Open letter to Pope Benedict

Dear Pope Benedict,

Thanks for your recent comments that embryos should not be used for stem cell research, because doing so "violates the sanctity of human life."

Now, I realize you don't speak for me -- I'm a Jew, and we believe human life begins at birth. Still: On Saturday I made the decision of what to do with 11 embryos created in a lab with my eggs and a stranger's sperm. Those embryos were of varying qualities. Two went into my uterus, and remaining nine stayed in the petri dish. Why? Because despite your beliefs to the contrary, these embryos were not, really, human life. They wouldn't have survived in my uterus, and they never would have become children.

But they're not without potential. You see, Pope Benedict, I am participating in a stem cell research study, and my remaining embryos have been donated to science. I could not be more convinced that this is the right thing to do -- particularly because someone I love dearly has Parkinson's Disease, an illness that could someday be cured with therapies developed from embryonic stem cells.

If I'd transferred those embryos to my uterus, they would have died. I could have had the lab toss them in the trash. But instead I think they're doing more for human life in their current capacity than they could have in any other circumstance.

The embryos that had the potential for human life (note: potential) are dear to me; I am crossing my fingers that I get to meet one or both of them some day. I wish more of the others had more baby-making potential. But they didn't, and I am thrilled to be participating in the stem cell study.

The practice of doing research on stem cells was severely curtailed in the US by President Bush in 2001, when he banned the use of Federal funds for embryonic stem cell research. This, despite widespread public support for the practice. Pope, I can only hope that my incompetent, lame-duck government doesn't try to implement your religious viewpoints any more than it already has.

I pray for the embryos in my uterus and for the ones in petri dishes everywhere, in the hopes that all of them can make dreams of all varieties come true.

Yours,
Aspiring Baker

Small blows

It is not getting easier.

At times I think I'm fine, I'm handling this so well, I am a trooper. I rock. Then new information knocks on my door and punches me in the face.

Sunday my period arrived in full force just before I attended a friend's baby shower. In addition to the in-utero fetuses in attendance, a new mom brought her newborn to the shower. I remember when the mom, the pregnant friend, and I were all knocked up at the same time. We were going to go out for pregnant ladies tea, only I nixed it, wanting to wait to see a good heartbeat. I made it through the shower pretty well, but I look miserable in the photos.

Yesterday it was the news that another co-worker is pregnant. I suspected this woman might want to have another baby, and just yesterday I saw her walk by and thought she looked pregnant, so I'm not entirely surprised. Then today the news that another co-worker's wife is expecting -- more news I anticipated. This is now past the time that I would have shared my news. I would have been part of the pregnant people club. Instead I'm part of the one-person club that has to leave the office to walk around the block and keep myself together after someone whispers to me that his wife is pregnant.

When I was a kid, the street next to ours always had block parties for the Fourth of July. I knew kids on that block but always felt left out, wishing we had parties on our street. Thirty years later I feel the same way. As my co-worker mentioned something about how much your hormones rage during pregnancy, I wanted to say, I know -- I've been there. Of course I haven't been there, really; I've spent about 12 weeks being pregnant in my life, less than a trimester. But when someone tells me their news, I feel this urge to share mine, to be recognized. After reacting probably not as enthusiastically as I should have with co-worker number 2 today, I pondered opening up to him. Instead I'm writing a blog post from my desk, wishing my block would just throw its own party already.

Blessed events

There are three invitations on our fridge right now. One for the wedding of my 26-year-old cousin, who's having a very large, presumably extravagant (and heterosexual, if that's not obvious) wedding; ten bucks says she's pregnant before she's 30. The second is to the lesbian wedding of a friend with a toddler; she conceived on the first try, and for their wedding gift, they're asking friends to contribute to an IVF fund. Not because they need to do IVF for kid #2, but so they can use one partner's egg and the other's uterus. The last invitation is to a baby shower of a close friend who's expecting twins after struggling with infertility for a while. When I was pregnant, I imagined attending these events with a nice little second-trimester belly. Instead I have my usual grandmotherly figure.

Is it any wonder I'm a little cranky these days? This summer was supposed to be a break, and in some ways it has been: I haven't touched my basal body thermometer, haven't gone to acupuncture, and even spent two less-miserable-than-expected weeks on the South Beach diet (more on that later, maybe). In other ways this hasn't been a break at all, because the very nature of a break makes me anxious. The longer I wait, the longer I wait. I probably won't be pregnant again until I'm at least 37. Given that I got pregnant at 35 and 36, and given that I've always wanted two kids, this freaks me out. I worry that if I do get pregnant, it may be my only pregnancy -- if I'm able to maintain it.

It's also not entirely a break because of the hoops I need to jump through to prepare for IVF -- blood tests, copious forms, choosing the next sperm donor, etc. My doctor's office wanted me to see a psychologist to discuss my feelings about "third-party reproduction." This nearly made my head explode: for some reason no one has required me to see a therapist for the 17 cycles of third-party reproduction and two miscarriages I've already experienced. Why is it different now? (Since I already have my own therapist, I'm finding a way around this, but the very idea of this enrages me.)

To get started with IVF, I need to call my doctor's office when my period arrives. From there, I take birth control pills for a month (that'll be fun!), then start the other no-doubt-delightful drugs in anticipation of an egg retrieval about 6 weeks after my period arrives. At the earliest, an egg retrieval could happen in late August. Until recently I thought I'd wait until the end of the summer to get things going. But this week I realized that this break isn't a break; it's a stagnant pause I never wanted. Maybe the best way to stop feeling pissed off and sorry for myself is to accept that I'll never be ready for another miscarriage. I'll never want to do IVF. Maybe going to Paris before I get pregnant again isn't as important as just getting this goddamn show on the road.