Table
of Contents
Chapter
8: Telling Kids Their Stories Chapter
1: Starting the Journey Katherine came into my office and dropped heavily into the wide wicker
chair beside my desk. She was glowing. After nine years of
trying to become pregnant, she was due to deliver a healthy baby girl
in two weeks, conceived with her husband's sperm and a donated ovum.
“I can see that you're enjoying every moment,” I told
her. “It's what you deserve. You've both been through
so much and have finally emerged victorious.” “Sometimes I do feel like the heroine of my own adventure story,”
she answered. “I had to fight for my baby, and there were
terrible obstacles at every step.” “But it was all worth it?” I asked, although I knew the
answer. “You'd encourage other women to take the plunge?” “Sure,” she said, “but I'd warn them that they'd
be crossing the borders of the known world into a strange land, and they'd
have to be ready to do battle.” “What else would you tell them?” Katherine paused. “I'd tell them that disasters and setbacks
are a normal part of the experience,” she said, “that there
may be egg donors who drop out, needles to face, doctors with bad attitudes,
and your own body saying 'no,' but you have to stand up and be fierce.
You will have to go to the darkest abyss in search of your child, and
you need to be mighty, to arm yourself with courage. And, God willing,
you will get that child and return to the normal world, stronger than
before. Maybe that child will be, in part,
from
another woman's ovum, or be carried by someone else, but it is yours.
You fought for that child's life. You brought it into the world.”
Katherine hit the nail on the head. Assisted reproduction is
not for the meek. That doesn't mean that to be successful one must
consider the experience akin to a battle ground; not everyone does.
But most would agree there are many unknowns when you enter the world
of assisted reproductive technologies to help conceive a child.
Some of us feel less like confident warriors and more like exhausted swimmers
being carried along a tide of procedures and we're not always sure whether
the tide, in the end, will carry us to a happy and safe shore or just
further out to sea.
“I have a biological urge to procreate,” she writes
on the bulletin board in the chat room of her online infertility support
group. “I yearn for the mystical experience of feeling a flutter
beneath my ribs, hearing the sound of my baby's heartbeat, and one day
seeing the face of my child. The thought of not having children
leaves me feeling cold and empty, without hope. What is the point
of life if not to share it with children?” Celeste expresses the deep, instinctual, universal desire to be a
parent. When infertility enters the picture, this unfulfilled longing
can become excruciating. In fact, the inability to conceive presents
such tremendous challenges that mental health professionals consider it
a major life crisis, as traumatic as dealing with the death of a loved
one or a life-threatening illness. The emotional highs and lows
are like a roller coaster—except there's nothing fun about them.
In the early stages of the quest for a baby, there may be lots of options;
then time passes, and with each failure, hope diminishes. Grief
and pain intensify, and the desire to have the parenting experience can
become an overwhelming, all-consuming one. Celeste continues. “I've found myself in dark moments wondering
if God isn't really trying to tell me something. Maybe I'm not meant
to be a mother. Maybe I would damage a child. Maybe I don't
deserve a baby. Maybe I'm being punished for some unknown sin.
Maybe I don't WANT a baby hard enough. Maybe I'm asking for too
much. GOD, PLEASE, WHY CAN'T I JUST HAVE A HEALTHY BABY OF MY OWN?” “What is wrong with me? What did I do to deserve this?
Whatever it is, I'll fix it, I promise. I'll smile as I throw up,
I won't complain through labor, and I'll NEVER, EVER criticize my darlings,
and ... No, that is a bunch of hooey. I'm human. I'm
not perfect. But no one else on the planet is, either. And
a whole bunch of them have babies, and I don't. And that SUCKS.” “I know that infertility has been around forever.
The Bible records a lot of women who suffered through it. History
mentions a ton, too. I am NOT special because I am STERILE.
So, why do I still experience those moments in time when I would bargain
my soul for a BABY? Why do I still wonder if I DESERVE a child?” For Celeste and others struggling with infertility, getting a handle
on this kind of thinking —“Because
I am sterile, I must not deserve a baby of my own.”—
can be difficult. Infertility challenges a woman's identity, self-image, and sense
of self-worth. Many women go through childhood and adolescence with
happy images of adult years filled with the laughter of children and the
joy of being a mother. This is very often true, as well, for those
women who choose to pursue a demanding profession or career. They
frequently think in terms of when to start a family, not if they should
have children. The role of loving mother is every bit as important
for them as is the role of competent professional in shaping the self-image
that is a constant in their lives and that contributes to their emotional
stability and security. And the emotional challenge that comes with
a woman's realization that she is infertile is often compounded by the
typically painful, invasive infertility procedures and treatments, some
of which will alter her hormonal balance, leaving her depressed and emotionally
labile.
I have read so many birth stories that have brought tears to my
eyes and have always anticipated writing my own. I had no idea that
it would not be the happy occasion I had envisioned — taking a few
moments to write as my babies napped quietly by my side. Instead,
as I write this, they are in the hospital intensive care unit, fighting
for their lives. The story: The hospital was 30 minutes away. We sped off into the night
and made the drive in 20 minutes. When we arrived, we learned that
our doctor was just finishing a c-section. No wonder we hadn't heard
from him. So the nurse checked me in, and I was immediately hooked
up to a monitor and could see that the babies' heart rates were okay.
Next, the resident doctor arrived and examined me. He said I was
going to deliver soon. I asked about delaying the delivery and giving
me steroids to help the babies' lungs develop, but was told that I had
dilated too far to stop labor and there wouldn't be time for steroids
to take effect. They wheeled me down to delivery, where our doctor was scrubbing
up to start my surgery, with two teams of professionals standing by to
receive the babies. After a brief greeting, the doctor checked the
fetal monitor, then got right to work, deciding to take the smaller, breech
twin first. He was 2lbs 7 oz. I never heard him cry.
They intubated him immediately to get his lungs working. Twin B
came out a minute later. He was 3lbs 1oz. I watched as they
intubated him and put in an umbilical line. The room was without
a sound to be heard, just the bustle of professionals working quietly
together. Before the babies were whisked to the neonatal intensive
care unit, we had a chance to view them together in their mobile bassinet,
among a tangle of IV lines. Later we were allowed into the NICU, after the babies were cleaned
up and stabilized. They were larger than I'd anticipated.
They were not fat and full like most newborns, but all their parts were
there, even some hair. Baby A was having circulation problems; his
feet were deep purple. Baby B was bigger, but his coloring was quite
red. Whenever I put my finger into their small hands, they would
grab at it. Pretty strong for such little guys. When I started
to stroke and sing to each of them, the nurse told me kindly that this
would overstimulate them. So I had to stop. We were allowed
to cup head and feet together, containing each of them like they had been
in the womb. These little boys were kicking and thrashing, which I thought
was a good sign. But then I was informed that this was agitation,
and they could pull out their respirator tubes and disrupt their lines,
so their sedation was upped. They've been on heavy sedation ever
since. For the first few days, they had lines running through their
umbilical vessels that contained monitors and also gave them nutrients.
These were removed a few days ago. Now they have lines in their
arms. We've been told that they will probably remain in the NICU until
their original due date. As for their condition, while it's not
fatal, there have been many complications — lungs, heart, blood
pressure, brain bleeds, temperature instability. There are many
good stories about 28 weekers; I don't know if ours will be one of them.
“The reason I would like to do this,”
writes this 23-year-old graduate student, “is because I feel that
I have a gift that some do not, of being able to have children.
I want to help someone fulfill her dreams. I'm not in a serious
relationship and I don't know whether I'll have children. In the
meantime, by becoming a donor I can know that some of my special qualities
will be passed on, enjoyed and appreciated.” “My parents adopted me because they couldn't have children
any other way. My mom's and my relationship is what made me think
about becoming a donor. I am so much a part of her life, and she
is so much a part of mine. I'm married now with two wonderful children
of my own. Whenever I watch them climb all over Gram's lap, clamoring
for yet another story, I remember what it felt like to nestle in her arms
when I was little, feeling so safe. By being a donor, I feel I'm
giving out some of my mother's and my good fortune to others. Maybe
my recipient will even be someone a little like my mom.” “I was a pediatric resident and was
deeply affected by one of my admissions. Actually, it was a re-admission:
a little girl returning with leukemia. She was unlikely to survive
this hospitalization. Her parents were so exhausted, but they were
holding up well considering what lay ahead. I thought about my family,
a pretty healthy bunch. What a contrast. I knew from my patient's
family history that the dad had recently undergone radiation treatments
for prostate cancer, rendering him sterile. It was likely this daughter
would remain their one and only child. Learning that, I thought,
wouldn't it be nice to be a donor for him, or someone like him, one day,
when all the pain and sorrow of his daughter's death might have lessened
enough to let him think he could be a parent once again? Right then,
helping them handle their latest crisis, was all I could focus on.
But that was when the idea of becoming a donor became a part of me.
I am married now, a father of three and, with my family's blessing, have
donated twice for cancer survivors.”
How great is a woman's emotional attachment to her uterus? As the
recent experience of my colleague, Sarah, illustrates, it can be as poignant
and powerful as life itself. At 35 years old, never married and childless, Sarah was diagnosed
with an invasive adenocarcinoma (cancerous lesion) of the cervix.
Her gyn-oncologist advised her that she'd need a radical hysterectomy.
But the findings on her diagnostic biopsy indicated that the lesion, though
extensive on the surface, had not progressed deeply into the cervical
wall, and Sarah wondered if it might be possible to save her uterus, through
a new procedure called a radical trachelectomy (removal of most of the
cervix, adjacent tissue and pelvic lymph nodes, but leaving behind the
uterus, tubes and ovaries). The problem was that her surgeon in New York had performed only 22
of these procedures and seemed to dismiss the urgency of her questions
that centered on saving her uterus. Her parents, too, were concerned
with her focus on saving her uterus when her life was at stake.
In exploring her feelings with me, Sarah was frank. “I honestly
don't believe losing my life is the biggest issue for me right now. I
feel I can beat this cancer. What is hardest for me is the feeling
of castration I have about losing my uterus.” Sarah felt deeply connected to the
dream that one day she would bring new life into her world with a beloved
partner. “This dream gives me something to live for,” she said. We discussed how important it was that Sarah be her own best advocate—and
how the choices she made in her own best interests for her body and spirit
were as important to her eventual recovery as anything surgical that could
be done for her. Sarah consulted a reproductive specialist who reviewed with her how
her eggs and/or ovaries could be saved, in case she needed radiotherapy
following her operation. Then she and I carefully envisioned each
possible future scenario. I explained that if it turned out that
she would have to lose her uterus, there are wonderful women in this world
who serve as gestational carriers, one of whom we would surely find to
carry her baby for her, one day. After considering all her options, Sarah made the brave decision
to travel to Canada where Dr. Marie Plante and her associate had already
performed over 85 radical trachelectomies, continuing the pioneering surgery
originally developed by the French surgeon, Dr Daniel Dargent.*
We're waiting to see if there will be need for further treatment, but
Sarah's preliminary results look hopeful. It is just as devastating for some women to lose the intimate connection
to pregnancy as it is for others to lose the intimate connection to genetic
lineage —no single aspect of having children is more important than
another. And all women needing reproductive assistance, who share
a partnership with another to attain motherhood, act with great faith
and courage. They journey further than any spontaneous parent could imagine
and, as a consequence, become some of the finest parents a child could
ever hope to have.
“Well, I am shocked to realize I still can't relate to the
experience of anyone who gets pregnant with tender lovemaking, or —worse
— one friend who is expecting her ´oops!' fourth baby. I feel
angry when anyone tries to compare our realities. The bottom line
is: I´m furious at how unfair our struggle has been compared to that of
other couples. “I used to ride my bicycle everywhere. I rode it to work.
It made me feel young and competent. But now my obstetrician doesn't think
it's worth the risk for me to ride while I'm pregnant. And I agree. But
this week at work, I was told about another colleague who rode her bike
right up until her labor started! “I am angry that I don't get to be a normal pregnant woman.
I am jealous of women who don't worry, who assume everything will work
out, and it does. “I feel like all that innocence has been taken away from
me. I am angry at how unfair all this has been: the money we've spent,
the time I've lost being depressed, the friendships that have gone by
the wayside, the way my life has fallen out of step with others my age,
the feeling that creeps in when my husband and I make love that I am an
infertile woman. “So I guess I'm sad that all these emotions are still with
me, even though I am now pregnant. The feelings scare me because
I don't want to be an angry woman for the rest of my life and I don't
want this baby to feel unwelcome because I didn't get to have a ´normal'
pregnancy. “I wonder if there are other women out there who have felt
the same?
“She looked so fragile all hooked up to tubes in the ICU.
A ventilator was assisting her breathing and a feeding tube was placed
in her stomach since she was too weak to suck on her own. All I
could do was stroke her tummy and let her feel the tip of my finger in
her tiny grasp. Looking at her, all ruddy and velvet skinned, I
kept thinking she would never survive. Dennis was able to stay with
her, thank God. I couldn't stand to stay long. In a state
of numbness, I went from day to day, recovering from my surgery until
it was time for me to go home. Sarah stayed on, of course.
I found, as the days turned to weeks, that I could only visit her briefly.
I felt so guilty; my body and spirit had just given out, and I found myself
sleeping more and more, spacing out my visits to the hospital. But
Sarah hung in there, fighting for her life. “I felt like such a failure as a mother. Why couldn't
I t stay with her? Dennis stood by both of us. Whenever he
wasn't with Sarah, he was with me, telling me to take the time I needed
to heal, just as Sarah was doing. “Well, we eventually made it. Sarah is home now, and
at five and a half pounds, she's our little angel. She has taught
me so much about patience and trust. It took me so long to believe
she would live, and I understand now how terrified I was to feel close
to her. But, you know, you have no choice, the closeness just happens
in spite of your worries.” "I remember when my first child was
born, a son. I'd shielded myself from my feelings somewhat.
He was my third try at DE, and I didn't feel the ice start to break right
away. My pregnancy was great, but the delivery was quite difficult.
I had a C-section, following many hours of exhausting labor. “After I was back in the room, they
brought him to me, and I looked at him dispassionately. ´Who are
you?' I wondered. ´Do you look like her?' I wasn't sure how
I felt about that little stranger. I was looking at him, trying to sort
out my feelings and hoping I could come to love him. Then he yawned.
It was my husband's yawn, and I fell totally, instantly in love and haven't
looked back.”
“If you really want to have a baby
and there is a way to do it, then you should go for it! I know my
mom and dad are really happy they did. I know they used a donor
egg to make me, and really, it's no big deal. It never gets talked
about with my friends because it's not something they even think about
asking. If they did, then they'd know enough about that kind of
stuff that I'd be fine with telling them.” “It feels like I've always known about my dad. I know he wanted me pretty badly because he looked and looked around until he could find a good sperm to make mom's egg grow. Dad doesn't mind at all. He says that I would never have been born if he hadn't looked and looked first. He says I am the best thing they ever made together and there is no one else quite like me.” |
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