The Big Flip

I bet I found this hilarious when I took the photo.

When I was eight months pregnant with my daughter, my mom took Lior and me to a baby furniture store in Mishawaka, Indiana. Most of the furniture was handmade by woodworkers from the Amish community of Goshen, Indiana. Cribs, rocking chairs, beds, hand stitched clothes: this was no Bye Bye Baby or Ikea, but it also carried none of the snobbishness of boutiques that populate wealthy urban areas or their suburbs. 

The prices were steep, though. And I felt a tinge of guilt being 36 and having my parents pay for high end baby furniture, “Mom, we can just go to Target?” I whispered out of the earshot of the salesperson who looked up from her crocheting. I noted that she did not have a computer, but mimeographed billing paper. 

“It’s our pleasure,” my mom said. And I knew it was. Finally, I was married. Finally, I was having a baby. 

We settled on a large wooden crib that could transform one day into a toddler bed and a wooden dresser with a built in changing table that could one day "transform into a dresser once the child or children," the saleswoman said quietly, "grew out of diapers." Her low tones were homage to the superstitious Jewish tradition I was honoring of not counting my chicken before he or she hatched. I entered both my marriage and my pregnancy with unbridled optimism with twinges of "tomorrow is never promised." Therefore, the Amish would not begin crafting the pieces until the baby was born. The due date was February 7, 2013. 

However, plans changed and Maya came into the world early in January. The owner of the shop and her friend drove the crib and the dresser to our apartment in Chicago themselves and put them together with their own set of tools. As Maya startled from the electric screwdriver, I told her that one day she too would be an independent woman who would put together her own furniture.

The crib and the dresser were beautiful. But alas, the irony of a perfect fit is that you hope that they will be perfect somewhere else. Shortly after Maya was born, I was hired to teach at an international school in Israel, where my husband is from and is a tour guide. 

The heaviness in leaving my family could be measured by the weight of the crib, dresser, and rocking chair handed down to me by my brother and sister in law, also purchased from that same store. The school offered a shipping allowance, and they were taken by freight across the Atlantic, down the Mediterranean, to our home in Netanya. 

It took five months for the items to arrive. In the end I wished I hadn’t shipped them at all. The changing table/dresser, the beloved dresser, had been badly damaged. There was a lengthy, deep, cracked slice down the side of the wood. The part to transform the crib into a toddler bed was bent and no longer usable. I called the shipping company. They offered me $100. “Your insurance deductible is $1000. $100 should cover the damage.”

Early births, moving across the world, damaged furniture are all cataclysmic events when they occur, but eventually they fade into memory, only evidenced by a forehead line or two and hidden by facing the furniture in strategic directions. 

Which brings me to seven and a half years later. 

The crib we hadn't seen in years. We had given it to a friend to borrow. The damaged dresser was just a regular dresser. My son was about to turn five and my daughter was seven. No diaper had been changed there in years. We used the changing table portion to store books, dolls, and other children’s accessories. But the dresser had begun to smell. While the children were out with a babysitter, I took it completely apart to clean it. I couldn’t find an obvious culprit, but I was hopeful that the thorough washing would help. 

However, the truth is, there was more that needed to be done than clean this dresser. 

It needed to be flipped. There was no reason to keep the changing table side at the top. 

You may be asking what was the big deal? Why didn’t you just flip it? 

It’s heavy. Pure Amish wood.

Why didn't Lior help you?

I had kept a secret from most of you. Not because I wanted it to be a secret, but because I felt ashamed and foolish. Because it happened right before Covid-19. But mostly because I felt a bit stupid. 

This piece wasn’t written as a cry out for sympathy or empathy. Nor was it for you to tell me I was not stupid. I wrote it because this is what writers do, we write, and also because I do think to some degree secrets like these are unhealthy, or at least unhealthy for me. They are dishonest. They are fakebook. I also think that when you keep even minor pain hidden, you turn other more innocuous incidents into dramatic ordeals. Or at least I have that tendency.

From 2016-2019, Lior and I had been trying to have a third child. I always said that I would never use reproductive technology. Well, in January I turned to reproductive technology. The physician, who is supposed to be “the best” told me that I was in great health, that I looked more like I was 30 than 43, but even still because of my age I only had a five percent chance of conceiving a healthy child and that it would cost $12,000.  (I’m not an Israeli citizen. Israeli citizens get a few attempts at minimal cost). 

There were two things here that should have led me to the door never to return: five percent and $12,000. Instead, I said, okay, great, when do we get started? 

Because here’s the thing. Trying to have a third child was totally irrational. There was no good reason for me, especially, to have a third child. If I were to make a pro-con list of having a third child, the con list would have been a mile long; the pro list would have been a sticky note. It didn’t matter. I wanted to try and Lior was supportive.

Five percent. If it happened to five percent of women, why shouldn’t I be one of them? It was way better odds than winning the lottery. Besides, Halle Barry, Susan Sarandon, Christie Brinkley, Celine Dion, Gwen Stefani, Uma Thurman, Madonna, Janet Jackson, Geena Davis, Mary Stuart Masterson, Cameron Diaz and Marcia Gay Harden were all my age or older when they had children. How did I know this? I googled it and maybe spend too much time reading celebrity news.

However, just because they birthed the children doesn’t mean that they used their own eggs. They may have had. I didn’t know their medical histories. Or they may have used their own frozen eggs. But I hadn’t realized that when I went through my process.  

At this point in time, almost everyone is somewhat familiar with the IVF process, so I’m not going to get into it. My process wasn’t really special, except that it occurred in a different country, which made the communication process at times challenging and aggravating. Some of you who know me well know that my hands shake and that when I’m nervous it gets worse. Lior gave me all of the shots, and an unexpected outcome of the nightly injections was that they  strengthened our marriage. He took care in being gentle when inserting the needle, and the one time that it hurt more than just a sting, he worked hard to ensure that the next injection would hurt less. There was a level of intimacy in this process that I’ve never experienced with anyone before, even with Lior during the births of our children. 

Given you know the ending, this is probably dragging a bit. The doctor wanted to implant three embryos. I was only interested in two. I just felt three was irresponsible. He reminded me, “five percent.” 

Five percent. 

The days between the implantation of the eggs and the blood test to see if I was pregnant, I went from telling a few close colleagues to about 20 people. I couldn’t stop telling people. I was just very excited. I COULD BE pregnant. 

The reactions from my colleagues to other preschool moms was really heartening. “You have such beautiful children, of course you’d want another one.” “You are such a good mom, of course you’d want another one.”

No one said, “You are a frenzied, stressed out basket case, what the hell are you thinking?” 

Or, “You paid WHAT?” 

The final ride to the hospital on the bus was fast. The blood test was faster. The train ride back to work and the cab to school were blurs. I wonder how I was as a teacher that day, the day that I would find out if I was pregnant. 

At 6 p.m. the Medical Center called. I gave Lior the phone because inevitably the person on the line’s English wasn’t good enough to explain the complexities of the next steps in English. 

Her English was fine.

“There’s no sign of pregnancy,” she told Lior as I listened. “None.”

“Okay,” he said. 

“She should stop taking the fertility medication.” 

And that was that.  

I sent an email to the too many people I told (if you’re wondering why I didn’t tell you, there was a benevolent reason. Don’t be offended. Just ask me and I’ll tell you.)  

Sorry that this is a generic email. 

 

I just received the news that the implantation was unsuccessful. Although I am sad, I knew my chances were basically nil for this to work out. 

 

Although I badly wanted a third child, I have everything and everyone that I need in life. For a while there, I didn't think I would get married and have children. I am blessed with a wonderful, amazing, supportive husband and two great kids who I adore and, not to brag, but adore me.  I was always worried that I wouldn't be a good mom, but so far, I'm doing okay. 

 

Thank you for your excitement and support. I felt very loved by everyone. And I will be okay. 

 

The next day my period came as it does every month. I called my parents to tell them the whole story. I hadn’t told them my plans because I thought they would tell me what I was doing made no sense; they would have been right. My dad didn’t say much. My mom said what I knew she would say, and she was right: how would I manage a third child with all of my responsibilities? It worked out for the best. It wasn't bashert. (meant to be).

 

Then, randomly, my mom fell ill and ended up in the hospital with a mystery virus. (Not Covid. Something else.) 

A few weeks later hundreds of thousands of people began dying of Covid-19. Life as we knew it changed. I didn’t really think too many people would find this story compelling. Perhaps they still won’t. Perhaps it’s not. 

So why? Why did I waste $12,000 on a third child that was never to be born. [Our financial situation is okay. No need to send cash.]

I honestly felt that there was another child out there for us. I know some of you might be smacking your head. But really. It’s how I felt. I can’t say that I feel any differently today. It’s just I won’t be letting those feelings lead me to (more) financial and hormonal ruin. Perhaps a psychologist would say it is simply that because my husband and I were third children, and if our parents had stopped at two, we would not exist. Was my subconscious just messing with me? 

Or perhaps this was just a big midlife crisis. When I was single, after reading The Heidi Chronicles by Wendy Wasserstein, I asked my book club if they thought every woman is entitled to have a child? If when I was 30 I was uncertain if having any children was any entitlement, who was I at 43 to think that a third child was any sort of claim that I had to the universe?

I don’t know. It’s just always what I pictured: my husband and I and our three kids. 

But I think it’s best to dream big, but perhaps dream in pencil. The best visions can be erased and replaced with better ones, or ones that are perfect but from different perspectives and points of view.

....

The smell wasn’t gone, but a bit less pungent. Perhaps I needed to call a woodworker. 

When the babysitter returned from the park with the kids I asked, “Can you help me flip this?” 

“Sure,” he said. 

Deep breath, strain, turn, and flip. It looked more regal as a dresser with a flat wooden top.

Even better, the drawers no longer stuck when pulled out. As if they too were saying, “It was time.”

I placed the clothes back in the better, but not perfect smelling drawers. 

I placed a mirror on top of the flipped dresser so that Maya could see where the knots are when she brushed her hair and where to wipe the leftover toothpaste from her lips. 

“Do you like it?” I asked. 

“Yes,” she said admiring her reflection. “It’s very nice. I feel very grown up.”

....

Postscript: 

When Maya moved into her own room, the dresser was taken to the side of our apartment building where garbage is collected on Thursday mornings. Sometimes, items will be taken prior. The dresser was not. Her Israeli grandparents bought her tween furniture, which she excitedly picked out on an outing to Ikea. There are two items that do not match. One is a bookcase that we have on loan from the school. And the other is the rocking chair, hand made by Amish woodworkers in Goshen. It is the same chair my brother held my college and high school aged nieces, and it is the same chair I held her and her brother. They are too big to be held in a rocking chair, but their love and our love for them is beyond concepts of numeracy. 

Investments

                                     

June 2030

Nadia was tired of waiting to take control of her future, but had very little savings. But she wanted a baby so much that she felt it in her bones. What she wasn’t feeling was any meaningful connection with the guys she met on the five swipe-dating applications on her phone. She had read the statistics. Every year she waited, she risked infertility. Why should she wait for a man to have a baby?

On the other hand, Nadia still really wanted to find Mr. Right, even Mr. Right enough. She knew statistically her odds of finding love as a single mom would drop drastically. If she were divorced with kids, it wouldn’t be that big of a deal. But for single moms finding a good, decent human being to love is just not easy.

In addition, she had her career to think about. Women can have it all? That’s been proven to be false. It would be very difficult for her to teach full time at the suburban school where she had recently been tenured with a child.

So she would go to Mexico. In Mexico, the fertility treatments were safe and literally 10 times cheaper. She applied for a Fertility Loan from the bank (since the clamp down on immigration and the decline of the American birth rate, the loans were interest free), and once she had her approval, she set up the meetings with her department chair and principal.

She requested a leave of absence to spend the school year in Mexico to improve her Spanish. Her administrators lauded her decision, as they had recently been fined by the Federal Government for not serving their Spanish speaking population.

“We can put Nadia’s efforts into the report, “ Dr. Martin said excitedly, speaking as if Nadia wasn’t there. He had his PhD or Ed.D, but no one knew exactly in what. They just knew they had to call him Dr.

“Thank you for the approval, Dr. Martin,” she said.

In June, after the last day of school, Nadia found someone to sublet her apartment. She moved in with her parents and after the first day of her menstrual cycle, she flew direct from Chicago to San Diego. She didn't tell her parents what she was doing. Only that the school had given her time to learn Spanish. She crossed the border over to Tijuana which would be her home away from home for the next few months. After checking in at the hotel, she spoke to the Director of International Admissions to confirm her arrival.The next day she would leave her hotel and check into the Tijuana International Fertility Clinic. It was the only clinic in Mexico where the entire fertility process was in-patient. She did not understand the rationale, however, she was happy to be in a secure place. She also didn’t relish taking all of the shots as her hands shook when she was nervous. The staff there would do it for her.

The Fertility Clinic looked more like a spa than a clinic. She imagined this must be similar to the drug rehab facility her college roommate frequented. There were drink stands with herbal teas, water with cucumber, and fruit drinks. After filling her water bottle, she headed to the lab to have her blood drawn and vaginal ultrasound taken. While she waited for the results, she unpacked in her room. It was the size of an efficiency apartment, but that’s all she really needed. Besides, this was temporary. The wifi connection was strong. What else did she really need?

The nurse phoned to say her test results looked good and that she should return to the lab for her first set of shots to stimulate ovulation. Nadia ovulated regularly, but she knew that they wanted to harvest as many eggs as possible to ensure success. For 12 days a month, for three months, Nadia awoke, took a blood test, received a vaginal ultrasound, waited for the phone call from the nurse, went back to the lab and received shots. In the time between, she read, watched Netflix, and selected a sperm donor. Twenty five percent of her eggs she would inseminate and fifty percent she would leave in case she did actually meet Mr. Right. The other 25 percent would probably not be high enough quality.  After each harvest, Nadia felt bloated, but was in good spirits. During her first harvest, the doctor said that he saw at least 10 eggs on the ultrasound. When the anesthesiologist asked her to count down from 10 as he inserted the IV into her arm, she made one last joke: 10 eggs, 9 eggs, 8 eggs, but by 8 she was out.

Nadia finished the process with 60 eggs. It was almost certain that she would become a mother one day. During her last round of IVF, she picked a sperm donor for some of the eggs. In the end, after looking at the quality of the eggs, they would turn five of the eggs into embryos and freeze them, in case she never met someone with whom to share her life.

Nadia left the clinic with 57 frozen eggs and 3 level one frozen embryos - two didn't fertilize for whatever reason. Nadia was thrilled. She signed the paperwork, hugged her favorite phlebotomist Maria goodbye, and headed to the airport for an intensive Spanish seminar in Mexico City.


June, 2045

Nadia met her husband of two months Christopher at a wine bar in Lincoln Park.

“Damnit, I can’t believe this place isn’t handicapped accessible,” Nadia said to Christopher, lamenting her bad choice.

Christopher was in a wheelchair. He had been paralyzed after being hit by an IED during his tour of duty in Iran. On their third date, Christopher told Nadia that he couldn’t have children. On the fifth date, Nadia told Christopher about the clinic in Tijuana. She had spent the last decade or so liberated by the fact that she could have children on her time table, not on anyone else’s. She didn’t treat each date as a man whom she could possibly marry. She could be relaxed and just enjoy her life.

They left the wine bar and headed over to the Mexican restaurant with burritos and frozen margaritas as big as your head.

“It’s a bit dumb to be eating Mexican food the day before we go to Tijuana,” Christopher said.

“The food there isn’t like this. This is American-Mexican food,” Nadia said.

Christopher nodded and sipped his drink. The tequila was making him sleepy.

The next day Christopher and Nadia boarded the plane. They each had two suitcases. Each one cost $100 to bring on the plane, but they would need everything that they packed.

After tipping the Uber driver generously, he helped them to unload their luggage at the Airbnb. On their way to the Fertility Clinic, they held hands, unable to contain their excitement. They had made this appointment ten months ago, the day after their engagement, and couldn’t wait to get started. Then they headed to the fertility clinic. Maria was there to welcome her. She had been promoted to Director of the International Department, and they hugged like long lost friends.

“You must be Christopher,” Maria said.

“The one and only,” Christopher smiled.

“Both of you can put on your hospital gowns and then come with me,” Maria said.

“Why do I have to wear a hospital gown?” Christopher asked, looking uncomfortable.

“We must maintain a sterile environment, Mr. Christopher,” she said.

A tech disinfected Christopher’s wheelchair, and they suited up and went through three steel doors that required fingerprints, retina scans, even a DNA sample. Finally, it was time.

The dark room mimicked the sounds of a womb. It was loud but calming. Maria walked them over to the sealed tank filled with thick fluid.

“Meet Baby Xlh9z56 and Baby Ynotg7h44,” Maria said with a tear in her eye. She had done this many times, but she had always felt a special connection with Nadia.

“Would you like to do the honors, Dad?” asked Maria. “The password is today’s date. Don’t forget the 20 for the year.”

“Ha! That’s the passcode for our Airbnb,” laughed Christopher.

They all chuckled. Then Christopher pressed the code for the first tank and then the second. Within five seconds, the fluids from both tanks came gushing out into the drainage system. Two nurses were ready with towels and scales. They were perfect. She weighed 6 pounds, four ounces; he weighed 7 pounds, two ounces. Beautiful eyes. Beautiful screams. They whisked the babies to the postnatal rooms. Both Nadia and Christopher took off their shirts to hold the babies skin to skin.

“They’re perfect,” Nadia cried as she gave her baby girl her first bottle.

“Yes,” Maria said. “They all are.”