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.

Battle of Wills

Here's a light-hearted query: who raises the kid if we both die?

Well, if we can hold off for a dozen or so years, then our friend JB would be perfect. I trust his values, his parenting skills, and his integrity, so he and his wife are the top pick. No problem.

But that's only if we don't die for a while -- if I get to raise the kid for a good chunk of time, and I leave behind a child who's old enough to have developed a longstanding consciousness about who I am. Under those circumstances, there'd be no problem.

On the other hand, if this death scenario goes down within the next couple years, then I do have a problem:

If we aren't genetically related, and I die shortly after giving birth, who would I be to this kid? If this baby originates from my donor and is parented by my friends, aren't I just the middle man? A carrier? A gestational surrogate? A biological host?

Short answer: yes.

If I die when the kid is a baby, and N isn't around either, then the child and I would have zero relationship. There'd be no fostered bond. There'd be no memories, no lasting love, and no connection that could be sustained. I'd have no more meaning to this kid than the donor would. Probably less.

And during those acne-ridden years of adolescent existentialism, staring back from that mirror would be the kid's father and donor. Not me.

And in going out into the world, there would be a life, a culture, and an environment constructed by new parents with stories and traditions that are entirely unrelated to me. Nothing of my heritage, my native language, or the flavors of my grandparents' foods. Nothing of my character, my personality, or my view of the world. Nothing of me.

In other words, both internally and externally, this kid would be built by Not Me. And by extension, I wouldn't be thought of by this kid as a parent.

Why would I be? Why should I be?

Out of love? Intention? Because it's what I would have wanted? That's not how kids' minds work. For children, those kinds of abstractions don't carry weight without a few years to cultivate a connection, and if I die when the kid is a tiny baby, ... seriously, ... I just won't have earned much value.

A conversational case in point:

The Kid: So, I have a genetic parent.

New Mom: The donor, yes.

The Kid: And you're the only mom I've ever known.

New Mom: I suppose.

The Kid: So why does it matter who carried me?

New Mom: Because she's the one who wanted you, who loved you before she ever knew you, and who did everything she could do finally have you and be your parent.

The Kid: But she doesn't know me. And she isn't my parent. And I wasn't around for any of that. And everyone in the world wants something, so why should I care about the wants of a dead person that I never knew?

New Mom: Good point, Kid. Want to go for ice cream?

The Kid: Sure, Mom.

See what I mean?

Which is why I'm gunning for the least rational custodial choice I can possibly make: if N and I orphan an infant, then I want the kid to go to my family.

Yes, my family of crazy people. Yes, the same family who - under normal circumstances - I wouldn't allow near my kid without a buffer. But given the choice between Real Mom and biological host, it's clear that those crazy people are the only way for me to edge my way into this kid's heart when I'm gone.

I want crazy people to raise my child because that's the only way to ensure that I'll be embedded in that kids life. Granted, there'll be sacrifices such as the absence of intellectualism, practicality, and true compassion. But no worries, because instead there'll be plenty of reactionary behavior, backward thinking, and emotional unsophistication.

But you know, that's how I was raised, and all I needed was a shitload of therapy, which brings me to the second stipulation in my will: besides naming crazy people as parents, I'll also require weekly therapy sessions. That way, the kid will be steeped in me; I'll surely be known no matter when I die, because fucked-up role-modeling and Gestalt therapy is as Me as it gets. Problem solved.

Except for that the problem isn't solved because my husband is never going to go for any of this, so a biological host I'll remain.

Fingers crossed that I don't croak too soon.

~~~

PS: I've disabled the comments section for this post because I'm entirely uninterested in
a lecture comments on this post.

Therapy is Stupid

It's been months, and I still can't say it.

I can say, "I'm," and I can say, "pregnant," but so far I haven't managed to say them in sequence. Instead I default to, "I'm 14 weeks." Or to close friends I say, "I had a transfer at the end of March, and so far things are going well."

Or in the case of telling my parents, I just handed them my most recent ultrasound pictures, and I let them figure it out.

Unfortunately for me, my therapist picked up on my evasion the other day, and within minutes, she was trying to make me parrot her words: "I'm pregnant, and I'm scared."

She tried to make me say it, but she failed, and instead I spent the hour explaining to her why therapy is bullshit. I developed a very sound, four-pronged argument:

1. The more I let myself feel, the harder I'll fall if something goes wrong, so denial is a sounder approach in this situation.
2. If the Buddhist goal is to practice non-attachment, then isn't my way better?
3. Why bother feeling one way or another if it won't change the outcome?
4. I don't want to.

She had rebuttals.

1. If I do end up "falling," then my denial will only make the fall harder. She argued that if something bad happens, then I'll have to process both the pregnancy and the pregnancy loss at the same time, and that would make the pain more profound.
2. Non-attachment doesn't mean not feeling. Non-attachment means accepting the situation for what it is - including my feelings.
3. It's true that feeling one way or another won't change the outcome, but it will inhibit the experience of a positive outcome. I can only feel as much joy as I can grief, so if I want to open my heart to happiness (and love and bonding), then I also have to open my heart to fear.
4. Of course I don't want to. That's because I'm pregnant and I'm scared.

Ugh. Stupid therapy.

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.

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.

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.

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.

O, Me of Little Faith

My parents got married in 1970 and divorced in 1980.
Then they got remarried in 1990 and divorced again in 2008.
And then last year, they got re-remarried.

This time it's different, though. This time they're also married to God.

They seem quite happy in their religious re-reunion. They hold hands, and they sprinkle each other's days with compliments and kisses. They talk about the bible, talk about religion, and talk about how sad it is that they'd never talked before about the bible and religion. It's all very sweet.

Revolution #3 on the marriage-go-round could be the one that sticks, but I'm not entirely convinced because my parents have 45 years worth of untherapized shit between them, and I happen to believe more in counseling than in God by a factor of infinity.

Unlike my parents, I am an atheist. To clarify: that's totally, utterly, and completely unlike my parents. In fact, if you were to imagine a continuum of faith that ranges from 1 to 10 (with 1 being a monkey and 10 being Kirk Cameron), then I am a zero, and my parents are Orthodox Jews.

It's safe for me to say that you have no idea how consuming religion can be until you’ve spent a week with Orthodox Jews - very safe for me to say, because you honestly have no idea.

But I'm an atheist, not an asshole, so I've done my best to accept the changes. I deal with their not being able to eat with me at restaurants, I arrange plans around their combined 6 hours a day of prayer, and I ignore the fact that they've started dressing like extras in Fiddler on the Roof. If they're happy, then I'm happy for them.

Happy, that is, until my mother came home from a bris and handed me wine blessed by the rabbi because she believed that my drinking it would get me pregnant. Then I wanted to punch her in her bible.

I drank the wine, but only because the experience made me really need to drink some wine. It didn't get me pregnant, but it did give me some clarity about a boundary that I wanted to set around my parents' faith: when it comes to rituals, there's a line they can't cross, and that line is at my vagina.

Sacred or not, I needed my parents to understand that wine wouldn't make me pregnant. Maybe if I were 16 and had a butterfly tramp stamp pressed against the flatbed of a pick-up truck while the idiot on top of me refused a condom because I could just douche with Mountain Dew, then the wine might serve as a pregnancy aid, but it still wouldn't be the wine that got me pregnant: it would be the egg, the sperm, and the uterus.

One good egg, one good sperm, and one good uterus is what it takes to get pregnant. Nothing else. Nothing.

Not prayer, not optimism, and not crossed-fingers; not astrologers, not psychics, and not hypnotists; not gluten-free diets, not vitamins, and not kale; and definitely not vacations.

One good egg. One good sperm. And one good uterus. That's it.

And as luck would have it, I've got six good eggs and six good sperm in the form of six good embryos on ice. At least the embryos looked good before they were frozen, so odds are high that they're still good now.

As far as the uterus goes, that's currently in development. Injectibles started last Monday, my period is on its way, and we've got 4+ weeks of blood draws and ultrasounds before my transfer on October 18th.

But a good uterus is not a sure thing. Goodness means over 7mm of lining, a trilaminar pattern, and hormone levels high enough to make me cry when the pickle jar won't pry loose. Those are quite a lot of variables, and the truth is that I'm a bit nervous because I've struggled with one or another of these issues during most of my previous cycles.

Statistical odds are on my side, though, and I'm hopeful that donor cycle two will yield me baby number one. So, wish me luck, dear friends. And, ... um, ... if you're so inclined, then maybe say a prayer for me, too.