I have two healthy beautiful children. I also have a lot of scars. I feel like I’ve been through it all. I spent years trying to conceive and stay pregnant long enough to have a healthy baby.

While I was (finally) pregnant with my daughter, I suffered through horrible pain from a fibroid that was a big as her. At 23 weeks, I wasn’t sure I could manage the pain, but there was no way I would ever let this pregnancy go or risk surgery to remove the fibroid. Not after all that I had done to get there. So I suffered and endured debilitating pain. At times that’s what it takes.

My son was conceived “spontaneously”. That was a gift/miracle and wonderful. Still, we both nearly died while I was in labor because his hand was the first part of his body to exit mine. I’m here to share this story with you thanks to my mother, who pushed me out the door to go to the hospital so we would arrive in time and excellent emergency work on the part of  doctor and staff who operated. It’s a miracle.

I wanted one more child but it seemed that it wasn’t meant to be: I contracted CMV, later had an early miscarriage and then, at 42, felt time had run out. So I gave up. And then I was pregnant. We were happy and getting ready and made it through the first trimester. Sometime early in the second trimester we were informed that the fetus was not healthy. As we learned more, we discovered we would not be able to care for the child that would be born. We so wanted to meet him, but it was beyond our resources as a couple and as parents to manage what would be ahead of him, even with the resources the state would have provided. We made the difficult decision to terminate. Actually, in Israel, as the woman, the decision was mine. I was the one who had to sign off on the procedure and it was made clear to me that it was my body, my decision. Taking that decision was the hardest thing I have every done.

I have always been pro-choice, I just never expected to exercise that right. Everyone talks about how women with the resources will always have access to safe abortive health care and that’s true; if you live in the wrong state you’ll go somewhere else. This statement misses a whole aspect of terminating a pregnancy, especially at a later stage, the mental anguish. If I had had to “fight” for my abortion or travel, or circumvent the law in any way, I’m not sure I would have done it. I would have felt trapped, helpless, and in unbearable mental anguish. Two years later I’m still grieving, but I know that I made the right decision. I’m an adult and mature enough to navigate that tension and those feelings, but they are there.

Every step in building my family I had total agency over my body. My body, with all the physical and emotional scars left by the process. That women in the US will face a new reality is terrifying. I’m furious.

At some point in high school I read a short story as part of a Hebrew literature course. I remember nothing of the story line, but the title stuck: Chesed Shel Emet it is the Jewish concept of an act of kindness that one person can do for another, but for which the person can never be repaid, rewarded or thanked by the beneficiary- it can be loosely translated as a true act of kindness. The classic example in Judaism is being part of the chevra kadisha, the Burial Society, which prepares the body of a Jew for burial. The person who has died can never say “thank you,” but the act has allowed the deceased to fulfill one last ritual in accordance with Jewish tradition and law. A few years later, I recalled this concept as I “guarded” my grandfather’s body before his funeral, insuring that his body was not desecrated and doing one last favor on his behalf. It was the last moments that I had with him and while he will never be able to express his appreciation, I am beyond grateful for those few minutes.

Fast forward about 20 years, I was 16 weeks and 5 days pregnant but the fetus was not healthy. After consulting with various experts, we took the impossible decision to terminate the pregnancy. As the medical staff wheeled me into surgery to rid my body of his, one of the nurses leaned over and asked, “Do you want to arrange for the burial or would you like the chevrah kadisha to do so?” It was a question for which I was completely unprepared.

I had entered into this procedure fairly well informed, I met with doctors, nurses and a social worker all of whom explained the process and what to expect. I had consulted with friends who had been through this as well. I even knew that burial is not required according to Jewish law because I had not yet completed my 20th week of pregnancy, so I didn’t understand. It turns out that Israeli law is a bit different than Jewish law. After 12 weeks, parents are allowed to arrange for a burial privately, or they may elect to have the chevrah kadisha take care of the process.

It is important to mention that there is much controversy over the way this law is implemented and the information that is available to parents after a loss. It goes without saying that I am describing my own experience. Every woman who has been through this has her own impressions and criticism.

In that moment, without my husband by my side and starting to feel the effects of the anesthetic that would soon put me to sleep, I answered the only way that I could have: the chevra kadisha would arrange the burial. A year later, I’m still secure that I made the right decision for me.

They say when a pregnancy ends a woman loses a piece of herself. This has been the case for me even with my pregnancies that brought me my two beautiful children; in the days and weeks following their births I felt a bit empty inside, not just the relief of no longer carrying around a few extra kilo, but also that a piece of me had departed. I see that piece in my daughter’s smile and my son’s eyes. What was once part of me is now out there in the world. When a pregnancy does not end with a live baby, losing this piece of yourself is incredibly difficult. Months later I felt this loss, but I also began to feel that he was missing.  That is to say, the chevrah kadisha had buried him and I realized that I did not know where. He was missing.

To be clear, I did not need to know about the exact plot and I was not looking to visit. I just needed a bit more information about the general area. It so happens that this information is not easily obtained. I asked and googled but it’s not widely known. Not knowing began to haunt me, and so I turned to a friend, who turned to another mutual friend who had connections with the chevrah kadisha and he found out that there is a section of the main cemetery in Jerusalem where fetuses are buried. Knowing this information gave me a measure of peace, because someone had taken care of him after he left my body.

I did not have the emotional resources to deal with the burial and I think part of my healing process has been allowing myself to let him go. Permitting someone else to do what I could not, was part of accepting the loss. At the same time, I am grateful that his remains were buried because it is an acknowledgement that he was. Make no mistake, I knew and know that he had some type of presence in this world, if only through me. From the moment that I learned that he was growing in my body, I stopped drinking caffeine, eating sushi and stumbled through the nausea that accompanies me from about week six well into the second trimester of pregnancy. I felt my stomach harden and knew that in a couple of weeks I would need different pants and eagerly awaited his first kicks. However, all of these are the things that I knew and experienced, but in burying him it felt like the chevrah kadisha was recognizing what I already knew to be true.

It can feel very lonely grieving a lost pregnancy. Many people might not have known that there was supposed to be a baby. It’s difficult to grieve something that didn’t quite exist. The reasons are endless and unique to each person’s experience. Although I was not there, the act of burying the fetus “validated” my grief. While I am able to articulate my gratitude, I have no doubt that it was a Chesed Shel Emet.

It has been forever. There is so much that I had meant and still intend to do with this blog: I want to add resources and information about fertility treatments in Israel, share some more our story and allow it grow as source of support for women and couples dealing with infertility. If only my day had I few extra hours, sigh….

Despite all the various things demanding my time and attention I felt that this story was one that needed to be shared. I need to take you back to November 2014, I was starting my tenth week of pregnancy after 2 1/2 years in treatment. We were meeting with the doctor and he was writing up our release papers from the clinic- I could hardly believe that we were saying goodbye. Peace out IVF, we were graduating.
“We’ll see you in a couple of years,” I said.
“Maybe, you won’t need me,” he replied.

I didn’t think much of it at the time, probably shrugged and guessed it was possible. I was so thrilled that we were finally in a pregnancy that seemed to be sticking I almost forgot how hard the process had been. As walked out, I felt certain that getting there was worth every part of the difficult journey and that I would repeat it in a second. This certainty accompanied me throughout the pregnancy and well into my first weeks of motherhood. I was elated to be  holding my daughter and I knew that I wanted another one. The sooner the better. Now, right now.

As is often case with things like emotions, and oh hormones, everything soon changed. With every milestone she hit, there was a slight pull at my heart, a sinking fear, that if I did indeed want to have another child it would mean returning to the clinic and once again subjecting myself to all that was involved in those treatments. That’s when I started to think twice. As my daughter grew to be a toddler, started walking and demanded way more attention, I could not imagine carving out the emotional or physical strength that IVF would demand. Obviously, people do it, but I could not figure out  how to make it work. On the other hand, I am 38 years old.

All this came with people making comments like, “maybe this time you won’t need IVF,”  or “maybe it will just happen.” Yeah, maybe. For the most part I had to ignore these comments, because they were more than unhelpful. I felt anxious,  and stressed. I yearned for a different situation that was entirely out of my control.  We did a few ultrasounds after the pregnancy and not much had changed: ovarian cysts, fibroids and all.

In a not too surprising turn of events, my doctor’s attitude had changed since our last encounter. When I met with him this past July and expressed my ambivalence about returning to treatments, he cautioned me not to wait to long making a decision. “One day you’ll want another one, a sibling for your daughter,” he predicted, “the chances were not high that you would get pregnant in your fourth round of IVF, you got lucky. It gets much harder as you grow older.”  Hey, what happened to “maybe you won’t need me next time?”

Turns out, he should  have stuck with his initial assessment, because about a month after leaving his office I was “spontaneously pregnant”- that’s what they call it when there is no medical intervention.

When I told a friend who had gone through IVF and was pregnant with her first, she referred to me as an “IVF unicorn,” you hear about them, but nobody actually knows one. Who knows how or why it worked this time? I have my theories and the internet will confirm all of them. It’s a miracle.

I’m sharing this story for a few reasons. Some people may be comforted by this story; doctors don’t have all the answers. Sometimes things just happen because they do. I always want to offer people a glimpse into my feelings as we dealt with the questions of how or if we would have another child. For those facing infertility at any stage- 1st, 2nd or 5th child- it is always a mix of emotions and an incomprehensible challenge. There is not one way that works for every person, nor any guarantee, but you didn’t need me to tell you that. If  you know someone going through this process, think before you speak, you never know how you will be heard. If you are in it now, I’m telling you that you are not alone, I know because I’m right there with you.

I was sent a link to a podcast to about IVF treatments in Israel. I thought it would interest some of you.

Here is the link:

Voice of Israel, IVF

Part of the difficulty with infertility is that you don’t know when it will end. You hope and you envision the moment that you hold your child in your hands, but there is no crystal ball with the answer. As you wait you know that other members of your family are waiting hoping  and praying along with you. It is even more difficult when distance makes for the occasional visit and then the treatments prevent you from traveling when you would otherwise hop on a plane.

Unfortunately, sometimes they don’t live to see your dreams realized. Over the past year, Tommy’s Grandfather and now my Bubbe both passed away. They were both remarkable in their own ways.

The following is what I wrote to be shared at her funeral:

Way back in June I had planned to spend my summer blogging away. I wanted to share lots of anecdotes and thoughts with you all about our experiences. It all remains on my to-do list because this summer the war, my freelance work at The JerusalemBlueprint and visits from many friends and family members left me with little time to keep up with writing here. Guess it will have to wait until next year.

I could not let the new year pass without sharing something, but it will not begin to compare with what I wrote last year. Though last year is where I want to start as it’s been a year, nearly two, since we first began IVF.  I’ve stopped counting how long ago we started to trying to conceive. It goes without saying that all of this has influenced nearly every aspect of our lives both as individuals and as a couple.

Here is a short list of observations and lessons from the past year:

Communication: I have found our experience with infertility to be a mixed blessing of sorts, because as difficult as it has been, through the process Tommy and I learned communicate with one another in a way that I’m not sure we could have done otherwise. We have learned how to talk about complicated, emotional, and difficult issues and trust that the other person will listen. Most important we have learned to love right through all the trials and I feel privileged to have him as my partner.

Control: I’ve always been a bit of a klutz- Tommy calls me “tipsy Toby”- so leave it to me to end up cutting my head open and needing stitches while on complete bed rest. You’d think it be easy enough to just stay in bed and take it easy, but somehow I manage to turn that into an accident. It all goes to show you, how little control we have over the things that we have to deal with in life. Arriving at  the realization that many things are out of my hands ceased to be scary and instead I found it to be both refreshing and liberating.

Change: While the laws of inertia make it easy to stay the course, at times it is important to pause and consider a different approach, or maybe even a slightly different goal. Change does not always come easy and like most things it is both a risk and a process. I have discovered both the challenges and the benefits of change.

Hope: This word is the scariest word for a person dealing with infertility. When should you be hopeful? How do you temper your hope with realistic expectations? These questions apply to many different situations and over the past few days I have heard people express the wish that the upcoming year will be better than the previous.This tricky emotion allows us to push forward and believe that with a bit of effort the future can hold something better. I’ve learned that I do not need to ignore or qualify this feeling but rather embracing my hope helps me persevere through the challenges.

I enter this year taking all that I have learned with me and excited for the new lessons that lie ahead.