Requiem for a Dream

A long time ago in south Brooklyn, my sister suffered a nasty playground accident which left a twisted purple scar on her knee.  At the age of eight her misery was compounded by the dreadful realization that this blemish would disqualify her from the Miss America Pageant one day. 

Whether or not that dream was realistic (or the aforementioned injury would have, in fact, prevented her entry into that competition) is beside the point. What I should’ve learned that day is that there is nothing more painful than the death of a dream.

Our hopes and dreams are treasured commodities here in the good ol’ USA. We pride ourselves on the fact that any little boy or girl has the privilege of imagining his or her future as President. Again, the realities of economic, gender and race disparity have little to do with this aspiration either. It is our right as born and bred Americans to harbor this dream and any other we choose to have.

I never dreamed of being President or Miss America.  My fantasies were smaller and more intimate. For a while there, I wanted to marry the baseball pitcher, Tom Seaver. As I grew older I continued to love and admire him but moved on romantically to other idols. My dream didn't die, but merely faded away.

But there were other dreams that I never knew I had, never would put a voice to because they were just too…expected. Like most other girls I knew, I played house with my dolls, and spent endless hours picking out names, choosing whether I’d have a boy and a girl, two girls or a houseful of children.  

When I think about this era, I also remember playing The Game of Life – the board game which took you and your plastic car on journey through the milestones of a lifetime. If you landed on a particular square you could marry, receive a child or two or six, get a degree or job etc.  At end of the game you got points and wound up at “Millionaire Acres” or the poor house. Each time we played this game, my greatest – and most secret – fear was not to end up bankrupt but childless.

And, ironically, in the real game of life, that’s exactly what happened.

I didn't find my true love until I was nearly 41 years old. And I’m not the kind of woman who would settle for anything less than my soul mate: a man who was responsible, kind, patient and loving enough to share my home, my finances, my problems and my victories for the rest of my life. I also was not interested in the overwhelming responsibility of single motherhood.  And, to be honest, there wasn't a slew of men in and out of my life who could’ve even been potential fathers even if I had chosen that path. There was me, lots of parties, crazy adventures, and, eventually, years of soul-searching, self-exploration and redemption.  

When I did meet my husband we knew almost immediately that we were going to spend our lives together and wanted to add a child of our own to that equation. At our ages, we wasted no time and started trying after just a few months of dating.  For the first six months or so we just stopped using protection and were surprised it didn't work.  

Then I bought all kinds of books, paid strict attention to the calendar, took my temperature, drank herbal concoctions and employed an acupuncturist – all in a vain attempt to forestall the inevitable medical interventions.  

But when all else failed, I got over my fear and distrust of western medicine and we booked an appointment with a fertility specialist. I can remember so clearly -- and with blistering resentment -- the doctor rubbing his hands together and uttering those promising words, “let’s get you pregnant!” as if it was as easy as firing up a grill for a backyard barbecue.   I was nearly 43 by then. And, what he failed to disclose was that even with all that modern medical science had to offer, my chances of conceiving a child with my own eggs was one in thirty. But I had insurance, so off we went.

I can remember the low points like scenes out of a movie that play over and over in my head. My poor husband laboring to produce a semen sample on the hottest July day in a century, and rushing to the lab in Chinatown before the 30-minute window slammed shut. We argued the entire sweaty trudge there, had a blowout fight outside the office and parted ways for the rest of the morning. And, of course, that’s the sample they lost.  

I also recall, the moment the doctor informed me in his clinical manner that I had uterine polyps, would have to suspend treatment and have surgery. Now it was time to get over my fear of hospitals.  

And there were the two full rounds of IVF: the multiple shots every day which left my belly scabby and swollen, the thrice weekly early morning probes and blood tests at the clinic, the egg retrievals, the implantations, and the two weeks of waiting.  Each time I instinctively knew I wasn't pregnant but held out hope anyway. Hearing the news felt like a condemnation, a pronouncement of my failure as a woman.   

Although the doctor was eager to keep trying (and getting paid), a friend who worked in his lab was honest. He told us that we were dealing with the law of diminishing returns. In the first round I had produced 14 eggs of which three were viable. In this second round I had produced 11 and only one was viable – and that poor little egg had stopped dividing after two days of fertilization. My body had run out of reproductive materials at age 43.  Further attempts would be futile and take a huge toll on my emotional health and our finances (roughly $2,500 out of pocket each round,) all while putting me at a greater risk for cancer in the future.  

Well-meaning friends would also give me that “I knew someone who got pregnant once they stopped trying” bullshit. Or “you could adopt” they offered, surrounded by progeny bearing their resemblance.  I politely explained that my dream was to have a child that was part me and part my husband.  For this and other more practical reasons, adoption was off the table. Well, except for the beautiful border collie that we treat like our son.

So I laid my dream to rest. I had true love and a rewarding career.  I lived an exciting, fulfilling life in the greatest city in the world with cherished family and fabulous friends. But I wouldn’t give birth to a child of my own.  I could live with that, right?

But, to my surprise the dream wouldn’t die. Instead it hid in some dark corner of my brain, creeping out whenever “that time of the month” approaches. ”Maybe this time?” it whispers to me.  I still run baby names around in my head. I still wonder what he or she would’ve looked like. I know she’d be funny, I know he’d be sweet. I know he or she would have short legs.  

The thing is, when I look at my life today, it’s not that I miss taking care of a child. No, in fact, I feel that I’ve been spared many sleepless nights and early mornings, schooling dramas, trying to fit in with younger parents whose modern child-rearing philosophies are so foreign to me, and the inevitable heartaches that would accompany any teenager who’d inherit mine and my husband’s more unfortunate traits.  

No, it isn’t that particular loss that continues to haunt me. It has taken me these many years to realize the particular flavor of my grief.  As I quickly approach menopause, it is the death of the dream that causes so much pain.  I know now that very soon, the dream will be forced to come out of its shadowy hiding place and give up the ghost. It can’t pretend to be on life support anymore. 

To lose a dream is to come face to face with the cold hard truth that we don’t write the script of our lives.  For a dreamer – and control freak – like me, that’s an awfully scary prospect. And for an American, well, it just seems criminal not to get whatever we dreamed of as children.   But I guess it’s just part of growing up, and perhaps, another step in the healing. Or, perhaps not.  We’ll just have to see.