As we say in this neck of the desert, life is something something...
Life is hectic hectic hectic these days. While trying to meet my deadlines for the next edition of the Diplomatic Post, I've also been blogging over at Israelity, getting work done at the day job, trying to clean up the house in prior to my parents' arrival last Thursday afternoon and fighting off a stomach virus. I was supposed to attend what promised to be an interesting meeting last Wednesday, but my stomach wasn't having any of it, and it looks like I'll have to play catch-up by picking the brains of those friends whose health was clearer in better shape than mine.
I've also gotten myself marginally involved in another project of interest. As those of you who read this blog are probably aware, the journey to bring the Little One into the world was not a journey of smooth sailing. There were problems every step of the way, and more than our fair share of tragedies. After we lost our first son, I made a promise to myself that whenever I could draw on my experiences to help others, I would do so. For me, doing so would mean that everything we had been through had not been completely in vain. Several months ago, I was contacted by Angie Boss, co-author of a book called "Living with PCOS". She and her co-author, Evelina Sterling (herself the author of a book about egg donation), were in the process of writing a new book about funding fertility treatments. Angie had come across my blog, liked what she'd read, and wondered if I would be interested in sharing different aspects of my story for her book. I was happy to help, and am pleased to have the opportunity to take part in a project that will help other women who are going through experiences similar to mine. After coming to an agreement with regard to certain technical aspects of my contribution, I sent Angie several pages that I'd written, and in subsequent correspondence, she asked if I would mind posting the text to below to my blog. I periodically receive similar requests, and those most are turned down as a matter of my own personal policy, I was happy to acquiesce to Angie's request. Take a moment to read it. If you or someone you know can help, please do so. Most of the people I know who have gone through fertility treatments of one kind or another have always been hungry for information on all aspects of the subject, including myself. I read anything I could get my hands on (especially personal stories), so the more information that's out there, the better.
The Request...
"We are currently co-authoring a new book to be published by Simon &Schuster next fall called "Funding Fertility—How to Bring Home a Baby without Breaking the Bank." In this book, we address many of the barriers associated with paying for the high costs related to infertility treatments and adoption. This includes the "sticker shock" that we all get when we find out how much everything is going to cost, how to make cost-effective decisions (i.e., finding cheaper medication options, selecting certain clinics, undergoing certain procedures, considering "special deals") without sacrificing quality of care, actually having to come up with the money without completing going broke, dealing with insurance companies and the lack of coverage, and much, much more.
WE NEED YOUR HELP!!! We are currently compiling stories from people struggling with infertility (or considering adoption)—either currently, in the past, or in the future—to include in our book. These stories can highlight the good, the bad, or the ugly in terms of having to come up with the money to pay for your treatments and/or adoption. Through this book, we hope to shed more light on this nearly completely fee-for-service (and not covered by insurance!) side of medicine so we can allow more of the 10 million people out there experiencing infertility access to the ability to have a baby that they so desperately want without having to suffer financially. Having a baby should be a basic human right available to everyone, not a commodity in which some people make a lot of money! Please help us change the current system for the better by sharing your stories and experiences.
You can remain anonymous and all correspondence will be treated with utmost confidentiality. PLEASE SEND ALL STORIES, EXPERIENCES, AND QUESTIONS TO FUNDINGFERTILITY@YAHOO.COM.
Thanks so much for your help!
Evelina Sterling and Angie Boss"
When I was pregnant with our first son, at a time when I believed that we had cleared the hurdles of our previous pregnancies and had finally broken our curse of bad luck, a friend mentioned that sometimes, once that stage of pregnancy was reached, if I laughed or coughed, I might, well, to put it bluntly, leak a little. I filed that bit of information away for safe keeping, and soldiered on. One night, I woke with a horrible leg cramp, and while walking it off, I suddenly felt a great deal of liquid runnng down my legs. While racing to the bathroom, I silently chastised my friend, thinking that she had greatly under-exaggerated, and that what I'd just experienced was quite a bit more than a little leak. And then I realized that the "leak" hadn't stopped. We grabbed our pregnancy books, and it slowly dawned on me that what I was experiencing was a premature rupture of the membranes, a very premature rupture. We quickly drove to the hospital, where our worst fears were confirmed. My waters had broken in the 25th week of pregnancy, and so the nightmare began.
I suddenly found myself lying in a hospital bed, getting up only to go to the bathroom or to shower. I was lonely, miserable and frightened, and there was nothing I could do about any of it. All we could do was wait, knowing that the longer our baby stayed inside me, the greater his chances were for survival. Together, we managed to hold on for about a week, which is when I began having terrible stomach pains. These pains, of course, turned out to be contractions, and a few hours later, following an emergency c-section, our first son was born, weighing all of 700 grams. And all of this occurred nine years ago today.
The next six-and-a-half months were perhaps the most intensely draining I've ever experienced. The first four months were spent in a Neonatal Intensive Care Unit (NICU). As many parents of premature babies will tell you, it was like being on an emotional rollercoaster, where some days went by without a hitch (which is considered a good day), and other days the situation took a turn for the worse, and you fear that all is lost. You can assess how serious your case is by the seniority of the staff member who explains things, and we were practically on a first-name basis with the director of the neonatal department. To this day, we are in touch with the staff members there, who are still a part of our extended family, and no one was more excited than they were when the Little One was born, just over three years ago. Anyway, after those initial four months we transferred to a children's hospital in the center of the country, and spent the next two-and-a-half months doing shifts, in order to ensure that at least one of us was there at all times. Some days we both stayed, just so that we could see one another for more than a few hours at a time. Once all surgeries were behind us and our baby seemed to be on the mend, we finally began to talk about taking him home, but then he got sick again, and he just couldn't fight anymore.
As I said, this all happened nine years ago. We have, for the most part, moved on with our lives, and we have been blessed with the Little One, whose mission seems to be to keep us on our toes at all times. The loss is always back there somewhere, but it doesn't rule my life; it doesn't define who I am. My life is the normal life of any sleep-deprived, caffeine-craving mother of a toddler – indeed, many of the people who entered my life after this period have no idea it even took place. It's always there somewhere, though, somewhere in the back of my head, waiting to surface as life dictates. It surfaced a few weeks ago with the sickness and death of that little boy, and obviously, it surfaced again now, on what would have been our child's ninth birthday.
On the day of the other little boy's funeral, I began to think about words that a bereaved mother might find comforting. I was on the train, coming home late at night, and the phrases started coming together in my mind. When I got home, I grabbed a pen and paper, and the words just tumbled out as I thought of two little boys whose lives were cut short. I've never really considered poetry to be one of my strengths, but this is what I wrote...
"Fragile little arms wrapped tightly 'round my neck. Through love and pain, laughter and tears, fragile little arms remain, wrapped tightly 'round my neck.
Time is playing games again and nothing stays the same, save fragile little arms wrapped tightly 'round my neck.
Worlds are spinning, moving, crashing; the grip is growing lighter. Pulling, tugging,
wrenching free, fragile little arms wrapped loosely 'round my neck.
The warmth around my neck is gone, replaced by shards of ice and stone. Checking once, checking twice, unbelieving, not accepting that fragile little arms are gone.
Fragile little arms float freely now, drifting through the skies, softly, slowly drifting, off to parts unknown. Gently oh so gently, fragile little arms are safe again, wrapped forever 'round my heart."
Not too long ago, I wrote this post, asking for prayers for a very sick little boy. Sadly, he lost his struggle yesterday afternoon. It is simply incomprehensible to fathom the pain of losing a child, and only a parent who has already been there can understand the sheer magnitude of the hurt. Losing a child who has been ill often provokes mixed feelings. I can remember when we lost our first child, how my pain was mixed with relief. Relief at knowing my child had been released from his pain, relief at knowing that we would no longer be spending all of our time in a hospital feeling helpless, living in limbo and waiting for something to happen. The pain, however, was intense. I felt that I would never smile again, never laugh again. I would wander around, and it seemed almost surreal to watch people going about their daily lives, seemingly without a care in the world, at a time when my world had been blown to pieces.
And yet, I knew that I would somehow pull myself out of this deep, deep hole, that I would – and indeed must – continue to live, continue to go on. And I have. From the depths of my pain, I decided that I had to move forward, and that it would be harder to surrender to the pain than to somehow pull myself out of it. The pain is and always will be a part of me, but it does not control me. Hopefully, with great amounts of love, friendship and support, this little boy's family will find happiness again, will learn to smile again. Hopefully, they will eventually learn to take control of their loss and find meaning in what they have gone through, seeking out the goodness and focusing on the special times. For now, they must somehow find a way to get through the day. Through today and tomorrow, through next week and next month. They have entered the second phase of this most painful of all journeys, and all we can do is wish them strength to get through it all. Keep them in your hearts and keep them in your heads, and don't forget to hug your own children, for one never knows what tomorrow can bring.
