Treasured Keepsakes

There's a misshapen yellow ashtray or candy dish-like piece of dried clay with the paint cracking off that sits in my parents' house. It probably holds a bent safety pin and three or four blackened pennies. A faded matchbook. Maybe a plastic dreidel. It's been sitting there for years. Decades, in fact. I have a vague memory of making this thing, of an intense focus on squeezing the clay to create a scalloped shape; striving, with my congenital dedication to perfection, to space out the indentations evenly. I don't know why I remember this episode, I'm not very "crafty." And even the idea of making an ashtray is an anachronism, so disconnected from my current pro-environment/anti-smoking mandate.

In this post-Kondocizing Era, that stained and spattered piece of pottery should long ago have been discarded. A dust-collecting chunk of junk, barely remembered. A Mother's or Father's Day gift? A birthday present? A camp souvenir - proof that my parents were getting their money's worth? I can't remember.  And yet, that detritus of my childhood holds its stories tightly, year after year, on a shelf in my childhood abode. I wonder what my parents think when their eyes fall on it. Do they remember my eager presentation of my DIY accent piece? My hopeful attempt to manifest love-in-a-dish? Maybe not this one, but I don't doubt that somewhere, my parents cherish some special memory of something I produced or wrote.

I've never worn a macaroni necklace, or hung a crayon-scribbled love note on my refrigerator. Never had a cut-out of a snowflake, or a lanyard bracelet or a telephone wire ring lovingly and proudly presented to me, along with Eggos or Pop Tarts in bed on my birthday. It's not that I'm cold, or selfish, or too focused on my career. It just didn't work. I can't tell you why, because in the end, I just don't know. Does it matter?

Instead of babies - and the trinkets they litter their parents' homes and offices with - I have Advocacy Day. Every year, I head down to Washington, D.C. to weave my way through the throngs of people crowding the marble hallways of the Capitol Hill office buildings, to educate and alert Congress about what they can do to help people like me build their families. And each year, I am proud to say, the number of people participating in Advocacy Day grows and grows. And as I have gotten older, I've watched the number is our group get bigger and their ages get younger. No longer do the click-clack of my heels on those marble floors echo alone. Now, my New York-style stilettos are joined by ballet shoes, sandals, kitten heels, chunky-heeled pumps, maybe even a pair or two of Tevas (the horror!). It used to be that there were a lot of tears on Capitol Hill as orange-ribboned women told their stories. But this is a new generation of infertility warriors. They're strong, they're confident, they know their rights. And they are not shy. I used to encourage this group of neophyte lobbyists to find their voices. Now, I counsel this organized army of advocates  to modulate them, to use them strategically.  I watch their faces during the training. I see the wisdom in their eyes, hear the gnashing of their teeth, sense their straining to tell their stories to validate the need for change. 

I'll never get over the loss of not having babies of my own, of never being awakened with trite tchotchkes formed by amateur artists shoved in my face. I'll never  have to stress over when the right time is to clean that stuff out, and then, of course, decide that I can make room for a beloved knick knack for one more year. But I hold the smiles of the RESOLVE volunteers - and their enthusiasm - close to  my heart. It helps.

Life is not a zero sum game

Almost 14 years ago, after my engagement/birthday party, a casual friend chastised me: Don’t marry him, you’re "settling". He added, specifically: “he’s a drunk and his parents are shit.”  

At the time, everyone else in my vast network of friends and acquaintances were SO happy for me, the fairy tale story of Prince Charming shown up on my doorstep had actually occurred. A doorbell was rung….a proposal made…a wedding was taking place. Even as he said this, seamstresses in Venezuela were crafting my designer wedding gown. Who was this person to dare tell me not to marry my prince? 

Well, this person was, in my observation, an alcoholic. A drunk. So who was he to preach to me? I had known him for years, and while I knew him to be a well meaning, fun loving, humorously irreverent person who spoke unabashed truth, I also knew him as someone who drank to sloppy excess, who people had long since stopped making excuses for him anymore. That’s who he was. 

So for him to call my fiancé a drunk, I thought, was a little disingenuous. Who was he, someone always holding a vodka drink in his hand, to say that to me? How dare he? 

Well, he was right. 

My husband was a drunk. (and the second part was true too, but that’s another story.) Our 5.5 years of marriage were an endless cycle of him going on drinking binges then being sick for a few weeks, ambulances and emergency rooms, locked psych wards, damaged vocal chords from all the post-binge throwing up, sniffing his breath and staring into his eyes for evidence of drinking, worrying when he was home late (or when he disappeared for a few days), begging him to go to treatment. Finally, he left me, after two weeks in rehab mandated by our fertility clinic (it was supposed to be a month). And this month marks the fourth anniversary of his death. I haven’t finished mourning. 

But today, my friend is alive. Today, he posted the following on his FB page: 

Facebook started showing "old" memories sometime ago. So today I get to go back to 10, 11, & 12. But the "thing" is I don't live in the past. I take it one day at a time. So I have been Sober for the past 4,745 days. Aka 13 years. Lucky 13. Pretty cool. As in years past I don't share for the accolades. Or "slap" on the back. I share to inform others anything is a possibility if u find out why you are doing it. In 13 years I've got to watch my kids grow up. I've got to spend time with friends and enjoy them.(and them enjoy me) make new friends. I've got to ride a motorcycle in some very cool places. And most importantly I've been alive to do these and many other "normal" activities of life. Today is day 4,746. Off to the gym. Maybe go see the beach. A lite dinner. All via a motorcycle. And I will NOT be playing golf. Still retired from it. 

My friend is alive. And loving life. Happy. 

Alcoholism is a disease. But one in which the treatment involves choices. And commitment and hard work. But anyone suffering from any disease knows that treatment involves personal commitment, and steadfastness, and constant self awareness. And choice.  

I salute my friend. I’m proud of him. I love him. Keep going.

It's my party and I'll cry if I want to

I am asked regularly “why do you support Hillary?” I was even asked that at the launch of her presidential campaign, by a New York Times reporter.

Yeah, because she’s a woman. And of course, because of the “issues” (her positions seem to become more refined and have more clarity in the same way that mine have, with time and maturity). But for me, it’s deeply personal. Painfully so. It’s because she supports me. Provokes me. Elevates me.

I’ll save the extended play version for the book I intend to write, but the critical part of the story is how she energizes me into always pushing harder. I don’t want to stay “inspires”, that’s a passive word. It’s not her words, speeches or her books. Not the badass sunglasses photo. It’s her actions. Her ingenuity. Her refusal to never give up.

This is a painful story for me to write. If you know me, you know that tears come to me far too readily. I used to be embarrassed by them. And more so, by my inability to hold them back at the most inopportune times. Now I just let them fall. My ever-ready, ever-flowing tears reflect the pain that is a part of me. But just a part of me. They aren’t getting in the way of action, and that’s because of Hillary.

On Sunday, July 25, 2004, I woke up very early to head to NYU’s fertility clinic for a beta test (blood work to detect pregnancy) before getting in my car to drive to Boston for the Democratic National Convention. Just after crossing the Massachusetts state line, I received the phone call with the words I was dying to hear: “Congratulations, you’re pregnant”. I threw the top back on my Miata, and drove the rest of the way up the Mass Pike, blasting Bruce and ecstatically screaming at the top of my lungs. The proverbial primal yell. Upon arrival in Boston to the site of my first event, I was hoarse and still flying high, and practically the first person I saw was Hillary Clinton. I reached out from the sidelines and yanked her arm, pulling her to me so that I could whisper in her ear “I’m pregnant”. She stopped her trek to the microphones before a crowd of hundreds, to hug me and share a moment of my joy.

A few weeks later, she asked how I was feeling and I had to tell her it was over. And I went through that cycle multiple times. Failure and loss. At that point, she was running for Senate re-election and I had started - while still going through infertility treatment - to advocate for better coverage and protection for infertility patients. It didn’t matter what event I was at or where we were: every time I saw Hillary, she first stopped to ask me how I was and what was happening. One of those days stands out in my memory: there was a debate the night before and I wanted to share my thoughts and praise her performance, but she waved that away, and looked me directly in the eyes and said “How are YOU?” Aware of my difficulties and the toll it was taking on me emotionally, she had researched where I could get additional support, informing me of this at a breakfast the day after the first New Hampshire debate.

Knowing of the work I was doing to gain insurance coverage for infertility patients, then-Senator Clinton promised to help me. After meeting with her staff in January of 2007, her aides confirmed that they would find a way to assist my efforts, although not necessarily through the legislative agenda I proposed. A few months later, I learned from the President of RESOLVE: The National Infertility Association, that the Center of Disease Control had received a phone call from Senator Clinton, asking "what were they doing about infertility?" Not enough, clearly.

It took quite a few years, but the CDC recently released a National Health Action Plan for the Detection, Prevention and Management of Infertility. While I am so very proud of my role - together with that of hundreds of professionals and volunteers for RESOLVE across the country - in achieving this great milestone towards improving the lives of the 7.3 million Americans diagnosed with infertility, it is patently clear that this would never have happened without the fulfillment of Hillary’s promise to me.

I wonder how many hundreds - no, thousands - of people across the country have shared their private pain with her and how many she has helped, not always in the traditional manner. Sometimes you just can’t enact legislation to address a problem, or throw money at it to solve it. Sometimes you have to be a little creative to find an alternative path.

Shortly after she announced her candidacy for the Presidency, I was privileged to again see Secretary Clinton. She first asked me how I was doing, as she always does, with deeply focused, all-seeing, kind attention in her eyes. When I again thanked her for her help in achieving the National Action Plan, she reached over and hugged me, and, knowing that it’s a struggle for me to fight for a cause that’s the source of such pain, she whispered in my ear: “Keep Going.”

I never had many real-life role models. Law firms are cut-throat places and partners (notably, and especially the women) were more focused on their own achievement than reaching down to help a young associate. There are two other people in my life who have been my teachers and who put me on this path, but Hillary is the one who keeps me on it. She’s been challenged, she’s even “failed” (for those who think “failure is not an option”, think again.) She’s had to change directions. Multiple times. And each time, she simply accepts the challenge and excels. The Super Hero part of it, however, isn’t that she does it alone. But that she demonstrates how it’s done, offers encouragement, and is willing to find a way to assist, so others can do it too. That’s what she does for me.

I attended the “official launch” of the Hillary for America campaign today, and brought along a friend’s daughter to witness this historic event. When Secretary Clinton saw me with this young lady - the future - she stopped, knowing of my unrequited dreams to have my own daughter, to take a photo with us. When Hillary said: “America can’t succeed unless YOU succeed”, she meant it. She meant me, and my efforts to get federal legislation to alleviate the financial struggles for infertility patients, and she meant you, and your commitments to address the inequities and unique ills with which each of my readers are struggling. She added, that among all of the epithets thrown at her, the one that they could never call her is “quitter”. I hope that is never said about me either.

I was asked today if Hillary is more left wing, or centrist on fiscal issues. People desperately want to categorize her candidacy in the old terms - right, left, center. Hillary defies category. Her approach comes from listening to the needs of real people and a commitment to improve their lives; not to only adhere to some old, fixed ideas about about red and blue rules. This country needs a new paradigm, an approach that combines the best of who we are with a new way to achieve progress. Hillary not only presents it, she manifests it. Just look at me, I’m still at it. Because she told me to.

So it’s my birthday. And with each year, I leave the old dreams further behind. To find a new paradigm. I haven’t figured it out yet But while Hillary doesn’t have the answers for me, she’s showing me a path. To keep going. I hope you’ll join me.

In Honor of...

Memorial Day is such a mixed bag on the American cultural horizon. For most, it's a great holiday, the unofficial start of summer. The day it's acceptable to start wearing white again.

For some very special families, however, the term "Memorial Day" reverts to its original meaning: the day for recognizing those very brave men and women who lost their lives in the service of our great country.

In the course of my work advocating on behalf of families with infertility, I've become acutely aware of how this disease affects military families in such unique ways.  In honor of the very special people who have dedicated - and lost - their lives to protect our freedoms and for those who have survived, only to try and start to live normal lives, I share these stories.

While my then-husband and I were struggling with our efforts to have a baby, I met a woman with a unique issue. She and her husband had desperately wanted to become parents, and while in training, he had an accident that resulted in his death. Fast thinking medical personnel, knowing of their dreams, retrieved his sperm in a timely manner, preserving it for her attempts to become a mom to her husband's child.  Unfortunately, military coverage for reproductive treatment being deplorable, and unable to treat her issues, that dream didn't happen for her. Since then, I have been working with RESOLVE: The National Infertility Association on legislation to improve access to treatment for military families.

A few months ago, I spoke with Meredith Beck, who works for the Bob Woodruff Foundation.  The Foundation was named for, and started by, the ABC reporter who suffered a brain injury in Iraq and provides grants for post 9-11 injured warriors working in Iraq.  She previously worked at Wounded Warriors.

As we all know far too well, people suffering from infertility feel alone and think they are the first ones to experience it.  For vets, it's no different, and goes to the essence of how they feel about themselves post-injury.

I asked Meredith to tell me some of the stories of vets she encountered and she was happy to comply.

After being shot by a sniper in Iraq, Matt became a quadriplegic and wouldn't be able to have children without Assisted Reproductive Techonology.  Tracy, his wife, was on the fence on how she felt about infertility treatment. But Tracy said "that sniper took everything from me, they can't take a family." And paid for infertility out of the funds they received from Traumatic Members Group Life Insurance.  Although the money is intended to pay for immediate expenses upon injury, for bringing family to bedside, Matt and Tracy wisely allocated the funds to preserve resources for the treatment of Matt's infertility, enabling them to become parents.  Tracy says that Matt is an amazing father, even from a wheelchair.

Tricare (military health insurance) regulations around infertility are confusing to everyone.  Few people understand how the legal, religious and emotional details affect members and veterans of the military.  No one knows exactly what benefit is available to whom and when. I am proud that RESOLVE is helping to figure it out and educate what the Department of Defense system can do and what should be made available. Because of all of the advocacy we have devoted to this issue, language was included in the 2015 Defense Authorization Bill to provide that Tricare will now pay for fertility services (IVF) for those on active duty, but once service members leave active duty, it will not pay for "medically retired people". 

As we've heard about on CNN and other news sources, service members are dangerously at risk from "Improvised Explosive Devices" (IEDs). Once hit by an IED, a soldier gets "medically retired" pretty quickly, so they would have to use the benefit immediately while in the hospital.  Imagine waking up in a hospital after being blown to bits - do you think that your first words will be "Extract my sperm, NOW!"?  (I wonder if we should make medical bracelets for these men, like for hemophiliacs, Jehovah's Witnesses or allergies.)  Meredith told me a horrifying story of another soldier, serving with a British group when he was injured. The British policy is to automatically extract sperm from a soldier injured in the relevant area, but, shamefully, it's not the American policy.  The Brits thought he was British, and while in the field hospital were about to extract, when they discovered that he was American.  So they didn't extract his sperm and he forever lost the opportunity to have children with his own DNA.  "If they don't decide at that exact moment to extract, he loses it," Meredith said.   "The excuse is that it's not life saving, but there are decisions made for quality of life.  We have the ability to make them whole, why not do it?" 

We are all too familiar with the awful conditions that existed for returning service members from the Viet Nam War...how they were vilified by society, how many ended up out on the streets, handicapped and unhireable...  In mental institutions, homeless shelters, or worse, in prison.  The Department of Defense has been committed to not letting these conditions recur for veterans of more recent wars.  "The goal is to successfully transition service members or veterans to the community, with the highest quality of life possible," Meredith said.

If that's the case, then the military has an obligation, Meredith pointed out, to provide the best tools for successful transitioning.  Another story she shared was about a man with uro-genital trauma from an IED in Afghanistan.  He's not married nor in a relationship, but is acutely aware that for the rest of his life, he has to tell women that he can't provide children. Twenty two members of the military are committing suicide each day.  Sex, children and intimacy are huge portions of forming meaningful relationships.  If Tricare doesn't cover treatment, and if the Veterans Administration continues its ban on providing in vitro fertilization treatment in VA facilities, how can we hope that service members will be successfully transitioned?

With the advice and cooperation of RESOLVE, Senator Patty Murray recently introduced The Women Veterans and Families Health Services Act of 2015 (S. 469), which will provide, among other things, coverage for veterans injured in the line of duty for medically necessary infertility treatment.  Additionally, it will provide for cryo-preserving sperm and eggs for service members before they are deployed.  And just a few weeks ago, Rep Jeff Miller introduced HR 2257, to improve access to reproductive treatment (IVF) for disabled veterans (that is, lift the ban on IVF at VA facilities).

Military families deserve our help and support, not only as memories, but for their future.  They deserve this long overdue legislation.  In honor of this holiday weekend most of us enjoyed with beaches and barbecues, please ask your elected representatives to support this critical legislation.

PS After I wrote this, I learned that The Washington Post covered the proposed legislation over the weekend. 

This is great news.  Although the House legislation, introduced by Chairman of the Veterans Affairs Committee doesn't go as far as the Senate bill, it is still a great step forward and would help so many military families.  Baby steps....

Click here for article.

Eggs and the Single Woman

Thoughtful? Forward thinking? Prudent? Single women who choose to freeze their eggs are all of these descriptions, but they are not, despite what one physician says, "desperate".

A major breakthrough in preserving women’s reproductive options was achieved about a decade ago and has begun to be embraced by more and more women with the financial means in their 30’s and early 40’s: egg freezing. Even two family-friendly tech companies have announced plans to cover the pricey procedure by insurance. While this won’t help the 7.3 million American families currently diagnosed with infertility, it is certainly great news for the next generation of women who desire to become parents at some point in their future.

Although there are many factors leading to a diagnosis of infertility, the inevitable aging process or the incidence of certain diseases are certainly prominent and incontrovertible facts. Changing socio-economic dynamics in our population means that people - men and women - are staying single longer, which, given longer life expectancy due to scientific advances, is a logical behavioral adjustment for both sexes. The egg freezing technology doesn't exactly extend fertility in the same way that Viagra extends libido or hip replacement surgery provides for extended mobility, but it does provide new opportunities. It liberates not only women, but men too, who find themselves in love with a woman their own age and don't want to choose between a real partner who they love or a mythical partner who can still conceive with her own eggs. It gives women options, puts them on par with men who can delay genetic parenthood until the timing is more optimal in their lives. For women who formerly had the choice to risk their fertility in order to save their lives with chemotherapy or radiation treatment, egg freezing is a godsend. It is undoubtedly a majestic opportunity - for those who can afford it - to preserve their dreams of becoming moms.

Elle Magazine published an article about Egg Freezing in the April Issue ("Frozen Assets"), which lays out some of the obstacles and successes of egg freezing for women, as well as the impact on the choices freezing has on women.

One infertility specialist, however, used his interview for this article as an opportunity to denigrate women and reduce egg freezing (from which his clinic no doubt benefits greatly) to nothing but a salve for the hysteria of spinsterhood: "The freezing effect is a real phenomenon," according the Alan Copperman, M.D.. He claims that women's dating lives improve after freezing their eggs: "They're more relaxed. They're not desperate." (emphasis added)

In one sentence, Dr. Copperman insulted and dismissed the legitimate fears and pain of infertility patients and sent single women back to the 50's: He referenced the " 'just relax' and you'll get pregnant" fallacy, undermining the fact that infertility is actually a disease recognized by the CDC and the World Health Organization. And he demoted the legitimate choices of women to preserve their eggs for future conception pursuit to their need to reduce their alleged desperation to escape the curse of being left on the shelf. He ignored the socio-dynamic changes that affect both men's and women's choices to delay marriage as well as the economic realities of an increasingly competitive environment where two income families are the necessary norm. Copperman's dating advice to single women is "just freeze your eggs and you'll find husband", as if egg expiration anxiety was the primary reason for prolonged single-hood. Most egregiously for publication in a women's magazine, he made women sound like their sole reason for looking for men is to get knocked up. Silly women! Just relax!

The decision to undergo treatment to freeze one's eggs is not made lightly. For cancer patients, it is simply a miracle. And for single women, whatever their reasons for delaying the attempt to conceive, it is a phenomenal opportunity to not have to sacrifice one dream for another - if you can afford it (or work for a socially advanced company). Responsible choices should never be relegated as the acts of "desperate" women. And men, particularly those benefitting from those choices, should stop promoting this outdated idea that catching a man is a woman's reason for everything.

This Bird You Cannot Change...or Can I?

I get most of my news from Facebook and Twitter, where I can manipulate my news feed for selective exposure to only the information I want to know. Thus, I am the first to know when House Republicans proffer anti-choice legislation, immediately tipped off to the latest UN Resolution against Israel, up to date on the latest companies to remove GMOs from their food, and urgently instructed to race out for the newest eye cream before I irrevocably lose elasticity in the delicate area above the cheekbone. The randomness of my interests is, not surprisingly, echoed by many of the people who appear in my Facebook feed.  

"We like the same music - we like the same bands - we like the same clothes," my Boss sang.  

It's only when I travel outside of my self-made community with my highly focused information input, that I become aware that not everyone knows about the things that are intrinsic to my approach to the larger world. 

I have known my way around Capitol Hill since I was a freshman in college, when I advocated on behalf of Soviet Jews imprisoned behind the Iron Curtain. Throughout my adult life, I have made my way down to DC regularly to rally for reproductive rights or traipse through the halls of Congress in support of foreign aid to Israel. I was never alone in any of these missions, rather, it would have been unthinkable for me, in the world I made for myself, not to join my friends on these junkets. And when I arrived in DC, I encountered dozens upon dozens of acquaintances I knew from various stages of my life. It was always one big reunion. But I always advocated for issues far beyond my personal experience, for change in policies that would benefit people far from me, rather than affecting my individual life.

Then along came infertility. 

Infertility stripped me of my dignity, my dreams, and my hopes for a certain kind of future. But it also forced me to align with women all over the country who live differently than I do, with different values, education and focus. Except for one thing: the desire to become a mom.  

My infertility posse have literally been my lifeline for the past eleven years. They have supported me and comforted me and advised me and changed me. They are teaching me to fly. I don't know where I would be without them.  

So in their honor, I began to advocate for rights for people trying to build their families. And that means (among other things) each year I travel to Washington, D.C. For RESOLVE: The National Infertility Association's Advocacy Day, where I capitalize on my experience on Capitol Hill and relationships with members of the New York Delegation and female members of Congress to pursue an agenda to alleviate the suffering of those with the disease of infertility.  

Advocacy Day is different than any other previous philanthropic or political activity I have ever engaged in. Because infertility is different. It doesn't just affect Jewish/Zionist, health-obsessed, Pro-choice women with a passion for effectuating change through the political process. In fact, it is indiscriminate in who it afflicts.  

So, when I attend Advocacy Day, I never know who I'm going to meet. And what I will have in common with them. I don't know what pages they follow or to whom they tweet. And yet. Somehow, we all understand each other, have tolerance for each other's idiosyncrasies, differing views and values. And appreciate the understanding eyes and sharing a common goal.  

I have come to understand that most people don't grow up marching up and down the Mall for rights, that most only have a vague idea about what the role of a senator is, and how that differs from a governor's. What a Bill is. And how it becomes a Law. But encouraging people - especially women - to advocate for themselves, to get off the sidelines and pursue a better world, to speak truth to power, is something I love doing. So, I’m gratified to meet the women and some men who attend Advocacy Day: church-going pro-lifers who have struggled to make sense of their disease and to find a comfortable moral ground for themselves; people who live 15 miles from The Hill but have never been there before; women far from the fashion-obsessed east coast who questioned the dress code over and over, and have carefully crafted an appropriate ensemble to meet their representatives. I meet husbands who proudly describe the learning curve they overcame to understand their wives’ challenges, and wives who have travelled from the furthest reaches of our country's borders to make their voices heard. Warriors and goddesses who don't let a little train derailment or a shooting at Penn Station deter them from their mission. DC or Bust. And I meet women who carried with them the stories and letters of thousands of others, impressing upon legislators the breadth of this disease.  

Patiently, I explain the difference between state government and federal government; between the House and the Senate; between the Blue and Red Agendas. As I listen to some newbie advocates stumble over the unfamiliar words to present the legislative program we are pursuing, their unwavering commitment to making a difference gives me chills. We present the necessity for making the Adoption Tax Credit refundable, so that lower income people can benefit from it to ease the financial burdens of adopting. We explain the plight of so many of our brave service men and women, injured in the line of duty, who find upon their return that the necessary treatment to enable them to build their families is not covered by their military insurance. Sometimes the procedural matters are blurred somewhat, but the message comes through and the passion of the volunteers gives me chills. 

They enter the imposing white fortresses housing their elected representatives as shy, nervous innocents. They exit the Halls of Congress taller, empowered, and excited by their success. Committed to holding their representatives accountable. Understanding that with their words, they are changing the lives of would-be parents for generations to come. I am so in awe of the transformation wrought in one day - They entered as novices. They exit as Advocates.  

Now, as I confirm their Facebook friend requests, and we follow each other on Twitter, I know the repertoire of subjects that appear in my news feed will expand, as they too, will hear more about my interests, which exposure will help us in our shared goal of implementing the CDC’s National Public Health Action Plan for Infertility.  

Together, we will fly.

No Signature Required

I've always been a little mystified by the public celebration of private events. Like wedding anniversaries. The wedding, of course, is this big public spectacle, an opportunity to re-engage with old friends, introduce them to your new friends, give work colleagues a glimpse into your personal life, and the best of all, showing your family how well liked you are - no loved! - by so many.  

But the anniversaries of that date...isn't that something you just want to celebrate with your spouse? Privately, with perhaps some champagne and the things you only be enjoyed without spectators? 

Why would you need more than the two of you involved? 

It seems like everything today needs an audience to make it matter. Everything needs to be lived out on Facebook, witnessed on 
Instagram, analyzed in 140 characters on Twitter. Needing hundreds (or thousands) of people sending good wishes to validate your importance. So it goes with Mother's Day. My inbox is full of requests to sign cards to Michelle Obama or Nancy Pelosi or Hillary Clinton (who I actually do consider a friend) or other female politicians or famous types. Why? Are their leadership capabilities measured in how many people sign the card? Will their celebrations of motherhood (or grandmotherhood) be enhanced by all of these mostly anonymous well-wishers? Do they really need my signature on a computerized card to make their day complete?  

All of these marketing come-ons cause people to miss the whole point of the day. Does a mom really need anything more to celebrate the joys of motherhood beyond knowing she has children she loves and who love her? Isn't the fact of being a mother on Mother's Day special enough?  

I have a thing about this day of flowers and gifts. And cosmetics promotions and sales. It's a painful day for me. A national celebration of the hole in my life that comes from not being a mom. A day when even the doorman who alerts me to my solo food deliveries wishes me a Happy Mother's Day. A day I tend to spend under the covers surfing for reruns of The Devil Wears Prada, Dirty Dancing, or some other movie that conveys hopefulness and achievement without involving the heroine's uterus.  

One year I actually bought myself an "I'm-not-a-mother Day" gift. A ring that I wear every day. I love the ring, but it doesn't fill the hole and I've decided against making that my practice. Even diamonds can't outshine the dull ache in my heart that comes from my childlessness. 

I have tried to immunize myself against the new spasm of pain from each of the endless hawkers pushing mother’s day gifts, Facebook posts about the joys of motherhood, strangers wishing me Happy Mother’s Day, but have failed miserably. Now I just grit my teeth and rely on the inevitability of it ending in another day. Until next year. And avoid people as much as possible.

If I have one wish for this day, however, it’s that people start putting the emphasis on where it belongs, on their own relationships, and leave me out of it. 

And Michelle Obama? No, you don’t get my name on a card - or a contribution - from me today.