Completing a book, it’s a little like having a baby.
John le Carré
Watching our children grow and develop into the independent little people that they are—catching glimpses of Alexandra dancing, and William building, and the two of them engaging in their own in-depth conversations—I sometimes find myself lost in thought, marveling at the very fact that they exist. I always knew how much I wanted them, but I never anticipated how much joy they would bring into our lives. Yet for every surge of joy, I know that there is another woman or man or couple out there who has not enjoyed such success, who has given up or is still trying—and I know we could be doing so much more to help them get there.
When I reflect on my long journey, on the many years of desperately wanting and trying, and finally ultimately succeeding against the odds to have our children, I’m aware of my own personal process of evolution—of how I changed irreversibly. Somewhere along the way, I transformed from a woman who was afraid of needles and resisted shots with all my might to a fearless warrior who mixed potions, loaded syringes, and casually injected myself while talking to clients on speakerphone, in the ladies’ room in restaurants and nightclubs, and even once in the Moroccan desert on Christmas Eve. I morphed from a patient who didn’t believe I needed IVF to a client perpetually cycling through it, all in the effort to produce our two scientific miracles.
By the time our kids are old enough to read and understand the story of their conception, I am guessing that it will not be as unusual to contemplate that there were at least three—but closer actually to a dozen—people involved in bringing them into the world, rather than just the prince and princess they are accustomed to seeing in modern media. That there was Mom and Dad; and Catherine, our practically perfect surrogate; as well as the fertility specialists, embryologists, anesthesiologists, ultrasound technicians, acupuncturists, nurses, aides, midwives, and an alchemist. Not to mention those who helped us along the way down the paths not ultimately taken: the adoption specialists, home study social worker, other adoptive parents, and potential egg donors from around the world.
I imagine that their world will look quite different.
The future that I envision for our children is one in which these crucial gaps are closed. A world in which infertility treatment is viewed as a medical problem and covered by mainstream insurance policies. Where treatment is within reach financially for all who need and desire it. Where donors and surrogates are compensated fairly yet not astronomically.
A world in which patients are informed consumers of their treatment, aware of options and differing approaches. Where drugs are dispensed in a more incremental approach, rather than the kitchen-sink approach often used in America today. Where hormones are prescribed in the lowest effective dosages, both saving money and protecting the health of consumers.
A world in which federal funding is available to support research that advances scientific knowledge and informs both medical treatment and the establishment of sensible regulations.
I look at Alexandra and William and hope that they will live in such a world. It doesn’t seem too much to wish for, given that they already live in a world that was able to give them the miracle of life.