The Wisdom of Marty McFly

Turns out the one egg wasn't so good after all. It was a bad egg, and failed to fertilize. So that's all she wrote....for now anyway. All these bruises on my stomach for nothing. All the bloating and weight gain and anxiety. Oh well. We are sad and disappointed. I knew my eggs were old and in short supply. I just didn't think they were on life-support. So I look forlornly at the box filled with syringes and "sharps" and alcohol swabs and vials of syrupy medicine. I kick it across the room.

A nurse who was taking my blood the other day was shocked to look on my chart and see my birthday. "How old are you?" she asked.

"I'm 42" I replied.

"I can't believe it. When you walked in, I thought you were 25!'"

"Well, thanks, you made my day" I smiled. I get comments like this occassionally. And I'm usually flattered and happy. But it gets me nowhere when it comes to procreating.

I wanted to tell her, "Thanks, but just take a look at my ovaries. Apparently they're members of AARP and drive a beige Buick."

So I was bummed all day and David cried and then he left for Wilmette to play hockey and I stayed home and surfed TV so I wouldn't have to think about my bad eggs. I saw Michael J. Fox was on Inside the Actor's Studio and so I paused my surfing to see what he had to say. Marty McFly. Teenage Warewolf. Alex P. Keaton. Parkinsons sufferer. In this interview he wasn't shaking too badly. His meds were working well, apparently, although he did have to interupt the interview once to take more pills. He said lots of wise things because when you're dealing with something like Parkinsons, or any kind of suffering for that matter, you can either fight it, have a temper tantrum and become bitter and angry, or you can step into and let it change you.

At the end of the interview some of the acting student asked him questions. The last question was asked by a young, freshman student who had dark hair and black plastic frame glasses and a silky complexion and she started crying as she stood up. She revealed that she was recently diagnosed with a neurological disease similar to Parkinsons, and she was asking Michael J. Fox whether it was realistic for her to try to become an actress. And whether she should try to hide her disease, or be open about it. She was wiping tears from her face as she spoke.

How did Michael J. Fox answer? Be honest, he said. And see what happens. When you embrace your situation, something will happen and chances are that it will be something good. Maybe it's not what you were expecting, but something good will come from it.

Marty McFly made me cry. And convinced me I need to step into this sad, empty wilderness and wait to see what happens next. Because even though I can't see it right now, there's a chance it could be something good.

One good egg

For anyone who thought the "Naming Hope" entry was an indirect pregnancy announcement, I'm sorry to say it wasn't. Just to clear that up...

But we are taking steps...steps that I've been hesitant to write about. But now I'm thinking, hey, what the heck. I'm a writer, after all, and aren't writers supposed to bare their souls?

After a month of shots in the gut and butt, I have bruises on my stomach, have gained 10 lbs, and have ridden the rollercoaster between being hopeful and not-so-hopeful. Today was the day we went to the clinic to have the egg retrieved. Not eggs. Just one egg. That's all that came of my month of painful shots. If you know anything about IVF, the more eggs the better. But "at my age" (that's the phrase I hear often at the clinic), the chance of getting lots and lots of eggs was small. But I was hoping for maybe 4 or 5. The "follical stimulation" drugs were supposed to force lots of eggs to pop up in my geriatric ovaries. But apparently my ovaries are too old and tired to get excited about anything, even when pumped full of stimulants. I guess they got tired of waiting...all those years waiting for Prince Charming to sweep us off our feet. Faithfully pumping out an egg a month, just in case. All those good eggs that went to waste.

The truth is, all those years I didn't think much about my aging eggs. I felt pretty ambivalent about babies. Of course, I loved babies, but mostly other people's babies. Looking back, I realize my ambivalence had more to do with my fear of not being a good mother and of never having the time to read a book again with toddlers hanging on my shins, than of not wanting to be a mother. Not that I really had a choice. Prince charming hadn't arrived yet. By the time I reached 40 and celebrated my birthday as a single woman, I had come to terms with the fact that I may never have children.

But then Prince Charming did arrive, and I starting thinking, "well...maybe." So here we are. And after having been pregnant twice and finding the courage to be a bit reckless, I'm realizing how sad I'll be if our one little egg doesn't fertilize, or doesn't attach. I'm also realizing that will all of the technical, scientific, medical advances, how little control we have over our lives.

Friends who have been through this remind me that "if God wants you to get pregnant, you'll get pregnant." And they tell me stories of the friend who only had one embryo implanted, got pregnant, and just gave birth. Or of the woman who had 8 perfect embryos, and didn't get pregnant. Just goes to show you, we're not in control.

I've learned to accept that. And sometimes Plan B and Plan C turn out just as exciting as Plan A. But right now I'm pulling for that one little egg.

Naming Hope

Charlotte? Hannah? Sean?

We throw each out randomly, and they float in the air until the other one ponders it for a few minutes, the originator waiting expectantly for for the final verdict. Sometimes the reaction comes fast. No way! But if there's a pause, there's a chance that the other will at least consider it. How would it sound with McCracken? Would it be shortened to an unbearable nickname?

Fiona McCracken? Too Celtic. No way.

But I like it!

You'll never convince me on that one. Sorry.

How about Hannah. It's the name of a great, great aunt. You know, my dad's mother's father's sister.

Hannah McCracken. Hmmmm. Now I kindof like that one.

Ona? My great, great, grandmother.

Ooh, I like it. But it might be a little too unusual.

Judith?

Judith, I like. Judy, I don't. And inevitably her school friends would shorten it to "Judy". Unless we could call her "Jude" for short, which sounds cool.

The naming has begun again. For a while, we didn't do this. AFter the two miscarriages and my 42nd birthday.

Make it no big deal, so you won't be disappointed when it doesn't happen. Don't name something that probably won't exist.

It's a little like being a 13 year old girl, writing the last name of the boy you have a crush on next to your name. Imagining what it would be like to be "Karen Smith" or "Karen Johnson". Someday, you would think. Someday I will be married.

Hope.

Then after a while you stop hoping. You grow up and stop writing boys' last names next to yours. Childish thing, to hope. And you wait and wait and when it finally does happen, you don't change your name anyway.

But now you find yourself hoping again. And writing names in your journal. Alexandra McCracken. Robert McCracken.

But it's a dangerous thing. Hope.

What if it doesn't happen? What then? If we pretend we don't want it, that we're okay being a family of two, that we'll fill our lives with writing and travel and each other, then there's no risk. That could be a good life. We're okay with that. No disappointment, really. We're okay.

But still.

We would have a good life. But wouldn't it feel like something was missing? A Kylie or Ali or Sean?

So we're tentative. Maybe coming up with one name a day. Not too many. Not too extravagant. Don't want to push it because we migh jinx it. Besides, we don't want to seem obsessed.

We're just testing the waters. Sticking our toe in to see if it's safe.

Kiera. Maya. Joshua.

Hope.

Reluctant Club Member

I'm a member of a few clubs I don't really want to belong to. Six years ago I was forced to join the "Motherless Daughters Club". For a long time I was a reluctant member of the "30-something Singles Club" but then I happily resigned once I became engaged. However, rather than being inducted into the "Happy Brides Club", I discovered I was a member of the "Happy Older Brides" organization. Being a 40-year-old bride just isn't the same as being a 25-year-old bride. For one thing, you look foolish in a poofy white dress.

Well, now I'm finding myself a newly inducted member of the Infertility Club. Nope. Didn't really want to join, but as my 30's ticked away and my biological clock ticked to almost a complete stop, I knew it was going to be a long-shot getting pregnant. Then, we got pregnant four months after our wedding, and I thought maybe there was hope after all. But now, after 2 miscarriages and a 43rd birthday lurking on the other side of winter, I'm suddenly finding myself hanging out with women who talk about low ovarian reserves, fresh vs. frozen IVF cycles, and adoption profiles. When will I stop becoming members of clubs I didn't ask to join?

This phenomenon doesn't happen to everyone. There are some people who keep being asked to join clubs they really wanted to be in all along. Lke the "Married at 25 Club", or the "Pregnant at 27 Club". Or the "Published Author Club".... life seems so easy for certain people. Their lives fall into place right on schedule. They figure out what they want to do for a career early and then are happy and content once they are in said career. They find mates in college, they pop out 2.5 kids 2.5 years apart. And they have the money to buy a quaint house in the suburbs. They're the cool group of kids you wanted to hang out with in high school.

I was complaining about this with a few girlfriends this morning -- girlfriends who have been trying to get pregnant, who are also members of the "Infertility Club". I was whining about all of those people whose lives just seem to fall into place perfectly, right on time, and without any problems. "Why doesn't this ever happen to me?" I complained "Well," said my friend, Jane, "their lives might seem perfect, but they're probably perfectly shallow. It's the people who have been through the struggles who are the ones I want to hang out with...they're deep and interesting and have more compassion."

She has a point. If I hadn't been a member of all of those clubs I didn't want to join, I'd be a different person -- more self-absorbed, less compassionate, and boring. Hmmm. The "Deep, Interesting and Compassionate club". Now that's a group I want to join....