Mary Katherine Kennedy » Infertility

Age 42–and No More Worries about My Biological Clock

mk — Thu, 29 Jul 2010 03:14:31 +0000

Today is my birthday, I’m 42, and I’m not even depressed.

For me, this level of contentment is significant, for I’ve spent more than half of my life monitoring my biological clock, making varying decisions as it ticked, tocked, blared, then declared war on anyone in its way.

At age 18, I entered Miami University as a Psychology major. However, upon taking an introductory Psychology course during the first semester of my freshman year, I learned I’d have to go to school for five years after college to earn a Psy.D., as opposed to a Ph.D., in Psychology, so I changed my major. Considering that my primary goal was to be a mom, spending so many years in school—starting my counseling career upon earning a Psy.D. at age 27—seemed a waste.

I never dated for fun: From my first date at age 15 until meeting my husband at the tail end of 35, I evaluated each and every man based on whether or not he’d be a good husband and father. I remember being at a grab-a-date event my sophomore year at Miami University, with my date, a recent love, blowing me off by telling me that it was obvious I “was looking for something,” and he “wasn’t it.”

I was 30 for the year that I lived and worked in London, England, as start-up manager and acting director of the British Film Institute’s (BFI’s) London IMAX® Cinema, a period in which I worked countless hours. When the BFI approached me about extending my contract, the concept of being in London past the launch of the IMAX 3D Cinema, having a normal life in one of the world’s most spectacular cities, was appealing—except that I was turning 31. I knew I didn’t want to stay in London for the long-term, so staying seemed useless, for I didn’t want to fall in love, get married and have children in a city in which I had never felt at home myself.

My desire to find “The One,” then to beat my biological clock, was the primary determinant in my decision-making regarding career and associated city, country, continent. And although I did partake in many experiences, I gave up opportunities as I aged, for they didn’t mesh with my goal of being a regular mom.

At age 35, I started trying to get pregnant on my own, using donor sperm, only to be foiled by DES (diethylstilbestrol)-related infertility. However, I did have success on my seventh cycle of intrauterine insemination.

After having my son Patrick at age 36, I am a mom, however I never let go of my desire to have a second biological child. So as I turned 37, 38 and 39, I felt increasingly tense. As I neared 40, I felt downright panic. And as I turned 41 one year ago, with one unsuccessful in vitro fertilization (IVF) cycle under my belt, with the egg retrieval of my second IVF cycle only days away, I felt as if every day that I aged reduced my chances. Because every day did.

Today I am 42, and I have a second biological child, my son Luke, who is 3½ months old. I finally feel as if my family is complete, so today is the first birthday in probably 12 years in which I am not obsessed with my DES-induced infertility and/or my biological clock. I am truly content.

So today I spent my day snuggling with my boys, first curled up in bed this morning, where Patrick, age 5, suggested that because it’s my birthday, we should buy some vanilla ice cream, which happens to be his favorite food. Then this afternoon, my husband came home from work early, and we watched a movie, with my motivated husband working out, while I, not so motivated, lounged in a recliner with Patrick and Luke lying on top of me.

I’m a thinker, so I reveled in these hours, appreciating all I have been blessed with and loving that my birthday is no longer cause for biological-clock concern.

Happy Birthday to me. Happy Birthday to me.

Infertility Article Featuring Me

mk — Wed, 24 Feb 2010 04:02:52 +0000

I’m not feeling well enough to write a post today, so I will just forward you to an article, published today on momlogic.com, that features interviews with women who have suffered through infertility, including me.

To read “When Getting Pregnant Doesn’t Come Naturally,” written by Ronda Kaysen, click on:
http://www.momlogic.com/2010/02/when_getting_pregnant_doesnt_come_naturally_inferitlity.php

Fear of Preparing for the Arrival of My Son, Now 31 Weeks In Utero

mk — Sun, 21 Feb 2010 02:45:07 +0000

Fear is the inevitable side effect of my experiences with infertility, embryo implantation failures, a miscarriage, a vanishing twin and yet-another high-risk pregnancy. My fear is rational, based on hard facts; therefore, it makes me unable to wholeheartedly celebrate my pregnancy and the surviving twin boy I’m carrying inside me. Because, even now, at 31 weeks in utero, my son isn’t guaranteed a life, nor are my husband and I guaranteed a sweet baby boy to parent.

Day after day I make a conscious choice not to let my anxiety overwhelm me. And that’s difficult for me, because I’m a Type A woman, diagnosed with Generalized Anxiety Disorder. I’m a natural worrier.

So I take Prozac. I have weekly sessions with my psychiatrist, now by phone because I’m on bed rest. My husband, who’s Type A too, and I have weekly or biweekly appointments with a Family Systems Therapist, who now comes to our home due to my bed rest.

And I have made the decision to not ruin my pregnancy by obsessing about outcomes that may never occur. I am aware of all potential complications so I’ll recognize any symptoms of them. I am perhaps overeducated about every aspect of my high-risk pregnancy, so, if and when a problem arises, I will be prepared. But, in the meantime, I am living the cliché of “taking things one day at a time,” which has worked well for me.

But, with less than nine weeks until my due date, I feel compelled to start preparing for my son’s birth because, as part of my Type A-ness, I’m a planner. While I have the big-ticket items—the crib, the glider, the stroller—left over from my son, now 5, I gave away everything else, including almost all of his first-year clothes, to friends, because, at the time, my husband and I weren’t planning to have another child.

I’ve e-mailed the friend to whom I gave my son’s clothes to see if I can have them back, since she won’t be needing boy clothes for her newborn daughter. Several other friends have promised to look through their storage boxes to see if they still have the items I passed on. And others still have offered to give or loan me everything from clothing to a car seat with two bases.

But nothing for a newborn has arrived yet. This is, of course, normal, considering that I’m not due until April 23, two months from now. But, being a planner, I can’t stand the possibility of not being ready if my son is born before his due date, which is likely.

As a result, last week, my husband drove me, now on partial bed rest, to the discount retailer Marshalls®, so I could buy some newborn clothes. I explained to him that I won’t take off any of the tags, in case, after my friends come through, I don’t need the clothing. But, the unspoken truth is that I also won’t take off the tags in case we end up without a baby to bring home.

It makes me feel better to have these teeny-tiny outfits in hand, but it took me an entire week to actually go though the Marshalls bag in order to put these maybe-unneeded clothes away. Because I can’t oooh and aaaah at how cute they all are. I can’t blissfully prepare the baby side of my 5-year-old son’s bedroom.

I’m not that naïve. Oh, how I wish I were…

Post-Infertility Pregnancy Guilt

mk — Sat, 13 Feb 2010 04:44:17 +0000

Today I am 30 weeks pregnant with my second biological son. Yet, no matter how blessed I feel to be pregnant, no matter how grateful I am to have the opportunity to be a mother to another child, no matter how anxious I am for my 5-year-old son to have a sibling who lives with us full-time, I can’t shake the post-infertility pregnancy guilt.

Why?

Because the physical, emotional and financial horrors of infertility will forever be a part of me.

I will never forget how difficult it was to do all of the right things—see the recommended specialists, follow their instructions to the letter, ingest and inject every medication prescribed—and still fail to become pregnant cycle after cycle.

I will never forget feeling like a crazy woman, staring longingly at babies in the grocery store, on the sidewalk—in fact, everywhere.

I will never forget the euphoria of a positive pregnancy test, only to receive a call from a nurse notifying me that my blood test results showed that I would lose the baby.

I will never forget starting to bleed, single and alone in my condo, and having to collect the miscarriage material—my baby—in a plastic bag, then place the bag in the refrigerator for the weekend, so its contents—my baby—could be tested the following Monday. The testing, by the way, revealed nothing.

I will never forget, whenever I heard that yet another woman was pregnant, feeling not only happy for her, but also a sense of loss and jealousy because I couldn’t get pregnant too. Then, I would feel incredibly guilty that I was so self-involved that I had connected my infertility to such a joyful announcement.

I will never forget feeling as if I had absolutely no control over becoming a mother, the role I felt I was most supposed to fulfill.

I will never forget not being able to attend baby showers, not because I wasn’t happy for my friends, but because I was afraid I would cry for myself, ruining their special days by making them feel guilty.

I will never forget analyzing my finances and the risks of infertility medications, trying to determine how many cycles I could afford to pursue, both monetarily and physically.

I will never forget feeling increasingly irrational with each failure, becoming convinced, through the haze of hormones, that the only action that would keep me sane was to try to get pregnant again—as soon as possible.

I will never forget the feelings of isolation, for unless others have suffered through infertility themselves, they have no idea how to react—and, in my case, two close friends made the choice to distance themselves, with one telling a mutual friend, “I feel bad, but I just can’t handle what she’s going through.”

I will never forget lying on an ultrasound table in September, with the technician telling me she was sorry because one of my twins, Baby B, didn’t have a heartbeat, demonstrating to me for the second time that becoming pregnant doesn’t guarantee a live baby.

Because I will never forget these experiences, and because I know that I am no more deserving than any other person who has dealt with the trauma of infertility, I feel guilty whenever I hear or read about others who are still struggling.

I don’t have a martyr complex in which I want to trade places. I am beyond happy to be pregnant right now, but I want all of these others—these millions of others—to be able to become parents too.

When I confided in a friend about my pregnancy guilt this week, she tried to talk me out of it, saying, “M.K., come on. You’ve been through plenty.”

I’m not saying I haven’t paid my dues. But so has every other infertile person. I just wish that all of us could have the happily-ever-after.

Words of Wisdom: Never Comment on a Pregnant Woman’s—or Any Woman’s—Largesse

mk — Wed, 13 Jan 2010 04:30:52 +0000

One of life’s cruelties is that the medications the majority of infertile women take in their attempts to conceive make them look pregnant, regardless of whether they become so.

I am not a petite woman: I’m between 5’8” and 5’9”, but I always had a tiny waist. One of my proudest moments during my eating-disordered years was when a woman got on an elevator with me, took one look at my belted mid-section and asked, “What size is your waist—16 inches?”

Six years ago, after seven intrauterine insemination (IUI) cycles, five of which were medicated, I ballooned, especially in my waist—my primary injection site—where I could pinch several inches. I met my now-husband in the midst of my seventh cycle, and I complained one night about how big I was—with nothing to show for it. He called me “Rubenesque.” Obviously, I married him.

With so much extra weight on me upfront, with the inability to work out because it would reduce blood flow to my T-shaped uterus, and with my dedication to overcoming my previously eating-disordered life by eating whenever I was hungry, I gained another 50 pounds during my pregnancy.

For the last few months, I was barraged by one question, asked by the man in the high-risk pregnancy office whose sole job was to draw blood from pregnant women to passersby on the sidewalks and in stores: “Are you having twins?”

And, over and over, I would smile weakly and reply, “No, just one very big baby.”

At the tail-end of my pregnancy, my stomach was so large that even my sweet husband, then my boyfriend, gasped when he walked into the bathroom to find me soaking in the tub. He apologized and said he felt so sorry for me because I looked so uncomfortable. And, I was.

But, my son weighed a whopping 9 pounds 7 ounces, and, with breastfeeding alone, I lost the rest of the weight. My body has never been the same, but that’s why Spanx® were invented.

With this pregnancy, I was prepared for the impact of the medications, especially because the doses for my two in vitro fertilization (IVF) cycles were so much higher than they were when I was doing IUIs. I gained 15 to 20 pounds pre-pregnancy, then was pregnant with twins, then ate my way into numbness when Baby B had no heartbeat in the eighth week.

Right now, I’m up a total of 45 pounds, and my pregnancy books irritatingly say that a healthy weight gain at 25 weeks of pregnancy is 14 to 16 pounds.

My stomach is again so big that the comments have started, but this time I hate being asked if I’m pregnant with twins, because I was, but lost one. And, even though I’ve accepted the loss, I don’t want to be reminded of it daily.

This morning, as I was lying on the couch with my almost-5-year-old son, he announced that my stomach is as big as a mountain, then he had G.I. Joe march across it.

This afternoon, I was asked twice, “Are you absolutely sure there is only one baby in there?”

From my fourth to 24^th weeks of pregnancy, I’ve had 10 ultrasounds. I’m positive there is only one baby left in here.

Then, tonight, while we were talking before bed, I teased my son, telling him I would tickle-torture him or nibble off his cute toes if he didn’t listen to the book I was reading. This is a game we play often, in which I tease him, and he insists, “You’re kidding!” Then, I admit that, of course, I’m kidding, because I would never hurt him.

But, tonight, instead of his standard “You’re kidding,” he blurted, “But you’re a giant woman.”

A giant woman…

He’s lucky I didn’t nibble off his cute toes in retaliation, because even if you’re 4, you should never, ever comment on how big any woman is, pregnant or otherwise.

Tomorrow, I’ll have his Daddy explain to him that, if he must comment on my size, the correct word isn’t giant; it’s Rubenesque.

For the Infertile, Unfairness Often Prevails

mk — Mon, 11 Jan 2010 04:50:30 +0000

If life were fair, infertile men and women would be those who didn’t want children, rendering their condition irrelevant. If life were fair, infertile people would be those who would neglect or abuse their children, thus preventing them from having biological offspring whom they would ultimately harm. But, life isn’t remotely fair, so Tracy, the friend I wrote about on Christmas Day, learned today that her fourth in vitro fertilization (IVF) cycle was not successful.

Infertility is a medical problem for which only 15 U.S. states provide health insurance coverage. This renders the majority of this country’s infertile population—10% of the overall population, according to Resolve: The National Infertility Association—unable to pursue treatment. (For more information about infertility coverage—and the lack thereof—in the United States, see my post, Giving Thanks for Infertility Coverage, at http://www.mkkennedy.com/2009/07/giving-thanks-for-infertility-coverage/)

For those of us with infertility coverage, as I had when I underwent seven intrauterine insemination (IUI) cycles six years ago, and as my husband and I had when we did IVF twice last spring and summer, we still have out-of-pocket costs to cover. For those without health coverage for infertility or those who have exceeded the often-low limits of the coverage they have, deep pockets are required. (For more information on IVF costs, read my posts, High-Cost IVF Meds at http://www.mkkennedy.com/2009/07/high-cost-ivf-meds/ and Uninsured IVF Costs Unaffordable for Most at http://www.mkkennedy.com/2009/07/uninsured-IVF-costs-unaffordable-for-most/)

In these latter cases, those suffering from infertility need to determine how much to invest in treatment, for which there is no guarantee of a child, versus how much to save for adoption, if that is an option they’d like to pursue if treatment isn’t successful. But, most of us, my husband and I included, don’t have the financial resources with which to pursue both infertility treatments and adoption. So, if medical interventions don’t work, we’re left with failure, rather than the hope of parenting a child through adoption.

The infertile face flat-out discrimination in that their medical conditions don’t automatically enable them to have the medical insurance necessary for treatment. They face financial ruin as they pursue motherhood and fatherhood out of their own pockets. They suffer through invasive, embarrassing, hormone-filled, grueling medical procedures, which are physical and emotional torture. (Many of my July posts address the debilitating effects of my second IVF cycle.)

But, one of the worst facets of infertility is the isolation, for family members, friends and colleagues are often too uneducated or uncomfortable to know how to provide much-needed support. Today, Tracy directed her friends to Vita Alligood’s article on the Resolve website, www.resolve.org, titled “Infertility Etiquette,” so they will know how to react to her and others in the infertility camp. The piece is a must-read for anyone who knows anyone suffering from infertility. To read it, click on: http://www.facebook.com/l/7d71a;www.resolve.org/site/PageServer?pagename=lrn_ffaf_ie

Last, on Christmas Day, I asked for prayers for Tracy and her seven embryos. Today, she needs prayers more than ever, as she faces the future, tapped out financially, emotionally and physically. I am going to pray that she will someday become a mother, for, although life isn’t fair, any child, biological or adopted, would be blessed to be hers.

Three-Person Third-Wedding-Anniversary Dance Party

mk — Thu, 17 Dec 2009 04:35:46 +0000

Tonight my husband, our 4 ¾-year-old son and I celebrated my husband’s and my third wedding anniversary. To some, our night may sound unromantic, with a child in tow, but our son, originally just mine, is one of the primary reasons we are married at all.

I met my now-husband in May 2004, nine months—and six unsuccessful attempts—into pursuing my goal of being a single-mother-by-choice via insemination with anonymous-donor sperm. I was about 30 days into the medications involved with my seventh cycle; we stayed up all night talking; and I told him every detail of my past failures, which included a miscarriage, my present medication protocol, and my future plans, if my upcoming, final insemination didn’t work.

He was impressed by—and attracted to—my strength in not only pursuing my dream of being a mother, but also suffering through infertility, solo.

We spend the first nine days of our relationship facing the concept of me potentially becoming pregnant, using donor sperm.

I did.

We spent the first nine months of our relationship handling not only my high-risk pregnancy, but also the range of emotions involved with our brand-new romance complicated by me being pregnant with “another man’s baby,” as his less-evolved friends referred to my unborn child.

Nine months minus one day after we met, we pulled an all-nighter at the hospital, he as my birth partner, Beatles music playing in the background, as I gave birth to my son.

Ten months into my son’s life, he asked me not only to marry him, but also for permission to adopt my son.

He also said he’d be happy to get married over the Christmas holidays.

“This Christmas?” I asked, flattered by his eagerness, but stunned that he thought we could plan a wedding on such short notice. I’m a Catholic girl, after all, meaning hoops need to be jumped through. Lots of hoops.

We got married 13 months later, on December 16, 2006. He started the adoption process on December 18, the first business day afterward.

So, my son has been part of our relationship since Day 1: as a concept; as my primary focus during the nine months of my high-risk pregnancy; as an incredible bonding experience for us through childbirth classes and his birth; as a subsequent bonding experience when he was in the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit for the first five days of his life; as a newborn whom I was not separated from for the first 3 ½ months of his life; as a baby; a speech-delayed, frustrated toddler; an attitudinal 3-year-old; a compassionate, funny 4-year-old; through every milestone, from first smile, to first step, to first word.

And, he is reason we lasted beyond those first few days.

He is the reason my husband didn’t feel pressured by me, for I was not looking for a man to make me a mother; I was trying to be—then going to be—a mother on my own.

And, he is the reason I didn’t try to prematurely advance our relationship because of my blaring biological clock. Once again, I was dealing with that issue on my own.

My husband and I are meant to be, but, if not for my son, our timing would have been disastrous.

My husband, married a month out of college to his first girlfriend, had only been divorced for 13 months when we met. Finally free of a long, combative marriage, newly a single dad to his two sons, remarriage and becoming a father again were not short-term goals.

I, on the other hand, had suffered through 21 years of dead-end dating. Admittedly, I had compromised as I got older, settling for less than I deserved because I wanted to be in love, to get married, to have children. But, by the time I met my now-husband, my philosophy was “I can always fall in love, but I won’t always be able to have children.” The fact that neither he nor our relationship was my priority was appealing and refreshing to him.

So, unpressured, he and I fell in love; I had my own baby; we got married, making me a stepmother to his two sons; he adopted my son; and now I’m 21-weeks pregnant with our fourth son.

We’re unconventional, but it works well for us. So, tonight, the three of us—husband, wife and the 4-year-old reason we’re together—celebrated.

My husband drank two glasses of wine, while our son and I drank water. My husband served as deejay, selecting music on his iPod. Our son played air guitar, air drums, and danced until he, who is never, ever tired, said he needed to rest. Then he and my husband would jump up and dance some more. I would have loved to dance too, but, protecting another high-risk-pregnancy, I snuggled up on the couch, sang to the music and cheered them on.

No, it wasn’t romantic, but we were blissfully happy celebrating our anniversary.

It belongs to all three of us.

The Causes of Placenta Previa

mk — Sat, 12 Dec 2009 18:15:16 +0000

Yesterday, after my Level 2 ultrasound, conducted at 21 weeks of pregnancy, my doctor gave me the following directives because I am suffering from placenta previa, a condition in which the placenta covers the cervix, the baby’s exit from the uterus:

Lots of extra rest
No lifting
No intercourse

I know that my uterine abnormality, initially a T-shaped uterus now stretched by my previous full-term pregnancy into a slightly larger arcuate uterus, is the reason I battled infertility.

I know that my uterine abnormality and a prior surgery to remove precancerous cells from my cervix are the causes of my cervical incompetence during pregnancy.

I know diethylstilbestrol (DES), the useless synthetic estrogen given to my mother when she was pregnant with me, is the reason my uterus never fully formed—and is therefore deformed.

I know the sexually transmitted Human Papilloma Virus (HPV) is the reason I had precancerous cervical tissue, hence the reason part of my cervix is missing in action.

But, I had no idea why I am currently experiencing placenta previa, yet another complication in my already high-risk pregnancy. Being an information junkie, I’ve looked it up.

You and Your Baby: Pregnancy by Dr. Laura Riley, OB/GYN (Meredith Books, 2006), the book given to me by my high-risk pregnancy practice, states that placenta previa “happens in about 1 in 200 pregnancies. You’re more at risk if you’re older, if you’ve had several babies, if you’ve had a prior birth by cesarean, or if you smoke cigarettes.”

What to Expect When You’re Expecting by Heidi Murkoff, Arlene Eisenberg and Sandee Hathaway, B.S.N (Workman Publishing, 2002) gives the following explanation for placenta previa in its “When There’s a Problem” chapter:

“The risk of having placenta previa is higher in women who have scarring of the uterine wall from cesareans, uterine surgery, or D & Cs following miscarriage. The need for greater placental surface area due to an increased need for oxygen or nutrients on behalf of the fetus (because of smoking, living at a high altitude, or carrying more than one fetus) may also increase the risk of placenta previa.

In Your Pregnancy Week by Week by Dr. Glade B. Curtis, OB/GYN, and Judith Schuler, M.S. (Da Capo Press, 2004), the authors state the following:

“Placenta previa also occurs more frequently among smokers. The rate of occurrence increases by 25% in moderate smokers and 90% in heavy smokers.”

and

“This problem is not common; it happens about once in every 170 pregnancies. … The cause of placenta previa is not completely understood. Risk factors for an increased chance of placenta previa include previous Cesarean delivery, many previous pregnancies and increased maternal age.”

Older? Increased maternal age? Yes. Advanced maternal age starts at 35, and I’m 41.

Several babies? No. I’ve had only one.

Many previous pregnancies? Yes, but except for my pregnancy with my 4-year-old son and my currrent pregnancy, I’ve only had a prior pregnancy last until the 6^th week.

Birth by cesarean? None.

Scarring of the uterine wall from cesareans, uterine surgery, or D & Cs following miscarriage? I’ve had none of these three procedures.

Smoker? I’ve never smoked cigarettes.

Living at a high altitude? Nope. I live in a Chicago suburb.

Carrying more than one fetus? I was carrying twin boys, one of whom passed away during the 8^th week of pregnancy, then was absorbed by my body, making him a “vanishing twin.” His gestational sac was at the top of my uterus, with my surviving baby’s at the bottom.

So, based on these three pregnancy books, I can conclude that I am one of .005% of pregnant women to have placenta previa because of my age and/or because I was originally carrying twins.

Of course, I wonder if my DES-induced uterine abnormality is also a cause. My uterus is one-third normal size, so it contains less surface area for implantation as it is. Then, during my second attempt at in vitro fertilization (IVF), I became miraculously pregnant with not one, but two, embryos, both of whom had to fight to implant, with one going high and one going low.

The fact that I am one of .001% of women to have a congenital uterine abnormality has to be a factor… How could it not be?

I am so sick of the havoc and horrors DES continues to wreak on my life—and the life of yet-another of my unborn children.

20th Week of Pregnancy – and 100th Blog Post

mk — Sat, 05 Dec 2009 01:41:04 +0000

Last night, when I logged onto my “blog stats” page, I saw that I’d posted 99 entries to date. Because I was feeling too tired to write, I decided I could take yesterday off, writing today’s post as a celebration of two personal triumphs: Today, I hit the 20-week mark in my pregnancy—the half-way point—and today I am also publishing my 100^th blog post since launching my website in July.

But, instead of being capable of writing the meaningful post I’d planned, I’ve spent the day feeling exhausted, dizzy and emotional.

I slept during my 2½ afternoon hours of free time, while my 4-year-old son was in preschool.

Tonight, I lounged on the couch, watching the two-hour season finale of Private Practice, which I’d recorded on DVR. In it, a fetus, 23 weeks in utero, required life-saving brain surgery, a 7-year-child almost died after suffering a head injury and carbon monoxide poisoning in a fire, and a spouse died of extensive burns from the same fire.

So, the program addressed all of my greatest fears: losing my husband, my three sons or the unborn son I’m carrying.

I sobbed.

My husband said, “You’re banned from ever watching that show.”

“You don’t even know what I was watching…”

“I know, but you’re banned.”

“It was the season finale, anyway, so you don’t need to worry.”

I took a bath to try to feel better, and now here I am, in bed, propped up by pillows, writing a post that’s less than I’d intended it to be.

But, I realize that today is a triumph regardless.

Six years ago, I wanted a family so desperately that I had my son on my own, via insemination with donor sperm. I suffered from infertility, so it took seven tries. I met my husband nine days before I got pregnant, and he stayed. We got married three years ago, and he adopted my son immediately afterward. He has two sons from his previous marriage, so I am a stepmother to them, now ages 15 and 13. And, I’m pregnant again, via IVF, at age 41. It’s a high-risk pregnancy, but I’m half-way to holding my son in my arms.

The reason I was such a mess tonight is that I have so much to lose—because I have a family.

So, tonight, I’m celebrating my 20^th week of pregnancy, my 100^th blog post, my husband and my three sons. I’m celebrating the fact that I have a family.

Monsters Murder Their Children, While the Infertile Pine to be Parents

mk — Thu, 19 Nov 2009 01:38:12 +0000

Every day, I read the Chicago Tribune. Actually, I only read the Nation & World, Live! and North Chicagoland Extra sections, ignoring Business, Sports, Real Estate and Food. Today’s paper featured two reports of child abuse, one resulting in a 5-year-old’s death.

The headline of the first story—actually just a blurb—is “Couple charged with battery and unlawful restraint of girl.” In Shaumburg, Illinois, a couple, Najeh Shukri and Margarita Lopez, was arrested for tying up a 7-year-old girl, beating her with a belt, and placing the child “in a bathtub for five hours as part of the punishment for stealing candy on Oct. 30.” This little girl kept quiet, protecting her tormentors, whom I assume are her parents. It was only after “the girl’s leg bruises caught the attention of school authorities who called the police” that she admitted the abuse.

The title of the second article, written by Brian Cox, Special to the Tribune, is “Maine Township woman pleads guilty in daughter’s beating death. Prosecutors agree to not seek death penalty.” On March 13, 2007, 5-year-old Melanie Beltran, who had “suffered years of beatings and cruel punishments,” vomited. Her mother, Mila Petrov, now 32, got so angry that “she struck her daughter in the back of the head, causing her head to hit a wall, and, when Melanie denied getting sick, Petrov threatened to put hot sauce on her daughter’s tongue for lying.”

Petrov then took her daughter into another room and hit her again, causing her head to strike the floor… Petrov told police that Melanie was not breathing and that she did not have a heartbeat, but that she did not immediately call an ambulance because she feared she would get into trouble.”

…Instead of calling for help, Petrov quickly cleaned her house while her daughter lay dead or dying on the floor.”

…Petrov eventually called her husband, Carlos Beltran, and asked what she should do, and he told her to call an ambulance.”

In June, Beltran, 34, pleaded guilty to aggravated battery of a child in Melanie’s death and was sentenced to 20 years in prison.

Mila Petrov, who was charged with first-degree murder, will avoid the death penalty because she pled guilty. Prosecutors “now are asking that Petrov be given an extended prison term of 60 to 100 years when she is sentenced Dec. 10…”

To read the full article, see http://www.chicagotribune.com/news/chi-petrov-18nov18,0,4140092.story

I am a woman who has faced infertility, who has undergone a total of nine cycles of intrauterine insemination (IUI) and in vitro fertilization (IVF), who has suffered from embryo implantation problems, a miscarriage and, two months ago, the death of one of my unborn twins, who is being absorbed by my body while I remain pregnant with his brother. Having strived and struggled to be a parent, I can’t put into words how sickened I am that there are other parents who not only don’t appreciate the gifts they’ve been given, but also torture and kill their children.

First, I don’t understand how these “adults” hurt their children in their fits of rage.

Second, I can’t contemplate how, day after day, when they bathe and dress their children and face the damage they’ve inflicted—the bruises, the burns, the blood—they don’t take immediate action to protect their children, to get themselves and their innocent offspring help.

And, last, I don’t understand how these monsters find each other, for, in both of these cases, the abuse was ongoing and perpetuated by both parents.

How can two adults jointly participate in tying up their child, in hitting her with a belt, in forcing her to sit in a bathtub for five hours because she sneaked some Halloween candy?

How can two adults conspire to abuse their child and to hide its aftermath, year after year after year, until their beatings escalate to murder?

I will never understand because I believe that children should be the priority, and, if anyone is not prepared to make that sacrifice, that person isn’t cut out to be a parent.

Parents who are selfish won’t tolerate getting up in the middle of the night, multiple times a night, for months or even years. (My son still yells for me when he has nightmares or simply wakes up in the middle of the night, and he’s almost 5.) Parents who are selfish won’t be able to stand a newborn’s constant crying and spitting up, a toddler’s temper tantrums, the sleepness nights when a child is sick and, yes, maybe vomiting. They won’t be able to handle potty training and bedwetting and whining for a present during every trip to the grocery store—or any other store, for that matter.

Mila Petrov was so selfish, so self-absorbed, so unable to make anyone but herself a priority that, when she found that her 5-year-old daughter Melanie wasn’t breathing, that her daughter’s heart had stopped beating, she left her to die rather than call 911. She left her daughter to die because she was worried about getting in trouble.

I can’t imagine having any other thought besides calling 911 and starting CPR.

I am a woman who struggled to conceive and carry her 4-year-old son and the son she has inside her. I am a woman who has sat in infertility support group meetings sponsored by Resolve: The National Infertility Association, in which, among the women in the room, there had been dozens of pregnancies, but not one live birth. I am a woman who, because of this blog, has heard from woman after woman after woman who wants nothing more than to be a first-time or second-time parent, to shower their child(ren) with unconditional love, with patience, with support, with countless hugs and kisses. And, while many of these deserving women ultimately become parents, many are never able to overcome their infertility.

Meanwhile, the monsters mentioned in today’s Chicago Tribune not only bear children, but also mutilate and murder them.

I will never understand.