling about, I'm going to babble for a moment about something else: grief. Specifically about Elizabeth K übler-Ross's Five Stages of Grief. And most specifically about stage three.

I'm a master at negotiation. And by master, I mean idiot.

First, let me give you examples of how normal infertiles negotiate:
If only I could have a baby, I swear I'd go to church every day, or
If only I could have a baby, I'd work harder on my relationship.

Here's how I do it:
If only I could go back in time, I'd have tried to get pregnant when I was 30, or
If only I could go back in time, I wouldn't have done all those inseminations, or
If only I could go back in time, I wouldn't have "accidentally" had an orgasm 4 days after my second transfer, or
If only I could go back in time, I'd have chosen a different donor.

Yes, there's a part of me that literally believes I will find a time machine and use it to travel into my past so I can make other fertility choices. Let me be clear: the time machine isn't the variable that's up for negotiation. The time machine is a given. The part I'm trying to negotiate is exactly how far back the time machine will let me go.

Now, since selecting a donor was my most recent choice, it's most logical to negotiate for going back 6 months, because the possibility of successfully going back 10 years is obviously absurd.

And how does one pass the time while waiting for this time machine to manifest? One watches a dozen TED Talks about happiness and choicelessness. And in watching a dozen TED Talks about happiness and choicelessness, one inadvertently finds oneself getting grounded, being present, and breathing in the post-transfer, pre-pregnancy-test air.

Along the viewing way, I coincidentally happen to be dabbling with Kübler-Ross's fifth stage of grief: acceptance. I'm finding it a little easier to accept that this donor is going to be my children's genetic parent. Moreover, I'm actually accepting that I'd be lucky if this donor were my children's genetic parent (because the alternative would be an emotional and financial disaster). And mostover, I'm tired of the trying phase. I just want a baby. And this is the likeliest way it's going to happen.

The good news about my potential for happiness is that most of the fertility-related choices are behind me. Case in point: I didn't choose the embryo that was transferred last week. Someone else did. There were 6 frozen embryos, and some random embryologist chose one, thawed it, watched it develop, and then put it in the catheter that was inserted into my uterus.

This is the embryo I didn't choose:

This is the embryo I didn't choose that I nursed through bed rest, the embryo I didn't choose that may have successfully implanted, and the embryo I didn't choose that could have potentially grown by now into the size of a sesame seed.

It's also the embryo I didn't choose whose endurance I'm hoping will be revealed tomorrow morning when I take my first pregnancy test.

[Breathlessness.]

Tennis Anyone?

With a dozen eggs, you can make an entire menu of foods consisting of deviled eggs, a chef's salad, matzo ball soup, fried chicken, a noodle casserole, and cupcakes.

A dozen eggs can also make twelve people. That's more than enough for a football team, a soccer team, a baseball team, or a cricket team.

Two days ago, I had my 5th transfer where a 12th embryo put in my uterus. Yup. Twelve. And so far, I have zero teams: not lacrosse, not rowing, not basketball - not even beach volleyball.

My uterus is where eggs go to ... well, I won't say "die," because that's harsh, but at the very least, it's where they "get composted," and yet I'm still hopeful that one player will emerge at the end of all this.

Very, very, very, very, very, very hopeful.

Fall from Grace

My grandmother was a woman of grace. She bore 11 children in a 2-bedroom home, cared for her husband through a decade of Alzheimer's, and lost her eyesight near the end of her life, and the only time I ever heard her complain was when I mixed the fruit salad with my hand instead of a spoon.



It actually wasn't until I was a teenager that I realized she'd had 11 children. Before that, I only knew my mom to have 9 siblings, but in poring through old pictures with my grandmother, I came across a photo of half a dozen pint-sized aunts and uncles sandwiching a toddler who I didn't recognize, and when I asked her about the mystery child, all she said was, "He was a boy." "What boy?" "A boy that was."

That was it. No yearning. No grief. Not an ounce of longing for the boy that was. Just a graceful nod to what is.

Now it would be romantic of me to imagine that my grandmother was inspired by some Buddhist philosophy of non-attachment on the path toward liberation from suffering, but closer to the truth would be to admit that she was - like most third-world women knocked-up at 15 by men twice their age - repressed. But I don't care. I still admire it. Her style was so elegantly dignified that nearly 20 years after her death, I remain haunted by the ease with which she could raise her chin, inhale a single breath, and turn her head toward whatever direction lay acceptance.

I am not this way. Unlike my grandmother, when I'm confronted by grief, I curl up into a ball of despair and wallow in my want. My donor egg IVF cycle fails, and I sob a small mountain of tissues until it peaks at an elevation that mirrors the depth of my sadness, and then I cry some more for shame that I could want anything so profoundly.

But that's the irony of the thing and the part I'm most ashamed of: I don't even really want a donor egg child; I'm only chasing this ghost because it's the next thing to hope for. So not only do I long, but I long for something that I want and don't want in equal measure. Desperation for a broken paddle in an ocean storm.

Was she stronger than me, my grandmother? Was she smarter? Wiser? Braver? Or was it instead that she gritted her teeth because she knew that her armor would crumble under the weight of a single tear? Whatever her secret, I yearn for that most of all because right now I'm lost in this canyon that divides what can't be with what might, and the vastness between the two is causing my trans-generational fall from grace to echo with an ever-fierce and violent crash.

In the meantime, I ask myself and I wonder, but nothing comes. There are no answers. No truths to be revealed. Just the occasional whoosh of my want as it flails about without composure. And the waiting. Always more waiting. Waiting for peace, waiting for my period, waiting for the bundle of something that could end up being joy.

Or perhaps just waiting for the crash. That might be good for me, too.

Beta Beta

The second beta was 11.32, which means that this pregnancy isn't viable, so I'm stopping meds today.

Good thing, too. I need a drink.