He is my miracle, even according to the reproductive endocrinologist who worked with me during seven intrauterine insemination (IUI) cycles, until I achieved a successful pregnancy—me, a DES (diethylstilbestrol) Daughter with a T-shaped uterus, one-third normal size.

He is my miracle who, although I was dilated at 27 weeks of pregnancy, the result of my DES-induced uterine abnormality, and having contractions at 31 weeks, stayed put until his due date—February 10, 2005. 

He is my miracle who was born in acute respiratory distress because he had aspirated meconium (his first bowel movement, in utero), yet rallied in the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit and was released four days later, on Valentine’s Day.

He is my miracle who eliminated the issue of my blaring biological clock, enabling my relationship with my brand-new boyfriend, whom I met nine days before getting pregnant via insemination with donor sperm, to progress to marriage and my husband’s adoption of him.

He is my miracle who grew to 9 pounds 7 ounces before birth, stretching my tiny T-shaped uterus into a larger arcuate uterus, making it possible for me to get pregnant during my second in vitro fertilization (IVF) cycle this summer.

My son is my miracle who has contributed to the realization of so many of my dreams.  Yet, while his presence, from conception to now, has been so powerful in my life, he will always be my baby. 

The book Love You Forever (Firefly Books, with its 68^th printing in 2004), written by Robert Munsch and illustrated by Sheila McGraw, communicates this concept more effectively than I ever could.  I’ve had the book for five years, and I have yet to read it without crying. 

The book’s back cover reads:

“A young woman holds her newborn son and looks at him lovingly.  Softly she sings to him:

I’ll love you forever,                                                                                                                                                           I’ll like you for always,                                                                                                                                                     As long as I’m living,                                                                                                                                                        my baby you’ll be.

This is the story of how that little boy goes through the stages of childhood and becomes a man.

It is also about the enduring nature of parents’ love and how it crosses generations.

Love You Forever is a book that both children and adults will enjoy—over and over again.”

Tonight, I feel so emotional about my son turning 5 that I can’t read Love You Forever.  I know I would bawl, and, considering that I’m in my 29^th week of yet another high-risk pregnancy, any physical and/or emotional stress should be avoided.

So, instead, I keep remembering how happy I was when my son was two weeks old, and a nurse at his pediatrician’s office called to confirm an appointment.  I answered the phone, and she asked, “Is this my son’s name’s mom?”

I knew how blessed I was to be able to say yes.

And, today, five years later, I still don’t take my role for granted.  My son is a gift, a miracle, entrusted to me. 

And, my husband, who chose to be his father, feels exactly the same way about him.

Tonight, I’m going to vent about “fat talk.”  

First, I have to admit that my family’s comfort with “fat talk” has been generated by me—by my jokes about my extreme weight gain.  Because I am self-deprecating, my family members assume I am comfortable with them being me-deprecating.  And, while I usually am, laughing along with the teasing, I hit my limit in the past few days.

Of course, being on bed rest for three weeks has minimized my sense of humor, while maximizing my size.  My bra size is now a 38E—an E, for God’s sake—up from its normal 34C.  And, the frightening thing is that, sitting atop my massive pregnant belly, my breasts actually look petite.

I am so happy to be pregnant at 41, elderly in the reproductive sense—as in literally reproductively elderly, as my diagnosis is “Elderly Multigravida with Antepartum Condition or Complication.” 

I am so happy to be pregnant considering my “antepartum complication or condition,” which is my uterine abnormality, the result of my mother unknowingly taking the synthetic estrogen diethylstilbestrol (DES) for nausea when she was pregnant with me.

But, while I feel so blessed to be pregnant, it’s not easy to live with the significant, body-altering side effects of the medications necessary for my two in vitro fertilization (IVF) cycles, one of which is weight gain.  Nor is it easy to live with the fact that the initial IVF weight gain is then topped with the necessary pounds of pregnancy.

But, because of the loss of one of my twins in September, I added unnecessary pounds through emotional eating in my attempt to cope with the death of my son, whose tiny body was still inside me.  I added unnecessary pounds as I hoped that my body would absorb him, rather than abort him, so that my other son would be saved. 

So, I have gained well beyond the recommended amount of pregnancy weight.  I’m not only pregnant, but also fat.  I know it.  My family knows it.  But, I don’t want to hear “fat talk” anymore.

My nearly 5-year-old son is the main perpetrator.  Sunday night, while we were lying in bed talking before he went to sleep, he asked if would put my arm around him.  I did.  After 30 seconds, he grunted and said, “Can you move your arm?  It’s too heavy.  I think it weighs 188 pounds.”

Monday, out of the blue, he said, “Mama, you’re a big, fat ninja.”

I know why he called me big and fat, so I asked, “Why do you think I’m a ninja?”

“Because you’re fat,” he giggled.

To me, fat would be the least likely adjective to use with ninja, but, then again, I’m not 4.

Yesterday, at bedtime, he started singing, “You’re a fat ninja.  You’re a fat ninja.”

Today, he announced that we were going to play “dinosaurs vs. people.” 

“Who gets to be the dinosaur?” I asked, because he has a remote-controlled dinosaur robot that can kick the asses of any of his toy people.

“You do,” he said.  “Because he’s fat.”

“Nice,” I responded sarcastically, knowing full well that he thought I should have the fat dinosaur because I’m fat.  “Fat dinosaur should be matched with fat Mama” makes complete sense in his young mind.

Hearing my tone, he tried to recover.  “Well, his tail is skinny.”

So, tonight, when he once again complained about the intolerable weight of my arm around him, I decided to have “the talk”— as in “the talk about fat talk.”

I started by asking him how he’d feel if people called him fat. 

He said, “If I was fat, and people called me fat, I would punch them in the face.”

“Do you want me to punch you in the face?” I teased.

He giggled.

I explained, “I know I’m fat.  But, after the baby is born, I will lose the weight.  And, until then, it sometimes hurts my feelings when you call me fat.  I know it’s true, but sometimes it hurts my feelings to be told the truth every day.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Sweetie, it’s OK.  You didn’t know it hurt my feelings.  But, now that you do, can you please not call me fat anymore?”

“OK.”

We’ll see how tomorrow goes…

The genetic counselor who wrote the letter wasn’t being insensitive.  In the 16 weeks since I learned of Baby B’s death, I couldn’t bring myself to call either my IVF clinic or its associated genetics lab to give them the bad news.

Notifying both has been on my “To-Do List.” 

I just couldn’t make the calls.

But, receipt of the letter made me realize I can now handle the notification process.  Because, when I read it, I didn’t get upset.

Not at the opening congratulatory sentence.

Not when reading sentence #2, which started, “As you are busy preparing for the new additions to your family…”

And, not when reading the closing sentence, which referenced my “babies” a final time.

Four months ago, I was devastated at the loss of one of my twin boys.  But, wallowing in self-pity isn’t productive, and I have another baby inside of me, my almost-5-year-old son, my 14- and 15-year-old stepsons, and my husband to love and care for.

I recognize that, considering my DES (diethylstilbestrol) Daughter status and my DES-induced uterine abnormality, I was incredibly blessed to successfully conceive my son six years ago.  Even my reproductive endocrinologist, a woman of science, called it a miracle.

My advanced maternal age of 41 and my husband’s advanced paternal age of 43 (during our second, successful IVF cycle) were added to the mix this time, making a pregnancy even more unlikely.  But, here I am, thanks to IVF with PGD, 25 weeks into carrying a healthy baby boy.

Because I’ve been so blessed, I’ve accepted the loss of Baby B.  (But, I admit that if I weren’t pregnant right now, if I weren’t going to have the baby I so desperately want for my family, I might still be bitter.)

Because I am pregnant, because I’m far enough along that my baby could survive, today I not only called our genetic counselor, but also wrote a long e-mail outlining every stage of Baby B’s short life, from my first ultrasound, at which my twin pregnancy was verified, to my 9-week ultrasound at which the technician notified me that he had no heartbeat.

Tomorrow, I will do the same with my IVF clinic.

And, I will not get upset, for I have so much to be thankful for.

My weight gain is so extreme, so early in my pregnancy, because of several factors:

1.  I’m not an active exerciser, but I am an active person.  But, once my husband and I decided to try to have another child, being active wasn’t an option.  Because of my diethylstilbestrol (DES)-induced uterine abnormality, blood flow to my uterus is compromised, resulting in too-thin-for-successful-embryo-implantation lining.  With infertility medications lengthening my cycle, my uterine lining gets a little bit thicker; however, that minimal progress would be negatively affected by exercise, which would stimulate blood flow toward the body parts being impacted—the heart, the lungs, the muscles—and away from the uterus.  Bottom line:  I haven’t overexerted myself in 10 months.

2.  In vitro fertilization (IVF) medications—hormones, hormones, hormones—make women gain weight.  For the majority of four months, from late-May through September, I underwent two IVF cycles, the second of which resulted in a twin pregnancy that required an additional protocol of daily injections of progesterone oil to try to save both babies.  Regardless, I lost Baby B in my eighth week.

3.  I’m an emotional eater, and I coped with Baby B’s loss by overeating.

4.  I’m a former anorexic/bulimic who, psychologically, has to give myself complete freedom with food while pregnant.  I have now accepted that I will forever have body-image problems, regardless of my investments in therapy and reading every eating-disorder book published.   When I was 13, a family member said my calves looked “thick.”  When I was 15, another family member repeatedly told me I had the body of a 50-year-old woman.  I had several boyfriends, from high school on, suggest that I “just needed to lose weight in my thighs.”  But, while I recognize that I will never escape the early damage to my physical self-image, I have gotten strong enough to not respond to my negative thoughts.  So, I eat when I’m hungry.  And, if I overeat, I no longer take laxatives to get rid of the food.  Obviously, being pregnant is the ultimate mind-fuck for an eating-disordered and body-image-disordered person, but, when I was pregnant with my son, I ate what I wanted, when I wanted, for the nine months—getting up to 209.  And, I’m proud of that.  And, as of last Friday, at 21 weeks of pregnancy, I weighed in at 189.3, and, for me, that’s emotionally healthy.  But, physically, it’s taking its toll.

Now at 22 weeks of pregnancy, I’m sure I’ve hit and surpassed 190, but I don’t weigh myself at home—yet-another personal triumph.  And, hauling around 40+ pounds of weight has to be burning ample calories, I rationalize.

For me, having a healthy pregnancy and healthy baby overrides all else.  So, regardless of my body-image problems, I eat.  And, I don’t exercise.  And, as of last Friday, I don’t lift anything or have intercourse because of my placenta previa. 

And, I thank God that I have a husband who doesn’t trigger any of my “issues”:  He is attracted to me, regardless of my size.   When the doctor told us last Friday that we couldn’t have intercourse, my husband said to me:  “He might as well have told me I can’t eat…”  God, I love him.

• 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.

The great news:  Our baby boy, estimated to be 1 pound 14 ounces, looks perfect in every way—his brain, his heart, his lungs, his stomach, his kidneys, his bladder, his arm and leg bones, and his 10 tiny fingers and toes. 

The doctor said that he saw no sign of chromosomal abnormality, which was reassuring to hear, even though my husband and I utilized pre-implantation genetic diagnosis (PGD) during our in vitro fertilization (IVF) cycles, which would have identified any abnormalities common with parents of advanced maternal and paternal age.  (My husband and I were 43 and 41 at the time of conception.)

Both the ultrasound technician and doctor confirmed that our baby is “still a boy,” so his “plumbing,” as the doctor called it, is normal also.

The bad news:  I am suffering from placenta previa, a condition in which the placenta is completely covering my cervix.

I’ve known that the placenta is blocking my cervix for five weeks now, but I was originally told not to worry because, as a baby grows, the placenta usually moves up as he/she repositions higher in the expanded area of the uterus.  But, today, my doctor said that I need to be resting every day, never lifting a thing, and refraining from having intercourse, for the goal is to protect the placenta so neither bleeding nor pre-term labor begins.

In the pregnancy book given to me by my high-risk practice, You & Your Baby: Pregnancy by Dr. Laura Riley, OB/GYN (Meredith Books, 2006), the placenta is described as “the organ that connects you and your baby.  It develops from the outermost layer of cells on the fertilized egg.  It takes oxygen and nutrients from the mother’s bloodstream and supplies them to the fetus.  It also removes the baby’s waste products, depositing them in the mother’s blood for elimination by the kidneys.  The baby is connected to the placenta by the umbilical cord.”

Regarding placenta previa, Dr. Riley wrote, “An ultrasound at 18-20 weeks may show a low-lying placenta or a placenta previa.  The ultrasound will be repeated in the 3^rd trimester, when most low-lying placentas will no longer be low because the uterus has grown larger.  If the placenta still completely covers the cervix at the time of the 3^rd trimester ultrasound, most of the time it stays there.  Placenta previa is usually diagnosed during the last 2 months of pregnancy.”

My doctor recommended that I return in three weeks, at 24 weeks of pregnancy, for a basic doctor visit, then again in six weeks, at 27 weeks of pregnancy, for a follow-up ultrasound to check not only the placenta, but also my cervix.

In the five weeks since my 16-week ultrasound, my cervix has shortened from more than 5 cm in length to 4 cm.  Today, the doctor said that any length more than 2.5 cm is considered good.  However, because of my diethylstilbestrol (DES)-induced uterine abnormality and a surgery to remove precancerous tissue from my cervix, I am at risk for incompetent cervix.  When I was pregnant with my 4-year-old son, I was already dilated at 27 weeks of pregnancy, so I was hospitalized, then put on bed rest.

Because of my previous pregnancy history, I wasn’t expecting any restrictions until approximately that same time period, six weeks from now.  So today was a bit of a shock, not only for me, but also for my poor husband.

I already know the treatment for incompetent cervix, which can sometimes be a cerclage, which is literally sewing the cervix shut, and bed rest.  The treatment for placenta previa, according to Dr. Riley, is as follows:

“If placenta previa is diagnosed, but there is no bleeding, your provider will probably tell you to go on bed rest or limit your activities to lessen the danger of bleeding until your baby is big enough to safely deliver by cesarean.  If you start to bleed, you will be admitted to the hospital; how long you will remain depends on several factors.  Cesarean deliveries are almost always necessary because the placenta would be torn from its roots during a vaginal delivery, causing life-threatening bleeding for mom and lack of oxygen for the baby.”

The bottom line is that perhaps the placenta previa will rectify itself, so I’m going to follow my doctor’s recommended restrictions, but I’m not going to worry needlessly.  I know that my high-risk practice is top-notch, so worse-case scenario I will be scheduled for a C-section prior to going into labor.  I have many friends who have survived C-sections with nothing more than a scar.

Regarding my risk for incompetent cervix, I’ve been in that situation already and followed my doctor’s orders so completely that my son was born on his due date, 13 weeks after my cervix had started to dilate. 

But, the first time around, I wasn’t told to give up intercourse.

My husband and I really, really love this little guy…

So, he stayed. 

He stayed when I got pregnant nine days after we met. 

He stayed when his friends gave him a perfect mockup of the cover of What to Expect When You’re Expecting, with theirs titled What to Expect When Your Girlfriend’s Expecting Another Man’s Baby.

He stayed when colleagues continued to ask him, “Is your girlfriend still pregnant?”

He stayed when a friend said he’d never heard of any relationship like ours—except on “The Jerry Springer Show.” 

He stayed because we had an unprecedented connection; our relationship was positive, fun, honest and filled with respect; he’s independent and self-confident; he doesn’t make his life decisions based on what other people think; and because I never pressured him.   I was the only woman he’d ever seriously dated who wasn’t expecting him to make her dreams come true.  I was taking responsibility for my own life, for fulfilling my own goals.

And, all of those people who initially teased my husband about his relationship with me recognized that our relationship made him happy, the happiest they’d ever seen him, so they eventually jumped on board, sending me baby gifts although I’d never even met some of them, celebrating with us at our wedding, and proclaiming us one of the best-matched couples they’ve ever known.

Our relationship is old news at this point, so no one is ribbing my husband about his prior choice to date a woman pregnant with the baby of an anonymous sperm donor.  But, this morning, I read the Chicago Tribune Sunday cover story by Kevin Pang, titled, “Are Funny Women Intimidating?” and it made me consider how much flack my husband may be getting because of the content of my blog.

In the “Are Funny Women Intimidating?” feature, Pang outlines, via interviews with more than 20 female improvisers, how their dating lives have been affected by “civilians”—their term for men working outside the improv community—who are intimated or embarrassed by them. 

Pang explains, “Even in 2009, we live among antiquated conventions.  No matter how much we push against what we know feels wrong, gender stereotypes still are embedded in us.” 

Pang interviewed Bernard Beck, associate professor emeritus of sociology at Northwestern University and a stage actor for 30 years, who said, “Even after a long period of transformation of women’s role in society, older, traditional images are still on everyone’s mind.  In relationships, women seem to be pleased more often with somebody who shows power, ingenuity and can put on a good show.  Men seem to more often look for a good audience.  And if the person you want to be an audience to you is instead seizing the limelight, that may not be the bargain you’re looking for.”  To read the full article, log on to www.chicagotribune.com/features/family/chi-1108-funnygirlnov08,0,4559069.story

My blog, operating since July 13, has covered my infertility and treatments, past and present; my confirmation that I am a DES Daughter, a woman whose mother took the synthetic estrogen diethylstilbestrol (DES) while pregnant, creating abnormalities of my reproductive organs; my high-risk pregnancy; the loss of our unborn son two months ago; my pregnancy symptoms; and more. 

I have been unflinchingly honest, because I am confident enough, at this stage of my life, to do so—and because, if more women had been comfortable sharing this information, more women, including me, would have been able to make educated decisions about our health, our childbearing plans, our futures.  I, for example, not knowing I was a DES Daughter, took unnecessary estrogen, via the birth-control pill and fertility medications, for almost 20 years, putting myself at increased risk for breast, ovarian, uterine, cervical and vaginal cancers. 

My blog is successful, attracting more and more readers—and extraordinarily loyal readers.  My website and blog have been operational for less than four months, yet 62% of my readers have visited more than once, 40% have visited nine or more times, 31% have 15 or more visits, 21% have more than 25 visits, and 8% have more than 50 visits.  Further, 2% have more than 100 visits, even though I’ve only posted 84 blogs.

I receive e-mails from women undergoing infertility treatments, those who’ve lost their unborn children, those who are scared because they took estrogen during their pregnancies and fear that damage has been done to their children.  They call my blog “inspirational,” “educational,” “informative,” and want to reach out to someone they know understands what they are experiencing.

But, while my blog is attracting more and more positive attention, my target audience is women, not the men who might harass my husband.  So, I asked him if he’s being teased, and he said, “Of course.”  He said he’s asked why he can’t “control his wife.”  He’s ribbed because I’m open about my DES deformities and pregnancy symptoms.

And, he said he just laughs with these men because he is proud of me.

In the final paragraph of the “Are Funny Women Intimidating?” article, author Pang states, “Then came the realization:  This was never about funny women.  It’s about weak men.”

Well said.  Well said—by a strong man…

Strong men are rare, but my husband is one of them.

My hope that more celebrities will be open about having used ART doesn’t extend to the personal, private intricacies—what specific treatment(s) they used, how many cycles they underwent before experiencing success, whether they did pre-implantation genetic diagnosis (PGD) of their embryos, how many embryos they transferred, and whether they used donor sperm, eggs or embryos.

I know from personal experience that the decisions to reveal the personal details of ART and/or donor conception, once a child is involved, aren’t easy ones.

When I was 35, I decided to pursue single parenthood via intrauterine inseminations (IUIs) with donor sperm.  I chose to go the sperm-bank route, and my reproductive endocrinologist would only work with Fairfax Cryobank, stating that the sperm bank did more testing on its donors and semen samples than any other facility.  At the time, Fairfax Cryobank only had anonymous donors.  And, at the time, this increased guarantee of the medical health of the donor, sperm and resulting child outweighed, for me, whether the donor was “open” or anonymous.

From the start, I was honest with everyone about how I was trying to get pregnant—with IUIs and anonymous-donor sperm. 

I thought I was doing IUIs simply because that’s one way single girls using donor sperm can get pregnant, if they decide to not go the do-it-yourself-at-home route.  It wasn’t until after my fourth unsuccessful cycle that I found that I required ART to conceive—and might never conceive at all—because of my T-shaped uterus, the result of my exposure to the synthetic estrogen diethylstilbestrol (DES) when I was in utero. 

But, even before I knew exactly what my reproductive problem was, I knew the problem was me, for the sperm donor had a proven track record. 

So, try after try, when I didn’t get pregnant, I revealed my disappointments.  I was comfortable sharing what I was going through, and, not having an infertile partner or infertile known sperm donor to protect, I could.

So, I understand why some individuals or couples wouldn’t want to shout, “The problem is my low sperm count,” or “My uterus is deformed,” or “That STD I contracted in college made me infertile,” to the world. 

My body was the reason for my infertility.  And, being single and using an anonymous donor, my decision to reveal my infertility and subsequent treatments in detail was my decision—my decision alone.

Trying to conceive as a single woman, I also shared, from the start, that I was using donor sperm.  I went so far as to announce it to all of my Catholic relatives in my 2003 Christmas letter, feeling that they required some advance notice, rather than the shock of 35-year-old single me getting pregnant.  I knew, if the more negative ones found out after the fact, they would assume that my pregnancy was accidental, regardless of my claims to be a “single mother by choice” who actively pursued pregnancy via donor-sperm insemination. 

So, I was proactive, instead incurring the wrath of those family members who agree with the Church’s stance on using both ART and donor gametes.   

Regardless of the judgment of the Catholic Church and my Catholic relatives, I have never questioned using ART—or my honesty about using it—to conceive my son.  However, after he was born, I did question any future openness about having used donor sperm.  (Not in relation to him, because I’ve told him his special story since his birth.)  It was fear about others’ judgment of my son that led to this questioning.

My fear was precipitated by my now-husband, then my boyfriend, and I moving to the Chicago suburbs to be closer to his two sons.  Shortly before our move, I was told that his ex-wife referred to my son and me as “That woman and her mutt,” and I became terrified that she would reveal how he was conceived, with her negative spin, to people I hadn’t yet met, not giving me the opportunity to decide what to reveal and to whom.

Then, a long-time resident of the area to which we were relocating discouraged me from telling the truth, warning me that people might make fun of my son because he was conceived in a test tube.  He wasn’t, but I was scared about my son being mocked nonetheless.    

So, I struggled with being worried for my son, then concerned that hiding the truth would be, in effect, acting as if there were something wrong with how he was conceived, something that should be concealed in order to protect him.

And, there isn’t.

I knew I likely could get away with telling no one because everyone in our new community would assume that my then-boyfriend/now-husband was the biological father of my son.

But, for my husband and me, living a lie wasn’t an option.  As we’ve gotten to be close to new neighbors and friends, we’ve told them our story, which includes my husband and I meeting nine days before I got pregnant with my son during my seventh IUI. 

And, their responses have ranged from exclaiming that it is “the coolest story they’ve ever heard” to thinking that the fact that my son is donor-conceived is “no big deal at all.”  If anyone has a negative opinion, they haven’t shared it.

But, although we’ve been open, we don’t feel it’s right to make our son, whom my husband adopted after our marriage, the poster child for anything, whether being a donor-conceived child or having white-blonde hair.  He’s only 4.  So, I never mention him by name on this website, and the pictures of him posted are either unidentifiable based on what he looks like now or profile shots that, once again, make him unrecognizable.

But, I’m not a celebrity.  Paparazzi aren’t outside my home, clicking away at every opportunity.  So, my husband’s and my decision to be honest about my son being conceived with donor sperm isn’t the same as celebrities being open about the same.   Their stories would be splashed across every tabloid, online gossip site, television and radio outlet, etc.  And, having their children’s origins on front pages across the globe would be detrimental.

So, from personal experience, I don’t think celebrities have to reveal exactly how they created their miracle families.  But, if they could share that it took ART—and that ART is costly—it will educate aspiring parents that it’s difficult and expensive to outrun your biological clock—even if you’re rich and famous.

However, at the 10-week mark, I’d already been “closed out” by the IVF clinic because the staff’s job—getting me pregnant—had been completed, and the head of the Maternal-Fetal Health group determined that I could go three weeks between appointments—unless I needed to get a peek at Baby A to calm my nerves. 

Not wanting to look like a crazy person, I waited until my scheduled appointment this morning.  I waited the full 3 ½ weeks between appointments—and ultrasounds. 

And, it wasn’t easy. 

I’m not nauseated anymore.  Not starving.  I have more energy.  And, while I recognized that this lessening of symptoms could be tied to my exit from my first trimester, I worried that it might mean that Baby A had died too. 

While we did pre-implantation genetic diagnosis (PGD) to assure the chromosomal health of our embryos prior to implantation, and while chromosomal abnormalities are the primary reason for first-trimester pregnancy loss, we still lost Baby B.  No explanation, just speculation. 

His gestational sac had been separating from my uterine lining during the fifth week of pregnancy, so I believe that his development was stifled during those early days, that, although he was a fighter whose sac reattached itself properly, he couldn’t make up for the lost nutrients and the stunted growth of critical parts of his teeny-tiny body.

My uterine abnormality—an underdeveloped, one-third normal size T-shaped uterus that my 4½-year-old son stretched out while he was in utero, making it now a slightly larger arcuate uterus—has too-thin uterine lining.  I’ve lost several babies as a result, including, in my opinion, Baby B.  So, I will always worry about Baby A.   It’s impossible to suffer from recurrent pregnancy loss without feeling constant, underlying fear until delivery.

So, I was nervous today. 

I was especially stressed because every subsequent period of visitation with my stepsons is harder for my son.  (Since early September, my 15-year-old stepson has been away at school, so my son only sees his 13-year-old brother until the holidays.) 

Saturday night, my son had the meltdown of his life when I insisted he stop playing the Lego Star Wars video game with his brother because it was time for bed.  (See my “You’re Such a Bitch” blog, dated October 17.)  Sunday night, he cried at bedtime, when he had to separate from his brother.  Yesterday morning, he was teary-eyed when we dropped his brother off at school.  Last night, he bawled, knowing it was our last night together, that this morning would bring a week’s separation.  He cried, “I don’t want him to have to go back to his mean mom.  I love him.”

And, this morning, after the school drop-off, he cried again.  And, every time, I think, “Please, God, make sure this baby is OK.”

Because my son needs him, needs to become attached to a sibling who will still live with us when his older brothers leave again and again, a sibling on whom he can focus when he’s feeling abandoned and lonely.

And, as of today’s ultrasound, our baby boy is perfect.  He’s now 8.3cm from the top of his head, his “crown,” to his “rump.”  His heart is beating 150 times a minute, which the ultrasound technician deemed “good.”  I saw him moving for the first time, waving his little arms. 

The technician zoomed in on his face, showing me his nasal bone. 

I asked why she was measuring it. 

She said, “Oh, we don’t measure it.  We just check for its presence because most Down’s babies don’t have a nasal bone.”

She said she also was going to check his neck because Down’s babies have thicker necks, which I knew.  She measured his neck several times, coming up with the same number, showing its reliability.  She said his neck is normal, but I already knew that would be the case—because of PGD.

Last, I asked her about Baby B, for I saw his gestational sac and body, both of which looked miniscule sitting on top of Baby A’s.  She said he is being absorbed, outlining all that is left of him in his sac.  At this point, 4 ½ weeks after learning of his death, I am focused on the future, on the health of Baby A, so I primarily felt relief that my body is doing its job.

I still feel sad, especially because I started carpooling with twin boys, who are so damned cute together that, every time I’m around them, I feel a sense of loss for my baby, for my son, for my stepsons, for my entire family.

It know it will be easier for me when I can’t see him anymore.  Three and a half weeks ago, during my 10-week ultrasound, he looked so normal that I was looking for his heartbeat, although I knew he was dead.  Today, Baby A’s development was so stunningly significant, next to Baby B’s shrinking body, that I experienced full acceptance.

Baby A (bottom), 8.3cm from crown to rump. Baby B (top) in his gestational sac, both of which are being reabsorbed by my body.

When I met with the doctor, a brand-new one this time—and one who mentioned his twin sons, of course, for I’m tormented by twins these days—he said that he wants me back during my 16^th week for a transvaginal ultrasound to determine if my cervix is closed.  When I was pregnant with my son, my premature dilation wasn’t evident until the 27^th week, but he wants to be safe, which I appreciate.

So, I need to wait three more weeks for another ultrasound fix.

I can do it. 

But, I will hate it.

Baby A is now 3.34 cm and is “right on target” with his growth.  Once again, I was able to see his miniature body on screen, but today I could make out not only his head, but also his arms, legs and tiny “tush.”  Thankfully, his heart was beating away, looking like a flashing light, and the ultrasound technician let me hear it, determining it as “very strong.”  I can’t express the relief I felt, seeing for myself that he is still alive.

Baby B is located right next to Baby A, so I saw him again today too.  He looked so normal that I found myself looking for the visual of his heartbeat, expecting last week’s diagnosis of death to be a mistake. 

But his body was static, with no pulsing heart. 

I asked the technician if my body is absorbing Baby B properly, and she said, “Well, you can see the difference in the sizes of the [gestational] sacs, so this one stopped growing.”

That’s not what I had asked.  And, Baby B’s gestational sac was always smaller, but she wouldn’t have known that, because she’s never performed an ultrasound on me before.  But I stayed silent.

She then said, “In four or five weeks, you probably won’t see anything there.”

Each of the three ultrasound technicians has been so robotic.  Working in a high-risk practice, I assume they often have to deliver bad news, so perhaps staying emotionally distanced is how they cope.  But, it’s hard to be on the receiving end.

However, the nurse who worked with me today was very knowledgeable about my history and very sensitive about Baby B’s loss.  So was Dr. M, the head of the practice.  He told me to make a follow-up appointment for three weeks from now, then stopped and said, “But, if you get nervous, you come in whenever you want.”

Dr. M reiterated what I’d heard from Dr. H last week, that we will never know why Baby B died.  He said, even though he was deemed chromosomally normal via preimplantation genetic diagnosis (PGD), he may have had another abnormality.  Perhaps his heart wasn’t developing properly.  Or maybe his placenta was bad. 

He said that my protocol is now changed from a twin one to just one for patients at risk for pre-term delivery.  I’m at risk because of my DES-induced uterine abnormality, which can result in incompetent cervix.  Incompetent cervix can also occur because I’ve had part of my cervix removed because of pre-cancerous cells, but he seemed less worried about that, based on the location of the tissue removed.

We discussed my nausea, all-day, every-day nausea that forces me to eat bland carbohydrates only because they’re all I can keep down.  I had only two days of virus-related nausea when I was pregnant with my 4 ½-year-old son, and I had no pregnancy-related nausea prior to learning last Friday that Baby B had died.  And, now for six days straight, I’m vomiting or gagging or simply unable to contemplate eating.

My sweet husband has been so worried about me because of the nausea.  Around 3 a.m. this morning, when we were both suffering from insomnia, he told me that I needed to discuss it at my appointment.  He said, “This isn’t normal,” and “You were never sick when you were pregnant before.”

I answered, “Well, supposedly every pregnant is different.”

Then I added, sarcastically, “And, this time I have your DNA inside of me.”  (I conceived my son as a single woman using donor sperm.)

He laughed—and laughed hard.

“Well, you asked for it.”

And, I did.

Dr. M said there is no link between Baby B’s loss and my nausea.  He said losing a twin makes it less likely that I’d suffer from morning sickness.  He believes my nausea is simply tied to where I am in my pregnancy, that it is very common for it to kick in at this point.  He’s not worried about it as long as I stay hydrated, which I’m doing, and as long as I’m not losing weight, which I’m not.  I’ve gained a pound since last Friday, probably because I’ve eaten only carbohydrates for a week.

Dr. M said that, if my nausea becomes more severe, he can “prescribe something,” but I said, “That’s how my mother took DES, for nausea.”  So, I’m paranoid.  I’d rather suffer through this, as long as it isn’t hurting Baby A, which he assured me it is not.

So, I’m a complete mess, traveling with a plastic bag in case I get sick on the go.  Afternoons and evenings are my worst times, when I walk in slow motion through our house, trying not to jolt my sensitive stomach.  I drink Ginger Ale.  I eat English muffins.  I eat plain bagels.  Lipton Noodle Soup.  Crackers.  Cheerios.   

This afternoon, as I lay in bed while my son was at school, I looked though all of the materials given to me by the nurse today.  On the Visit Summary printout, I saw that my diagnosis is “Elderly Multigravida with Antepartum Condition or Complication.”

Elderly?

Knowing that age 35 is the beginning of “advanced maternal age,” I wondered if being over 40 makes me elderly.  So, I looked it up.  Elderly is the term for pregnant women 35 and older, a “gravida” is a pregnant woman, and a “multigravida” is a woman who has been pregnant more than once.

So, that’s me, not only an elderly multigravida, but once with an antepartum condition or complication.

Humbling.

But, my Baby A is OK, which makes me happy—elderly, nauseated and all.