Head over to Infertile Fantasies to learn more about Bea’s completely online, completely brilliant, and truly international (with participants ranging from Singapore to Australia to the USA) film festival. And while you’re there, watch her short (but make sure you’re not drinking anything at the time because you’ll probably spit it out on your computer screen while you’re laughing…)

The real story of Chanukkah is about a war and a rededication, but at some point, the focus changed and now the point of the holiday is miracles. Namely, the miracle of the oil. In every synagogue, there is a light that is constantly lit (ner tamid) and when the people entered the Temple after the battle, they found that all the barrels of oil had been destroyed out of spite. Except for one. And the miracle is that this little barrel of oil, which should have only lasted a day or two, lasted for eight nights, giving them enough time to obtain more oil and keep the ner tamid aflame.

Which is a miracle. It should have only lasted for one night. That was the expectation and that was the norm. But it lasted for eight nights–something completely unexpected and out of the ordinary. And by default, the word miracle refers to circumstances brought about by a higher power. G-d helped the oil last for eight nights.

In the beginning, I used to refer to my children as miracles. They weren’t supposed to happen and yet they did (fine, fine, with medical assistance. But still). I thought their birth was so special that it should be equated with burning bushes and seraphim visitors. But here is the problem with the idea of miracles. By definition, these unusual occurrences happened to specific people. These incidents are unique and unusual. G-d didn’t reveal himself to everyone in Israel at that time: only to the select few. Who were special. Who could accept the miracle and bring it forward. And once I took a step back from the word, I started seeing that in the end, it was exclusive.

Why were we more deserving of a miracle than anyone else? Everyone deserves to parent who wants to parent. Our bodies are supposed to work–we’re supposed to create eggs and sperm. They’re supposed to join together. And just because statistically it isn’t a perfect system, it doesn’t mean that when it works, it’s a miracle. It means that the system worked. Sperm are supposed to fertilize eggs. They are supposed to implant in the wall of the uterus. The baby is supposed to remain in the womb for 9 months. And while all of these steps are wonderous–they aren’t miracles. Because miracles are what comes when nothing is expected.

When we’re working for something and we achieve it, it’s not truly a miracle. It’s the event that couldn’t happen, that was absolutely outside of the realm of possibility, that needs to be reserved as the miracle. Once we start seeing miracles everywhere, they cease to hold importance.

And I know this isn’t a popular view. Ask any parent who has been waiting a long time to have a child and is finally holding the result of all of that hard work/pain/science if they are holding a miracle and they will say, “yes.” Simply because it seems miraculous–a child that is the result of so many threads coming together: science catching up with the body, the enhanced follicle, the concentrated sperm, the assisted hatching, the blood thinners, the cerclage. Except that all of these threads could come together and do come together on a daily basis. And it is awe-inspiring. And it is moving. And it is emotional. But I hesitate to use the term miracle.

Because in the end, we can accept that awe-inspiring things happen to people who have worked hard and also accept that sometimes those same awe-inspiring things don’t happen for another person who has put out an equal effort. We recognize that there are multiple factors at play determining success–the person who responds well to chemotherapy and the person who doesn’t. The person who recovers and the person who doesn’t.

But miracles are random. Miracles are out of our hands. And they’re doled out by a higher power. And I hesitate now to ever call my children miracles because while I find them awe-inspiring, while I am moved just watching them play, while I become emotional speaking about them, I also know that if I were to see it as a miracle, I would be placing myself in a more deserving category than someone else. And we’re not more deserving. It’s just that one of those random factors brought us to this point rather than a different outcome.

Infertility often brings about a religious crisis. Especially when you receive the message that G-d is doling out parenthood. When it’s a series of random factors, it’s much more tolerable to think that you didn’t win. But when a higher power could make it happen for you, but is choosing not to intercede? That’s a bit more difficult to swallow. Because it makes one wonder why they’re not deserving. What did they do that made G-d turn their back on them? What didn’t they do that they were supposed to do in order to be blessed?

There is a story in Judaism that is often used to explain why G-d doesn’t intercede on earth. After that major flood that sent Noah packing the animals two by two into his ark, G-d made a promise that he would never force his opinion on the earth again. He would sit back and watch. He would offer counsel. He’d give strength and hope to people merely with his presence. He wasn’t going to wipe out the human population again in order to restore goodness, BUT on the flip side, he also wasn’t going to swoop in and remove the bad. We couldn’t pick and choose and only have him fixing mistakes and making things well. Therefore, humans were given control to fuck up things as much as they wished. But we could also be affected by chance.

He made a rainbow to sign that contract. Whenever we see a rainbow, we’re suppose to be reminded of that relationship. G-d is essentially a parent: he can’t remove terrible things from our life and he can’t make good things happen. But he can offer us strength just by letting us know that he’s on our side.

And I think I like that idea much more than I like the idea of miracles and G-d placing his/her hands into things. My mistakes are my own and my accomplishments are my own. And there is room for random chance blessing me with twins. But it was not divine intervention. I’m not more deserving than any other woman. I’ll leave the miracles to things like oil. And maybe peace in the Middle East.

That’s what has been on my mind this Chanukkah.

See–this is ten times more interesting than just hearing what the authors have to say about the quote. And, as Serenity pointed out, it’s the authors’ opinion so asking the question would simply get more of the same. This has been fascinating to hear so many people giving their point-of-view.

We’re female factor and we’re very out. We’re so out that my husband annouced our RESOLVE membership in front of an entire film audience without blinking an eye. After I read that quote in the book, I wondered if our willingness to speak openly is due to the fact that it isn’t male factor. And how will we ever really know since it’s all hypothetical?

In college we had a massive senior thesis we needed to complete in order to graduate. I had a double major in anthropology and creative writing (which was actually more realistic in leading to a career than my original major which was Scandinavian studies–what the hell was I going to do with that degree except teach Scandinavian studies at one of the two colleges in American with a Scandinavian studies degree?). My senior thesis was on the transmission of infectious disease through religious ritual. The preparation of the body for a funeral continuing the transmission of ebola in Angola. Immunosuppression from hallucinagenic drugs in religious cults. And the drinking of semen in Papua New Guinea.

There was a group of people in Papua New Guinea (and I can’t believe I remember this, but the group was called the Kaluli) who passed virility and bravery through the male line by drinking semen. A man’s power was contained in his sperm, and the best way to ensure that the next generation were great warriors and could protect their clan was to imbibe the semen of other men.

Um…the point. Part of me has this ingrained–that from Papua New Guinea to New York City, sperm is what makes the warrior: whether that warrior is protecting his village or protecting his Wall Street investment. So I can imagine that if our diagnosis had been male factor, we would have processed it in an entirely different way. Or would we? Because for all the joking about sperm and masculinity, there is the same message passed to women about our bodies. We have “child-bearing hips” and “baby-making bodies.” About our wombs and femininity. At the end of the day, even though it compromises my femininity, I admit to the world that I’m infertile. And if we’re going to give credence to the importance of masculinity, we need to also give credence to the importance of femininity in navigating the world. At least, that’s my opinion.

From my experience, no one has ridiculed us in the holding-the-head-in-the-toilet-and-giving-a-wedgie sort of way, but we certainly have gotten the subtle hints about being a real woman that Road Less Traveled and Teamwinks mentioned.

Maybe the lack of outright ridicule is due to circumstances as Max stated. Usually, when we tell people, we’re not in a boisterous situation, therefore the response goes one of three ways: (1) fantastic with the person sharing their experience too or–if they’re not infertile–with them offering sympathy, (2) dumbfounded with the person changing the subject, or (3) asinine with the person sputtering out a nervous response such as “well, you’re lucky you didn’t end up with 7 children.” With the majority falling in the first and second categories. We probably have a larger amount of stories about that third category than most people because we tell so many people. When we talk about it, we’re usually tell one person at a time or in a quiet situation. I’m sure the response would be different if we were socializing with three other couples at a bar vs. if we told one person in quiet conversation over coffee.

All this went through my head as I read that quote in the book, and I’m glad everyone is chiming in with how they read that quote. It’s as if I’m getting to read books through twenty different sets of eyes. Many many more quotes to come–I’ve been keeping a notebook of ones that have stopped me in my tracks.

Is it longer than one entry?

Yes.

Is it one of your random what ifs?

No.

Is it based on things that you read?

Yes.

Is it twenty questions?

Why, yes. It is. Good guesswork.

I read, as you know, a shitload. Of blogs, of newspaper articles, of magazines, of books. Especially books. And a few times a day, I wish I could start a conversation with the author, hence why I am psyched beyond belief that Elizabeth Swire Falker agreed to participate in the Barren Bitches Book Tour.

But since I can’t always reach the author OR I’d rather hear what a plethora of people have to say, I’d like to pose the questions to you. Hence the next twenty or so questions…

In Helping the Stork (by Carol Vercollone, Heidi Moss, and Robert Moss), on page 9, the writers are discussing the reluctance on the part of men to admit to infertility and state, “some feel terrified that friends or relatives will find out and ridicule them–which happens more to infertile men than women.”

And I just wanted to start a conversation on perception–do infertile men get ridiculed more than infertile women (and this is really a two-way question; once you’ve stated that it’s male factor vs. female factor, are men mocked more whereas women are given sympathy OR if you haven’t stated the reason for the infertility at all, are men still mocked more often than women)? And are women ridiculed, but it’s more subtle? If we take into consideration all forms of ridicule–from the obvious rude remarks to the more subtle jabs–is it equal, or do men have a harder time when being open about their infertility because they are met with more ridicule than sympathy?

Discuss…

Chanukkah begins tonight. On a side note, in case you were wondering uses for unused needles after a cycle, you cannot use them to inject jam into your sufganiyot. I know this because we tried one year. The first problem was drawing the jam into the needle–pretty much impossible with the gauge of needle I had on hand (one of those thick ones for mixing Follistim. Which totally dates me. It makes me feel like an old woman now that they have those fancy Follistim pens this time around). You also, I learned, cannot easily remove the plunger and load the needle as if it were a pastry bag. All of this is a shame because I have not found a satisfactory way of injecting the jam into my sufganiyot.

Luckily, Chanukkah lasts for eight nights, so I can always write my miracle-of-the-season-have-hope shmaltzy post later in the week. Tonight, it’s all about latkes and candles. And a little game of strip dreidel…

Oh…wait. Before I get to that… (clears throat and hopes her mother isn’t reading this entry) The blogs.

Manuela at Thin Pink Line always has a good read. She’s not only a gifted writer, but she presents such an interesting point-of-view. Every time I walk away from her blog, I see the world in a new way. This week, she had a post about meeting her birthmother (and these types of reunions in general). She gives, as always, sound advice on this situation–and it’s a moving post to read even if this is not your reality. Because her post can be read on so many levels including what happens when one person tries to balance the happiness of everyone around her.

Many of the posts I read this week were extremely moving and emotional. Perhaps it is just that time of year. Sanorah at the Twatlight Zone is waiting her beta. She had a post this week in which she describes herself as feeling “I’m tired, just plain tired. My heart…or maybe it’s my soul, is black and blue. I’m bruised, I feel mishandled.” She goes on to wonder, “What scares me most is I worry that once I finally reach that goal, finally become a mother, I’ll be so broken that I won’t be any good to anyone. Not to my husband or my child or myself.” Her words rang so true and I know that’s the fear of many people.

Worrier/Warrior sums up the feelings of many at the holiday season: “The Christmas holidays are coming up and I’m just not feeling it. I used to love this time so much, but now it just feels like things that should be are just missing. It’s not like a sadness or an aching, more just a hollow feeling.” I thought she did a beautiful job putting that feeling into words–that hollowness that comes from missing someone who is not yet here. I hope things turn around soon, Worrier/Warrior, and you either find peace with the wait or move ahead with IVF.

Lastly, while the pain of loss is more acute for some during holiday seasons regardless, a bit of the rawness comes from the fact that you end up seeing people that you rarely run into except at parties or community events. Last year at this time, Laura at Nate Nate Roller Skate was pregnant and about to give birth. She was playing again this year in a holiday concert and was asked by the oboist (who last saw her pregnant) about her baby. And what could she say? She explained once again about the horrific loss they experienced 10 months ago and she spent the rest of the concert laughing while they spoke about other topics (all the while, secretly wanting to vomit). She writes about this moment with such emotion and clarity.

People have commented this week that there seems to be a lot of anger in the Blogosphere–people fighting in the comments section and blog posts of pure nastiness. There were people who went password protected this week and others who left the Blogosphere permanently. And I just caution–tread carefully. It may just look like words on a screen, but they belong to a very real person. And anything you wouldn’t say to a person’s face shouldn’t be said just because there is the possibility of anonymity. People are emotional this time of year; blog posts are emotional this time of year. Rather than leave words that could hurt someone in the comments section, just walk away from posts where you disagree and find another blog to read. I am not saying agree emphatically with everything that is written. Simply think before you post: what you hope to accomplish with your comment (offering support? Changing someone’s mind?). I think it’s important that we minimize the hurt this time of year. You never know what another person has experienced that day.

Just my two cents.