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.

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.

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...

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.]

My Biological Clock Has One Hand Clapping. Sometimes.

So, I got caught in an undertow of grief the other day. I could try to defend myself by saying that I freaked out because my estrogen level is 2500 instead of the normal 150, but I'd rather just accept the fact that I freaked out because I freaked out.

Today is a good day, though, due mostly to my trying to keep in mind the following four things:

One. All donors are going to present themselves in a "buy me" kind of light, and this is something I should have anticipated. Instead I took my donor's profile at its word and developed expectations about her that later turned out to be untrue, and I realize now that this is one reason why intended parents (my husband included) don't want to meet their donors. But it's always been important to me that my future children have the choice of knowing their genetic parent, and despite the fact that I don't love my donor, I still think that meeting her was the brave and right thing to do. I have no regrets on that count.

Two. All breeding is a crapshoot, and there's no reason for me to think that my eggs would have produced better children than my donor's eggs will. So what if my donor is heavier than she said she was, that she's more photogenic than she is beautiful, and that she isn't brilliant. Women are born with 1 million eggs. Men produce over 400 billion sperm over their lifetimes. This means that N and my donor can breed a possible 400,000,000,000,000,000 different types of people. Right now thirteen of these four hundred quadrillion exist in the form of zygotes that are developing at my clinic's embryology lab. All I can do is hope that they're relatively good ones.

Three. Nurture over nature is a mantra that floats around on PVED quite a lot. That and epigenetics, which is the study that looks at the extent to which people's brain, body, and character are formed by elements other than genetic code. The other day, I posted my emotional crisis on PVED, and a dozen lovely PVEDers rallied around me saying things like, "My child is exactly like me in ways that I can't begin to explain. Don't worry too much about the donor. Your child will be yours." OK, PVED. I believe you. And I love you.

Four. When I first got into this infertility thing, I adopted a mantra:

My biological clock has one hand clapping.

This philosophy was meant to serve as an inspiration and reminder that this is first and foremost a process of self-reflection. Moreover, my success at the end of this experience wouldn't be a child but rather an awareness of who I am in the context of this challenge. This meant releasing expectations, accepting outcomes, and embracing my world as it was.

Over the past 5 years, I've failed to live up to my mantra more than I've succeeded. I still have hopes and expectations, and I don't always do the amount of reflective work that I should. My biological clock just isn't as Zen as I wish it was.

But in the wake of being bowled over by grief at the start of the week, I've tried my best to re-remember this philosophy. I've seen my brilliant therapist twice, I've let myself feel vulnerable around my friends and e-quaintances (yes, you!), and I've had such rich and sweet conversations with N that I've managed to fall in love with him all over again - yet again.

So, yes, I had a freak-out a few days ago because despite my best efforts, sometimes my biological clock goes cuckoo. But sometimes my biological clock actually does have one hand clapping, and today is a good day.

The Fert Report

Here are the results from the June 7th retrieval:

20 eggs were retrieved
15 were mature
13 fertilized

By Tuesday, June 12 - the morning of my transfer - the number should go down a little, but there'll probably still be at least 8 or so, which is considered very good.

Who needs more than 8 children anyhow?

Buyer's Remorse: Egg Edition

I met my donor for lunch yesterday. The following are excerpts from our conversation.

My Donor: "I'm really good at a lot of things. Like flower arranging. I'm great at succulents. Look at these pictures.
Me: "They're beautiful."
My Head: "I hope she doesn't google search my house and see how bad my yard looks."

My Donor: "I'm also great at make-up. I want to do make-up for the movies. Like for Johnny Depp."
Me: "It's wonderful that you know what you want to do."
My Head: "But your eyebrows are drawn about an inch too thick, and they're kind of scaring me."

My Donor: "And I'm a great writer."
Me: "..."
My Head: "Your emails and texts suggest otherwise."

My Donor: "So, what else should I tell you? Oh, yeah! I have a son! He's 10."
Me: "That's right. I remember that from your profile."
My Donor: "He lives with my mom. I was too young and crazy when he was born."
Me: "Do you have a picture?"
My Donor: "Yes, you should see him. He looks exactly like me."
Me: "How cute. He seems very happy."
My Head: "Oh, god, he's fat. My kids are going to be fat."

My Donor: "I was a really funny-looking kid. I had a big head. And then I grew up, and I got skinny and pretty."
Me: "..."
My Head: "You're not that skinny. Or that pretty."

My Donor: "I'm really glad you're pretty. I was hoping the recipient was going to be pretty. I don't know why. I just was."
Me: "..."
My Head: "How I look doesn't matter at all because my genes die with me. Yours, on the other hand, will live on in this arrangement. Lucky me."

My Donor: "From my last cycle, the lady's having twins. I love the idea that there are all these kids from me all over the country because I know I'm a really great person."
Me: "..."
My Head: "Holy shit. I'm breeding a narcissist."

My Donor: "I might get a glass of wine when our food comes. I know they said not to, but I don't think it matters. I drank wine throughout my whole cycle last time, and they still got, like, 26 eggs."
Me: "..."
My Head: "What?
"Also, WHAT?
"Also, they may have retrieved 25 eggs (not 26), but only 18 fertilized, and only 5 made it to transfer. That's the number that really matters. Five.
"Also, who knows how alcohol affects the eggs with all this medication?
"Also, how much have you had to drink during this cycle?
"Also, if you're drinking, what else are you doing that you aren't supposed to?
"Also, do you know this is costing me $40,000 that I don't really have?
"Also, WHAT THE FUCK?!"

~~~

On the bright side, I finally have a distraction from the panic that embryos won't implant because my uterine lining is only 6.3 mm thick when it should be over 7. I'm not even sure if I want them to implant.

I should have chosen another donor.
I should have tried IVF sooner rather than wasting all that time with inseminations.
I should have tried to get pregnant when I was younger.
I should have planned my life better.

Why did I do this donor egg thing again? Maybe being childless wouldn't have been that bad. Better than having overweight, not-too-bright, narcissistic children. Better than raising kids that aren't my own.

And all the while, egg retrieval day is tomorrow.
Ugh.

Plagiarizing Frankenstein

I could have written Frankenstein.

If we're talking about the story of someone who is overwhelmed by grief, who can't accept life's fate, who wants so desperately to defy the limitations of our bodies that the only escape is to create a human composite made of other people's body parts, then yes, I could have written Frankenstein.



Like the eponymous Victor Frankenstein, I'm doing everything I can to bring an unnaturally conceived person into this world: a brand new life spliced together from other people's body parts by combining painstakingly selected pieces in order to create my very own monster.

Two centuries ago, this was a horror story. Some argue it was the original tale of science fiction. Today it's science fact.

There are those who don't like science facts, however, and many of them strongly oppose egg donor in vitro. They see the procedure as a severe encroachment on the laws of nature and an ungodly experimentation on human life.

They're not entirely wrong.

I'm aware that donor egg IVF is some freaky shit. I recently got pretty skeeved out myself after reading an article about how donor egg babies are more strongly linked to pre-eclampsia - a condition that was essentially described as the uterus rejecting a foreign body that it doesn't recognize as its own.

I read "foreign body" as "Frankensteinian monster."

All of which brings to mind the last time I read Frankenstein during a college course on The Gothic Imagination where the professor drove home an essential question:

In the book, the monster is actually a loving, emotional, and vulnerable being, whereas Victor himself is an arrogant man who ignores the grotesqueness of his scientific interventions because he's too much of a self-absorbed coward to accept the limitations of the human body's vulnerabilities. If this is the case, then who is the real monster? The creature or Victor?

Or, since we're plagiarizing: my baby or me?

But before we demonize me or Vic too quickly, it bears keeping in mind that most medical procedures were once thought creepy and weird. The first organ transplants were over 100 years ago, and I don't imagine those went over too well. Isn't it possible that donor egg in vitro won't always be met with the same cocked heads and scrunched faces that I get today?

Either way, I'm doing it. My donor's egg retrieval is in 3½ weeks, and my embryo transfer is in four. In 5½ weeks, I'll have my first pregnancy test, and at that point we'll know if there's a little monster in the works.

Copyright laws be damned.

Two Weeks' Silent Apostrophe

Watching shitty romantic comedies is my most guilty pleasure.

Actually, that's not true. Watching shitty romantic comedies is a guilty pleasure, but my most guilty pleasure is watching shitty romantic comedies over and over and over again.

Anything with Reese Whitherspoon, Meg Ryan, or Julia Roberts are obvious must-see-four-dozen-timeses, but I'll even watch Kate Hudson or Drew Barrymore vehicles at least 8 or 10 times over. Hell, I've seen Jennifer Aniston's Along Came Polly twice, and that movie is terrible.

It's a disgusting vice, I'll admit, but I do have a small shred of dignity that enables me to draw a line somewhere and keeps me from seeing one particular chick-flick a second time. I'm sure you've heard of it: it's the one where Sandra Bullock is a brilliant but uncouth attorney who works for High Grant's amoral yet lovable billionaire, and because he drives her crazy, she gives him her notice of resignation after which they fall madly in love and live happily ever after. (If I've spoiled the ending for you, I'm sorry. Also you're an idiot.)

I'm hoping you know the movie title so that I don't have to write it because I refuse to write it because it contains a grammatical pet peeve of mine that frustrates me more than almost any other: the absence of an apostrophe.

I will, however, write the title of the movie as it should have been, which is Two Weeks' Apostrophe Notice. The apostrophe is silent.

Similar to Two Weeks' Silent Apostrophe Notice, if there were a documentary film about my day yesterday, the title of that movie would be: Two Weeks' Apostrophe Delay. The apostrophe is, again, silent.

Yup, my donor has to delay the cycle for two weeks because she can't get off from work until June. I'm less than thrilled, as you might imagine, but I'm actually quite fine. I'm not crushed or mad at her. I'm not even remotely bothered by it. It really is totally fine.

I let my fellow PVEDers know about the postponement, and they appropriately booed and hissed and grumbled at the news. They really are a sweet and supportive bunch, and I'm super grateful to have them on my side.

But this isn't a tragedy. It's just two weeks' delay. Things could be far worse. I mean, someone else could have blogged about it, and there'd be apostrophes missing all over the place. How infuriating would that be?

Forty Vignettes

I turn 40 next week.

I remember my mother when she was 40. I was 18, so it's not hard to recall. She still turned heads with her beauty and sexy stylishness, but 40 was when she started to seem old to me. Her skin especially. Her hands were softer, almost rubbery. I remember pinching her elbows and counting how long it would take for the skin to bounce back. Sometimes it took a full two seconds.

"Look how old your skin is," I would tell her.
"I know," she'd say. "I'm very old."

My elbow skin takes less than a second to bounce back, which makes me luckier than her, I suppose. On the other hand, my mother was still fertile at 40. I know she was fertile because the summer before I went away to college, my dad told me that she had become pregnant, had an abortion, and had her tubes tied.

She was too old for a baby.

~~~

In 40 days, I begin Delestrogen injections for my donor egg cycle.

In related news, I learned that my donor works at a gardening store, which is why May is the earliest that she can travel for the retrieval. March and April are very busy months for her at the nursery.

There's a critical timeline for sowing seeds, and Spring only lasts so long.

~~~

There are 40 women on the PVED Spring 2012 thread who are cycling with donor eggs around the same time as me.

Out of these 40 women, several have cycled in the past. Some were successful, and some weren't. Many have gone through the whole donor egg process only to end up with a negative pregnancy test. A few women had positives but then miscarried as late as 15 weeks. Two women gave birth around 25 weeks, held their babies for a few days, and then watched them die.

40 women on the thread means 40 stories of infertility. 40 versions of grief and loss. 40 shades of hope that no one hopes for.

We're 40 women cycling through a medical procedure with a 50% success rate, which means that 20 of us will fall on the wrong side of the odds. And as it happens, the first woman in our group transferred two embryos last week, and her pregnancy test came back yesterday. It was negative.

1 down. 39 to go.

~~~

40 is the number of dollars this cycle costs - that is, if you take that number, put a comma after it, and then add three zeros.

I don't know how we managed to throw that kind of money together, and I don't have a back-up plan for what to do if this doesn't work. I just can't think about it.

Someone on PVED recently asked if anyone is afraid that their donor egg cycle won't work.

Um ... yes.

Charades

When I search for a donor, I look for something of myself in her, but I've never understood why. What's the point? Am I trying to fool myself?

I've been asking myself these questions for weeks, thinking that they were rhetorical, and then the other day I realized that they aren't rhetorical. That the answer is Yes. I am trying to fool myself. I am actually searching for a donor who looks enough like me so that my babies might let me forget that we aren't genetically related.

Never mind how this could possibly work. Why would I do this? It's an awful lot of trouble to go through when the tricker and the trickee are the same person. I threw out a bunch of different possibilities, and when I started crying, I knew I'd discovered the reason:

It's not the loss of my genes. It's the death of my heritage.

I'm a first generation American and the product of a lineage whose survival was doubtful. My parents, grandparents, and great-grandparents have stories of hunger, discrimination, persecution, flight, and death. I've heard these tales over and over again, told to me in third world accents during turmeric-spiced dinners - descriptions of where my grandmother laid the beds in their 2 bedroom apartment to accommodate 10 children, and how my aunt's fingers were broken when she was 8 because she tried to learn to write her name.

And the story of my father who had one set of clothes growing up: a pair of pajamas that he both slept and went to school in. When enough time had passed, and they were finally too small and torn in equal parts, my dad was so excited to be getting something new - not because of the updated wardrobe, but because then his mom would take his old pjs, wrap them up in twine, and give it to him so he'd have a ball to play with.

These stories of endurance are the stories of my blood, and my blood won't be passed on to my kids. The loss of all this history is too profound for me to swallow right now, and I'm just not yet ready to bury my grandparents lineage. What this means is that I'm committed to selecting a donor who can help me pretend this isn't happening. I'm going ahead with the charade, and I'm looking for an ally in my self-deception.

After several days of toggling between profiles of brown-skinned, black-haired women, a new donor came up. She's from my family's part of the world, and there's something about her that reminds me of my father's mother, of my mother's sister, and of me. She could work.

If we conspire together, this woman's genetic babies and I could nurse the sham for a little longer. I know that more time, more tears, and more therapy will help me accept that my children won't have my past in them, but I can't think about that right now. I'm too busy creating a future where early on Sunday mornings, when eyes like my grandmother's look back at me, I might be able to snooze for 5 more minutes before waking up.

Losing Las Vegas

Our second donor fell through.

Turns out she's a flake. It took her an eternity to fill out the paperwork, but we let it pass because she apologized profusely and convinced us that she was a changed person. Now she's gone a week without responding to any phone calls, emails, or texts. Sigh.

N says we shouldn't have trusted a woman from Las Vegas who dresses like a stripper. I suppose he has a point, but it doesn't make this any easier. I bonded to her. I mean, she asked to see our photo; I thought that was a sign she was committed. It wasn't.

OK, added to my criteria: someone who looks like she can keep her clothes on.

In the meantime, I'm really, really bummed.

Contract Lenses

Working on the first draft of our legal contract was both fun and thought-provoking. Fun because I'm a geek, and thought-provoking because you have to anticipate every possible future scenario of your kid's life, health, and curiosity and then build an agreement that allows for every single bit of it.

You have to be careful when it comes to the legal stuff. What I learned is that you can always do more than what a contract states, but you can't do less. This means that any requirements on either yourself or the donor should be the minimum that's necessary; for example, does she really need to give you medical updates every 6 months? That's quite a lot to ask, especially when everyone's healthy.

Another feature of the contract is that you can't require meetings. This one kind of bummed me out because if my kid wants to meet his Gen-Mom, then I want my kid to meet his Gen-Mom. The most you can ask is that she "consider" meeting with you. Kind of annoying, but what can you do?

Anyhow, a lot of thought went into writing the Future Contact portion of the agreement, and here's what we're proposing:

• An exchange of full names and contact information
• She agrees to consider meeting with us before her egg retrieval
• She agrees to consider meeting with the kid and at least one parent at a time deemed appropriate by the parents (not necessarily when the child reaches 18)
• She provides us with medical updates every 30 months, with serious health issues communicated within 3 months; this applies to her, her parents, her siblings, and her kids
• We give her the same courtesy with regard to the kid (in anticipation that the information would be relevant for her children)
• No direct communication with the kid; all correspondence goes through a parent

I should be clear that, like all attorneys, ours had a standard first draft that we just built on. Aside from all the future contact stuff, several other small changes were made, but there's only one worth mentioning:

One of the standard stipulations in these contracts is that the parents have sole decision-making powers when determining the outcome of any leftover embryos after the parents have completed building their family. The main choices are:

• Disposal
• Donation to science
• Donation to another woman or couple for transfer

It's this last option that bugged me. Being that I'm fairly opposed to anonymous donations, there's no way I would give the donor's genes to someone else without having her be involved in the decision, so I revised the contract to say that I would notify her before doing so. That way, if she's opposed to it or doesn't want to be involved in the selection of the recipient, we would choose another option. But to tell you the truth, it's all pretty moot, since we'll probably just end up donating to science anyhow.

The most ridiculous part of this entire thing is that none of it is unenforceable. I mean, if she doesn't email me with a 30-month health update, what can I do? Sue her for emotional damages? Truth is that after the part of the agreement where I pay her, it's all just a farce.

It took me a little while to realize this, and so I'm hoping our donor doesn't catch on either. I won't tell if you won't.

Vegas Baby! Vegas!!

We've chosen a new donor, and she's so great. I love her.

Yes, it's probably early to use the L word, but she's my future children's genetic parent, so I can't help myself.

She's from Las Vegas and has Mexican heritage with strong features that give her a sort of Middle Eastern look similar to mine. She's worked her way through junior college, is bright, and is very driven in her career.

Most importantly, she's available and interested in being an open donor. She's even asked to see a photo of us, which was deeply validating to me. I feel like we're on the same page with what we're looking for and that she's as into this as we are.

In terms of her personality, I have to admit, I'm not 100% confident that she'll make the absolute best role model for my kids. She has a massive boob job and dresses a little like a stripper, but you don't inherit silicone or spandex, and her genes look good to me. Plus my kids will probably only meet her once in their lives, so I'm not worried.

I'm trying hard not to bond to her too much, because I know these things have a tendency to fall through at any step of the process, but I'm still excited.

Vegas Baby! Vegas!!

Donor Down

Our donor fell through.

A woman who I've been thinking about for weeks and whom I've been affectionately calling #4889 has left us.

The clinic gave us two reasons. The first was that they discovered that she has a medical issue that is exacerbated by hormones, so she can't cycle (although they allowed her to finish her first). The other reason is that the staff doesn't want to work with her again because she's a bitch. Both seem reasonable.

Oddly, I miss her quite a lot. It's amazing how much of a bond is formed with a woman whom I was never going to meet. I'd been thinking so affectionately of her because she was going to be the gen-mom of my kids, and this made me love her in some way. Not quite as a friend, and not quite as family. It was something else.

When I got the news, I called N whose response was, "Good. Now we can choose a donor who's willing to have an open relationship."

I love him.

"I'm Talkin' about Ethics"

One of my favorite lines in the Coen brothers' Miller's Crossing is when Jon Polito tells Albert Finney:

"I'm talkin' about friendship. I'm talkin' about character. I'm talkin' about - Hell, Leo, I ain't embarrassed to use the word - I'm talkin' about ethics."

Now this conversation digresses into a shady defense of betting and thrown fights, but it's still a great line, and it's been running through my head lately because ethics have been running through my head.

In particular, the ethics of the culture of egg donation.

Until recently, one of my main arguments against why I didn't want to use an egg donor (aside from the fact that I just didn't want to) was that I found it not that different from adoption, and I struggled with how the culture of egg donation dismissed one of the key lessons from the adoption world - one that changed it from sordid to inspiring.

I think it's useful to look at the history of adoption to get what I mean: way back when, the process began by smuggling loose girls into homes for 9 months until barren wives removed the pooping evidence of shame and falsely claimed the babies as their own, never telling the children about their origin. The result was that girls were forever disgraced, women lived in fear of being outed, and children were deceived throughout their lives.

Since then, the adoption community has worked hard to bring dignity to all parties' experiences. What that means in terms of child-rearing is that 99% of all adopted children are told they're adopted before age 5. Also 2/3 of all adoptions are open or semi-open, so that birthparents are known to the family, and children can potentially meet them. Kids are raised without deception, and if they turn out to be Emo navel gazers, they can go to the source to get their questions answered about their genetics and heritage. No lies. No secrets. Just ethics.

The egg donor world doesn't do that. About 80% of egg donors are anonymous (from what I've seen), and less than 25% of parents tell their kids that they're the product of egg donation (according to my clinic's therapist). And all I can think of when I see this is, What?

I know that it's a personal choice, but shit, dude, seems like kind of a bad choice to me. I mean, haven't we learned anything from the adoption world? The doctors seem to perpetuate anonymity (easier for them?), which then makes the the donors want to remain anonymous (denial about the gravity of what they're doing?), and couples are left with little choice but to build their families on secrecy.

So how is this affecting me? In my clinic's pool, there are 60 donors in the pool, and my criteria narrow it from there. In the end, I'm left with 1 donor. One. There's one donor that I like at my clinic, and she wants to remain completely anonymous.

Now what do I tell my kid when he says, "I'm talkin' about friendship. I'm talkin' about character. I'm talkin' about - Hell, Mom, I ain't embarrassed to use the word - I'm talkin' about ethics?"

When Egg Substitute Is on the Shopping List

Selecting an egg donor is kind of a big deal. There are several categories of qualities to choose from, and before you even start looking, you pretty much have to accept that you can't have all of them, which - if you're a Type A personality who's delayed having a family until everything in your life is absolutely perfect, which you don't realize until you're completely infertile is never going to happen - is a hard thing to face.

There are a lot of qualities to choose from when hand-picking genes for your child, and if you have the impression that this process is a bizarre blend of Online Dating and science-fiction, then you understand the situation completely.

It's an extremely personal decision, and priorities will vary for everyone. After hours and days of profile searching, I determined what qualities I wanted. In order of importance, they are,

1. Looks
2. Health
3. Fertility
4. Intelligence
5. Personality

Looks tops my list. Some people refuse to look at any donor pictures, but I want someone who resembles me as much as possible, and photos are my first filter before putting her on a short list. Yes, there's height and skin tone, but to be honest, I'm looking for someone who I think is pretty. I know this is vain and superficial to a clinical degree, and I should probably feel embarrassed about it, but what can I say? Everyone has their priority, and this one's mine.

Health ties for first, or at least it runs a very close second. The available information ranges from serious birth defects to whether the donor ever had braces, and you get histories on the donor, her siblings (whole and half), her parents, and her grandparents. I have to admit that this area feels tricky since the information is volunteered and could easily be falsified, but what choice do I have? I'm being as picky as I can here and ruling out any genetic ailments, but lifestyle diseases (like adult onset diabetes) can slide.

Fertility comes in a very close third. There are only 3 ways to anticipate egg quality: the donor's age (the younger the better), previous pregnancies, and prior cycles. Proven donors charge about $2-3000 more than first-time donors, and I'm not prepared to add this to the cost just yet, which is what makes it come in third. Given that, I'm not considering anyone over 26 (the general cut-off is 30 or 32), and I'm looking for women who've had either children and abortions, but no miscarriages. The donor's resting follicle count is a 4th determinant of fertility, but you don't always get that information until after you've chosen her.

Intelligence runs a distant fourth for me. Lots of people prioritize intelligence, and I understand why. The brain is a physical organ that's inherited, so intelligence is obviously genetic. In fact, donors with medical degrees and Pulitzer-Prize-winning uncles go for about $25,000, so it's got to account for something. I, on the other hand, am just looking for a 3.0 GPA and the ability to communicate sensible thoughts. It's a low bar, but you can't prioritize everything, so I'm going to trust that N's brilliance will instill what it can into that baby, and we'll settle for nurture when it comes to the rest.

Personality-related information is, in my opinion, the most banal set of questions on these profiles. It includes things like favorite color, favorite book, and favorite movie, the last of which is invariably either Eat, Pray, Love or The Notebook (yes, they're that young). I'd never choose someone because we both like beach vacations, but I have eliminated tons of donors because their answers reveal that they're idiots, so I suppose that's useful.

Well, that's my list of priorities and the logic behind it. It makes perfect sense to me, but I also really understand why another person's list would look completely different.

OK. Now to find a match.

Online Dating: Egg Edition

By the time online dating came along, I was already several years into my relationship with N, so I was ever able to experience it. Until now.

My clinic's website has a convenient feature where I can easily search for the qualities and characteristics I'm looking for, and it couldn't be easier!

Eye color, hair color, race, education level: with a few easy clicks, the pool of available candidates is distilled to my taste. And once I've found a someone that I'd like to make babies with, I simply add her to my "Favorites" list.

Yes, it's that easy! And that creepy!

Let the match-making begin!!