…but…in light of Lyrehca’s question about Marcia Cross’s recently announced pregnancy, I ended up googling her and came up with this quote from a USAToday article:

Cross was well aware of the risks associated with later-in-life pregnancies, and spoke frankly that she might feel more confident adopting or even hiring a surrogate.

Many new mothers in their 40s, she said, rely on donated eggs — at a very costly price tag. “I don’t like the average woman being misled into thinking that fertility is something that goes on forever,” said Cross.

“When a woman gets older, they get donor eggs, which doesn’t make the baby any less beautiful or perfect. One’s own eggs only last so long, and sometimes at 43 or 44 you can have your own baby, but statistically it’s very difficult and expensive. You don’t want to wait that long.”

I’m chalking up the simplicity of the statement to the fact that she was speaking to a reporter to USAToday and not a fellow Stirrup Queen. Not that she has come out with a formal statement about fertility treatments, but I wanted to give credit where credit is due since I was just bitching about celebrities sharing the innermost details of their lives…except for infertility. Marcia has already scored high on my sliding scale (late marriage gave her higher points) so I am happy for her regardless. But it would be great if she did use donor eggs to come out and make a statement about that. Become a spokesperson for RESOLVE. Get information out to the public about third-party reproduction. Work it into the Desperate Housewives storyline. I’m dreaming big. And wasting precious down-time minutes googling possibly infertile celebrities. Who else? Who else?

My brother, an honourary Sperm Palace Jester who is even wearing a pomegranate-coloured string in solidarity, sent me this email this afternoon:

Elvis Costello and Diana Krall are expecting twins.

WHAT ARE YOU HIDING, DIANA KRALL? WHAT ARE YOU HIDING!

Which I found very amusing. The likelihood of having natural twins peaks between 35 and 39. She’s a little after the peak. Not ruling it out. Just curious since she’s not saying that she didn’t do treatments. She’s not actually saying they’re natural. She’s just commenting that twins run in her family. There are twins on my mother’s side of the family too. Maybe that should become my little coy catchphrase instead of “no, actually I did fertility treatments.” Since…my catchphrase tends to make cashiers gulp and Diana Krall’s sounds more golly-gee-whiz. And I’m trying to be a more golly-gee-whiz girl myself, instead of the kind that make people gulp. And quickly bag my purchases.

So…you know that famous study they did when they came up with bystander intervention theory–the more people who are around who can help, the less likely that someone will take action because they assume someone else is going to step forward…

I swear, I still can’t get someone to write the IM injections heads up. 1000 ladies with medicated cycles and not one who can give some tips about jabs in the butt (no…not those kinds of jabs to the butt…). Calling all IMers (again…not that kind of IMing), please please please. IM write up. Please.

Also, check out the new poll thing I’ve set up in the side bar. I think I’ll change it with the blog round up each week. This week’s question covers all appointments and visits–the ten minute blood work appointments to the two hour procedures. So answer away!

And now onto the bloggity blogs and a taste of what is interesting on the Land of If while people scramble to catch up with work after the long weekend.

Calliope over at Erstellen Mutterschaft (try saying that ten times fast) has a post about asking her RE for a copy of her records. And amongst the blood work results et al, she found some nice personal notes they wrote about her including, “that there was ‘no need to be as aggressive as patient requests’.” It made me wonder what my doctor writes about me in his files. I mean, I know there must be some notes about me being neurotic and anxious. Something about how I should have an ativan drip in my arm at all times. How I may scream, “you’re wrong, you’re wrong, you’re wrong” into the phone when they call to give me a negative beta (okay, I’m just joking, I make my husband look like the psycho and tell the doctors that they’re wrong. I don’t want them to write bad things about me!). I do know that the dentist wrote in my file that I’m a “heavy gagger” since I took a peek a few weeks ago when I was there to get a cavity filled. Seeing the words “heavy gagger” made me feel incredibly unattractive. As if I spew vomit on everyone when they get too close. So…yes…must get on the phone and get those RE records so I can have a good cry. I mean, a good laugh (which will really be a cry).

Ms. X over on her barren island is currently shul shopping. Translation for those who are not Jewish–she’s checking out the different synagogues. Which is where we are as well. We were pretty laissez-faire about it in the spring, but fall brings about a certain panic since the High Holidays are coming up. Perhaps the same sort of pressure of getting pregnant by Christmas? Anyway, religion poses an interesting dilemma for the infertile chickie because so much of organized religion centers on children. Especially with Judeo-Christianity. I tend to steer away from talking about G-d, but her post on filling out the paper work and the assumption that if you’re married, you must want children must be discussed. Because it naturally leads to the questions (oh…you’ve been married for five years? Children yet?), which leads to the conversations. She asks how does one avoid this, but I don’t have a good answer. I know that shul was certainly the most difficult place for me to be infertile. The kids running up and down the aisle. The passages in the Bible about the barren women of Jerusalem. Perhaps if I dug down deep enough, I would say that associating infertility with synagogue is possibly keeping me from joining one right now. But I would have to dig down quite deep for that. I hope you find your shul soon–one that has resources for women experiencing infertility. There are shuls and churches that cater to every small group in America. Why not Church of the Barren Lady or Empty Uterus Congregation?

In another vein–Msfitzita over at Certainly Not Cool Enough To Blog (yes, you are!)–has a heartbreaking post on being pregnant and then not pregnant at church. She writes, “Last Sunday as I sat in the same spot I always used to sit in when I was pregnant, I started thinking about that. About how I so proudly showed off my pregnant tummy and how I hoped people would look at me and smile. And that’s when it occurred to me that women who had experienced miscarriage – maybe even stillbirth or a loss caused by birth injury, abruption or congenital defects – saw me. They watched me holding my tummy lovingly and protectively, and they felt the dull ache that I feel now when I see the same thing innocently paraded in front of me. I caused the same pain I feel now. And it never once occurred to me while I was pregnant, even after having two miscarriages before getting pregnant with Thomas.” This post broke my heart. Because you should be proud to be pregnant and you should feel happiness. And all those non-infertiles never come to this place. Do you realize that? They get to parade their stomachs and enjoy their pregnancies (or complain about their pregnancies) and they never look back and consider how others felt. And the infertile woman (remember Paz’s post that kicked off Common Thread?) does. She’s stuck in this space where she can’t feel the full happiness of pregnancy because she’s still thinking about her sisters back in the trenches. There is a part of me that wishes we could all just get into that selfish space. And then there’s a part of me that appreciates and cherishes the empathy. I just wish you weren’t sitting where you are now, Msfitzita.

Lastly, but not leastly, Reality over at Disenchanted With the Reality That Is My Life has a post about acupuncture that made me want them to stick me with needles. She described the sweet bliss of a mind finally slowing down. Her words started to quiet down my internal shouts of “voluntary needles? Voluntary needles?” It sounds like that 45th minute of a one-hour massage.

Mmmm…massage. If only someone would do a study of how massage aids fertility.

Secret Hope Stories are what perpetuate the what ifs in our head. You know what I’m talking about–they’re the stories of the ninth IVF that was finally successful and resulted in healthy twins. Or the blood work that finally revealed the problem and allowed the habitual aborter to carry to term. They’re the debris that you grab for when you’re drowning in the ocean. And they may help you float. Or they may drag you under. And you just don’t know.

Hence the what if.

I am the product of a Secret Hope Story–the woman told to go onto Plan B because she wasn’t going to get pregnant/carry to term. And then the miraculous conception and pregnancy resulting in a baby that a doctor told you that you would never have. Thank you, Mommy, for still trying even though you had already built your family.

I recently met up again with a friend from high school (hi!) and she had one of those Secret Hope Stories. Four failed IVFs and a doctor telling her to move onto donor eggs. And a “what if” nagging in the back of her head took her up to CRMI (don’t these stories always end up taking the person to CRMI? I’ve begun thinking of it as a pilgrimage site) which resulted in the IVF cycle that worked and two chubbulicious twins (I just saw them and I swear, you could just eat the cheeks off the boy–that delicious).

You hear these stories and you can’t help but ask 1000 questions, all the time comparing it to your own life and wondering if they found the key that could unlock your fertility as well. I’ve been trying to figure out why these stories give me hope and make me want to try “one more time” vs. the stories that well-intentioned relatives pass along when you tell them about your infertility. You know–the exact same ones I’m talking about now. But when they talk about their neighbour’s cousin who became a mother after five miscarriages, I want to scream, “I am not your neighbour’s cousin!” But when a fellow Stirrup Queen says, “I don’t know why it worked that time, but it did” I want to start rolling the dice rather than following a doctor’s rational thought.

Because fertility treatments at some point–especially if you have unexplained infertility–begin to feel like gambling. As a rule, I don’t gamble because I could totally see myself becoming addicted to it. Just one more time. Just one more time. This will be the time. And it truly is gambling with stakes much larger than the quarters I would use if I ever went to a casino. You’re gambling with hundreds or thousands each cycle as well as your general physical health and mental well-being. So…I won’t try Vegas, but I will try the fertility clinic? It doesn’t make complete sense.

And this gambling analogy has become even more constricting with secondary infertility. Do we take the gamble knowing that the money we use is being taken away from our current children? I think the money is well spent if it results in a child, but what if it doesn’t? Part of me says, “play it safe–go with adoption. It’s a real child in the end.” But the other part of me starts thinking, “but if I got pregnant the first try with IVF, I would be spending half the amount that I would on adoption. So then IVF is the best financial option!” And you can see how you get back into that “what if” mentality.

My doctor shook his head and told me I should play the lottery with the odds I encountered during my journey. Odds of having FSH as high as mine at my age–slim. Odds of developing hyperemesis gravidarum during pregnancy–.5% of pregnant women. Odds of having perfect prolactin levels prior to pregnancy and no prolactin produced after pregnancy–under 3%. So if I hit that trifecta, who’s to say that I won’t have that next Secret Hope Story in my back pocket?

Nina at Stella and/or Ben is going through this “what if” right now. She’s not ready to move onto Plan B regardless of what the doctors are telling her. She’s trying Plan A again while tweaking some lifestyle changes–no coffee, no alcohol, no fast food. And she asks at the end of her post, “Do you think we are just fooling ourselves? Do you think we are nuts?”

No, I don’t think you’re nuts Nina. And to be frank, if my heart was still on Plan A, I would continue with Plan A until someone pried Plan A out of my sweaty little hands. Because you know the same hope stories that I know. And in the back of your head, they start nagging you. It’s not that Plan B isn’t a beautiful and bright path. Finding it emotionally difficult to give up one path does not mean that you think the other path is a lesser path. It’s apples and oranges. And if you were in the mood for an apple and your heart was set on an apple, it’s difficult to start eating the orange, even if the orange is a perfectly delicious fruit that you usually enjoy.

It’s hard to give up the desire for that apple when you know stories of people who went to a different food store or knew a different way to ask and received that apple. If it was a moot point–if the manager made an announcement to the store, “no apples today. Terrible frost up north. Killed off the apple supply. No more apples. Ever.” Well, you would probably grab your bag and head over to Plan B and a huge pile of oranges in a heartbeat.

But it’s that “what if.” And it makes you gamble because you know too many stories of women who are happy that they didn’t take the advice offered and kept pushing through until miraculously Plan A came true. Or didn’t take the advice offered, stopped pushing through, but miraculously, Plan A came true anyway. And I don’t know if overall these stories help or hinder. My heart tells me that they help. But I’m a gambler at heart. So should I listen to myself?

Hang in there, Nina. I hope you find some peace and that this cycle is that one in twenty.

What are your thoughts on my bold questions/thoughts?

I am so angry right now that I need to write about this before I go to bed or I’ll never go to sleep. I just wrote this scathing response to some comments about infertility that were on a parenting board. And I didn’t send it. Because even though I eloquently compared them to Hitler (at the same time being kind and explaining Darwin’s survival of the fittest to a bunch of women who were essentially turning Darwin into a eugenicist) and felt better doing so, saying the words did nothing. I needed to know that they would hear them. And be affected by them. And I’ve had enough of these experiences by now to know that I’m not going to change their minds. Their minds won’t be changed unless they find themselves one day with their back on an exam table and a catheter snaking through their hoo-haa.

The original question was innocent enough: The British Fertility Society is recommending that women classified as morbidly obese not be allowed access to fertility treatment. Would you support a similar proposal in the United States?

Can you talk about strange coincidence? My third time reading about obesity and infertility in two days?

I actually started reading the responses, believing I would see a mix. And there were a few people who spoke without offense either in support of coverage for all or coverage for none. But the majority of answers became more and more Hitlerish in nature with each comment. Yes, let’s take away coverage for obese women!

“It’s unhealthy for the woman and for the baby if the mother is that overweight, and I’m sure there is some correlation between being obese and failure rates with IVF and I’m sure they don’t want to do it if they know there are more risks and high failure probablility due to the weight.”

“I feel for those women who would have to resort to IVF, as I never thought I would have my son, but there is no reason to go through it if the incidence if success is so very low, and they must have done studies on it or they wouldn’t have decided it.”

“I’m a mother of three and I weigh 208 and I got to say that I don’t really blame them. If I was told that my weight was a problem with successfully getting pregnant that way I would do what every I could to lose the weight plus I would rather be told no in the first place then spend all that money and get my hopes up to have it all go crashing down around me. Your emotions also play a role in it and if you get all depressed about it not working the first time then it makes any other chances of it happening all the much less likely.”

“I don’t think it is a discrimination issue, there are so many health concerns for a person of that size, let alone to have them take all the meds necessary for IVF, and then to carry a baby on top of it. I think it is more about the “first do no harm” part of they oath then discrimination.”

“I don’t think they’re saying that obese women can’t or shouldn’t have babies — just that they’re not going to pay for in vitro fertilization because of the health risks and the lower percentage of success. There are limited funds available for medical procedures and so I think putting some conditions on when they’ll make payments make sense. They’re not discriminating because of weight, they’re basing the decision on the health risks associated with being overweight. And when dealing with medical conditions you need to consider the health risks involved. I know it must be heart-breaking to not be able to conceive on your own, but it is not a life or death situation.”

“Not necessarily how I feel, just playing Devil’s Advocate a bit here … If natural selection is best, then couldn’t an argument be made that IVF interferes with natural selection? Which would open up the floor to a whole ‘nother debate!”

Followed by…

“Good point! I don’t want to open that can of worms right now, but I do agree with this statement.”

Which is where I stopped reading and started writing. And started deleting. Because what could I say that would change their minds? They’ll never understand unless they go through it themselves. Or have someone close to them go through it. And I want to be the type of person who just snorts and walks away from it, but it literally is still bothering me. And I don’t even know these women–they’re all faceless women living in America, raising their 2.5 children. And they don’t matter. Except they do matter. Because you’re commenting on me. And my right to parent. And whether I should be weeded out of the gene pool. And you have hit on my biggest fear–that I passed my own tendency to not produce progesterone or create good eggs to my daughter. Because I never want her to go through what I went through. And…I’m banking all of my hope on technology. That all of these problems with fertility will be solved or even more fine-tuned by the time she is of child-bearing age.

So there you have it.

And because I truly believe that you should have a bit more common sense to pass judgment on others. You never know where life will drop you years from now. How could I have predicted infertility until it happened? And how do I know that I won’t be classified as obese (and I have a whole problem with the classification of obesity since it is a ratio and not an actual commentary on the health of the person–yet it is considered a commentary on the health of the person) and wish I hadn’t withheld rights from my future self?

So that’s what is keeping me from sleeping tonight. Just in case you wanted a touch of insomnia as well. Sorry if I ruined anyone else’s night.