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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.”

My First Relationship

We just had another fight, and now I’m sitting here thinking, reflecting as they say, on what I have done. We’ve been fighting a lot, and I’ve been reflecting a lot thinking about how we got here; how I got here. It’s true, much of this is my fault. Today’s fight began when I woke up this morning and she came into my room. Yes, we are sleeping in separate bedrooms now, which makes me so angry, frustrated, and sad. She came in to say good morning, and I threw something at her. Then when I got out of bed, she tried to kiss me, and I hit her, twice. I know it’s wrong to hit a woman, to hit anyone for that matter. So now, I sit and reflect.

It was love at first sight, as trite as that sounds. For the first few months, we were inseparable, as is typical in new relationships. We took soooo many selfies together. The one on Valentine’s Day got over a hundred likes on Instagram. We would sit for hours watching reality t.v., listening to music, or reading. A lot of times, we’d be up in the middle of the night, just her and me. To be honest, I wasn’t easy. I was emotional. I wasn’t good at communicating what I wanted or needed. But she always seemed to know how to make me smile. It was after those first few blissful months, fourteen weeks to be exact, that our problems initially began. I started seeing another woman. She didn’t seem to mind, and at that point, I was still in her bed.

Recently, though, something has changed. Like a few weeks ago, she went to Prague for “work.” It’s not like I don’t know other people or am totally alone. But, how could she leave me? Did she not want to stroll with me on the Charles Bridge? Man, I was a beast to be around that weekend. When she came home, at first I was so happy to see her, but then I remembered how she left me and maintained my distance. I could see it upset her, but how could I trust her now? Truth be told, the Prague trip isn’t why I am so full of rage. The catalyst for my anger was when she kicked me out of her room into the other bedroom a few months ago. I threw a fit, but she insisted that it was time. I was so angry.

God, I love this woman.

However, I can see the toll our relationship has taken on her. Since we first started seeing each other she had grown older, more tired. When we first met, she wore contacts. Now, she only wears loose fitting glasses, and her skin is branded with sun spots. Our relationship has also been costly. I can’t remember the last time she bought a new dress or did something for herself. Still, what right does she have to kick me out of her room for me to sleep all alone with nothing for comfort except linens?

So, this morning, I lost it and hit her. It wasn’t the first time. She grabbed me by the arm and put me in this so called “thinking chair,” or naughty chair, or “in time out” to reflect on what I had done. After two long minutes, one minute per year I’ve been alive, she sat down next to me. She told me that she would always love me, but that I shouldn’t hit mommy, and I shouldn’t hit anyone.

I want to say that I am sorry. I want to tell her that I love her. I want to tell her that yes, I am two and a half, and it is absolutely the right thing to do to have me sleep in my own bed in my own room. But I can only weep as she holds me, and when I finally find the words, all that comes out is - I want Mickey Mouse.

The Stroller

The Stroller

At 7:30 a.m. every day, Hannah walks around the neighborhood, like many moms, pushing her stroller. 

….

It was their fourth child, an accident if there are such things, and after acknowledging when she was 38 weeks pregnant that this was really happening and that they needed to take out the stroller from storage, they discovered that the decade old City-Mini was covered in mold. So they purchased a new one, with new features that they didn’t pay attention to as the salesperson calculated his commission, and opened their brand new, light weight green stroller with an attachable bassinet. 

Hannah and her husband moved to Israel to a new neighborhood with all of the trappings of America. They purchased the apartment with the money she inherited from her parents when they died; a four bedroom, two and a half bathroom, large apartment with a partially obstructed view of the Mediterranean. Hannah was a 45-year-old orphan who was pregnant. Hannah was an anxious person, and during pregnancies her anxiety was off the charts. During her first pregnancy she reached out to a friend in San Francisco, a high risk OBGYN, who affirmed her difficulties: every mental health problem that you have when you are not pregnant is exacerbated by when you are. 

She didn’t take antidepressants with her first child until she was 20 weeks pregnant. She had stopped taking them, under doctor supervision, two months prior to getting pregnant. However, despite upping the number of times she saw her therapist, psychiatrist, and attending mindfulness classes, her anxiety increased until her heart beat as if it were going to leap from her throat. So, with each of her pregnancies she took an antidepressant, Zoloft, and dealt with the silent and sometimes vocal judgment of the neonatal pediatricians after her children were born.  Her husband Jacob was supportive of her decision to medicate, grateful in fact. Their marriage was built on being supportive of one another and being honest with each other. 

They named the fourth child Lev Shmuel in Hebrew and Lev Samuel in English, after her father. Despite the financial pressure having a fourth child would place on them, he was now an indelible part of their hearts. Her husband was against the name Shmuel, because no respectable liberal Israeli would name their child “Shmuel,” but it was her father, and Jacob had loved her father, even though he never called him “Dad” like Americans do with their fathers in law. Besides, no one pays attention to middle names.

Delivering a child is not easy, but Hannah worked out through her pregnancy and was ”fit but fat,” as they say. At the end of the 24-hour labor, the epidural had worn off, and the pain she experienced was surreal, indescribable in fact, but then he was born. And all of the cliches of motherhood, once again, came true. She loved him fiercely from the moment he was born. She felt great and was ready to leave the hospital before they were ready to release her. 

The other three children loved their litter brother. They wanted to call him “Tauti,” which means my “my mistake” in Hebrew, but Hannah and Jacob wouldn’t let them. So they called him “Tooti” which means “my strawberry.” They were too tired to argue with them, and it was their fault that they had overheard them talking about how the pregnancy was accidental, if there are any accidents. Eventually, they noted their nonverbal cues, and by the time he was three-months old called him “Levi,” my heart. 

In Israel, everyone puts their babies until they can sit up in bassinets attached to strollers. Hannah conformed to the bassinet by her third child because she received comments from her in-laws and strangers when they saw the infant strapped into a car seat that attached to the stroller. 

“The baby needs to move.” 

“The baby’s head will be flat.”

“The baby will not learn how to turn over.”

The child is not properly secured in the bassinet, but it did seem as if there was more freedom of movement there. Also, the bassinet could then be removed and used as a co-sleeper at night so they didn’t have to buy or rent another one. 

Hannah dealt with her postpartum anxiety by walking and of course taking antidepressants. It also helped her lose the 10 kilos she had gained while being pregnant. She received a lot of feedback from strangers on these walks. “He needs another layer of clothing.” “He needs warmer socks.” “He needs a heavier blanket.” She thought that the bassinet would alleviate the need for pedestrians to make their comments, but it’s the nature of the culture. One time when she wore the baby in a wrap, she was stopped on the sidewalk and asked if he could breathe properly or if his circulation was being cut off. Hannah didn’t get annoyed by these comments. She knew that in Israel that everyone felt like every child was their own, and that the remarks were coming from a good place. Jacob found them more annoying. 

“Just tell them to shut up,” he said. 

Like she would do that. 

…..

Every morning at 7:30 a.m. for the next seven years Hannah would walk with the stroller. Her husband would sometimes accompany her as would one or two of her children. But usually, she walked alone. When she walked, people would stare. They would whisper. Her children noticed, but she didn’t notice. Her daughter Eva wondered if this what was like for Hester Prynne when she exercised. The walk became so much a part of her routine that she never returned to work full time. School started at 8, and she could only get there at 9 because of the walk. Her husband was supportive and they lived with less money. 

….

During the seventh year, Jacob’s mother Nadia came over to stay with the family for Shabbat. On Saturday morning, at 7:30 a.m., Hannah took the stroller and went for a walk. The eldest child David, home from the army, accompanied her. 

“See you in an hour,” Jacob said. 

“I love you,” Hannah said. 

As the door shut Jacob’s mother, ignoring the fact that the two other children were there, began her planned intervention.

“Jacob, she has to stop going on these walks,” Nadia said

“Why?” Jacob asked.

“It’s time. It’s not good for the children. It’s not good for her. It makes the neighbors uncomfortable. They speak about her like she is a freak,” Nadia said.

“Let them talk,” he said. “The children understand. I understand.” 

“It has been seven years, Jacob. Seven years! She can’t do this forever,” Nadia exclaimed. 

Jacob grew angry. He didn’t usually grow angry, but he knew it was the only way to quiet his mother.

“Neither you or our neighbors are the gatekeepers of time and healing. She disassociates for one hour a day and then she is a loving mother, successful teacher, and doting wife. Why the fuck do you care?” he said. 

She didn’t relent. 

“I did the math. She has spent 150,000 minutes on these walks. Nine million seconds. When will enough be enough?” Nadia asked. 

“First of all, you are off by one day. Second of all, that’s not our decision to make. We don’t get to control her grief,” Jacob said looking down at his phone. The gesture and his tone made it clear that the subject was closed. 

…..

Seven years prior, on one of those walks on a very warm spring day at 7:30 a.m., Hannah and Lev were in the crosswalk when they were struck by a speeding motorcyclist who was on his phone. The bassinet did not protect Lev from the impact, and they said that he died immediately, although Hannah wondered how anyone could possibly know that. Hannah suffered a broken arm and skeletal-muscular problems that were already problematic from four pregnancies, but she would heal, physically. At the shiva, as she sat on the floor using the wall to support her back, a friend’s three year old daughter, Mia, asked if she could sign Hannah’s cast. 

Just prior to the shiva, before the doors flooded with friends and family, Hannah had, using her working left hand, set up a play area for her friends’ children filled with markers paper and Hello Kitty stamps. The rabbi had gently scolded her: “Shiva is a time when people are supposed to focus on you. You are breaking the spirit of shiva.” Hannah gave him her trademark teacher stare and he backed away. Hannah told Mia to grab a marker. The little girl drew a misshapen heart, as she did not know yet how to sign her name. Her friend was mortified that Mia had asked Hannah to sign her cast. She told her friend to relax; the heart was perfect.