THE YOLK.

How could I not want another one?

2011-04-26T22:11:00.000-07:00

Hello 48, is that really you?

2011-04-19T23:27:00.000-07:00

I typed the number, so it must be true. Today I turned 48. I'm told I don't look my age. I don't feel it. I don't act it. And lately I've taken to mumbling things like "I stopped at 39."

At the tender age of 46, I conceived the future 'sea monkey' (pictured) with the help of donor eggs. I delivered at 47. I'm elated to tell a successful story with a happy ending. We were lucky, I got pregnant on the first try. He's nearly seven months now and I couldn't imagine this beautiful baby as anyone else but 'him.' He's curious. He's hilarious. He's all mine. Catastrophic diaper explosions and all.

We decided not to share his birth story until we shared it with him first. I shared it in cyberspace. Writing about this was incredibly cathartic which is why I'm blogging again. Ok, so I dropped off the cyber planet when I finally got pregnant. Bad blogger. Bad, bad blogger. My only excuse is that I was ridiculously tired from working 60-hour weeks in the crazy film business and dealing with a huge move to Northern California for my husband's new job.

Let me state for the record - moving at nine months is no fun at all.

So, here I am in a new city and a new life with a new hat. Motherhood suits me well. We're having a blast despite my blurry, dark-circled 48-year old eyes. My husband was on the fence about another child and brought up the subject just a few months ago. I had to let go of my El Salvador adoption and was still hoping to try for another baby again. I got my wish.

We've decided to go another round. I've found a sensitive doctor who was charmed by my son and boasted a spiffy track record. I've got 15 fat, juicy, eggs waiting to be thawed and shipped to their new home. Whoa, that sounds creepy. For the record, I'm no wanna-be Ocatamom. I'm an advocate of single-cell transfers (for older moms) and my new doctor concurs. I've started some new testing and we're looking at a July transfer. I'm excited. I'm terrified. 48, really? You bet I am.

We've also decide to tell our birth story, which probably isn't as complicated as I've imagined. Got a 'donor out' story? Please feel free to share. I'm still sorting it all out. Another blog. Another night.

What a difference a year can make

2011-04-14T14:42:00.001-07:00

Meet Sea Monkey.

Transfer Day

2010-06-13T12:53:00.000-07:00

I've been anticipating this day for months and it's finally here. We stumble out of bed and it feels like Christmas morning. I feel excited, yet strangely calm and resigned to whatever happens next. He's cautious by nature and I'm hopeful leaning toward delusional. I've been a good patient, dutiful and diligent. I'm nervous as hell.

We crack bad jokes as we head towards our clinic. The transfer is on a Saturday and the office is quiet. I like that. A female aid with a mustache leads us to a absurdly small room. Her bedside manner is awkward and the room seems far too clinical for how much we're spending. She dims the lights and we wait for the doctor. We hold hands and say nothing.

Our doctor arrives with technician who shows us our top pick embryo in a 'ultra-sound'-like photo. They gush at how big and healthy it is. We decide to transfer just one egg (I am 46 and concerned about carrying twins). My valium is beginning to kick in and my mind goes loopy. My musical man plays classical music on his iphone. I fall into a deep sleep.

I'm aware that time has passed, but my mind is still in a fog. Another nurse steps in a helps me into a wheelchair. Our doctor leans in for a hug and whispers, 'Good luck.".

I'm wheeled to the front of the clinic as I wait for him to pick me up. I've never been a wheelchair or in the hospital for that matter. I still feel high, like I'm in a dream. We drive away, I fall back asleep.

Welcome little eggs!

2010-02-21T18:24:00.000-08:00

The day has finally come, our donor is scheduled for retrieval. They've scheduled my honey's 'drop off' an hour before. I go with him to the clinic to support the big day. It's a beautiful Saturday morning and we're giddy with excitement.

We have to sign a three-page legal agreement regarding our donor. There's additional charges as well. There's always a new charge and I feel frustrated that my insurance doesn't cover any of this. I live in California and i wonder if that has something to do with it. But I digress...

After the big 'drop off' (no, I didn't go in the room ... his choice, not mine) we took off to celebrate with a big breakfast. I do wish we had left flowers for our donor at the clinic. It didn't strike me until after we left. It would have been a lovely gesture as we're so grateful for her.

Within hours after the retrieval our doctor called to tell us the good news. Our doctor sounds like a radio announcer or an actor playing a doctor, so I'm always amused by his delivery. He said everything was 'just terrific' and we were the proud parents of 16 embryos! 16 is my lucky number. Always has been. Always will be.

It was a sunny day in January and hope was in the air. God, aint' science grand.

Back in the saddle again

2010-02-21T18:00:00.000-08:00

Fast forward two months. It's Christmas Eve and we're about to start our IVF cycle again. There's something magical about starting on December 24th. Or so I tell myself. Pills ... check. Shots ... check. Hope ... god, let me feel hope.

We take a flight to visit my folks for the holiday. I put the drugs in my purse and the needles in my suitcase praying that we won't be separated from our bags. It's Christmas morning and our flight is delayed for hours. We finally board and take off. I'm stuck next to the 57-year old AA divorced man who decides to share his entire life story with me. My body language is clear. My one word answers spell 'not interested' to anyone who's aware enough to hear. Clearly he couldn't read the signs. Why do people on airplanes feel it's necessary to confess their drug, alcohol, gambling and sex addiction. My honey is spared the gory details as he sleeps away the flight. Lucky.

We finally arrive five hours late to my hungry, tipsy family. My adorable nephews rush outside to greet us. It's wonderful to be home. We're poured two large glasses of delicious Oregon pinot noir wine. I'm trying not to drink but I cheat and enjoy a glass. As I haven't shared what we're up to, I know I'll be interrogated by my bossy clan if I don't drink. Happy to report that I fake-sipped my way through the rest of our trip. Four days. No wine. Harder than it sounds. Worth every fake sip.

Back to square one.

2010-02-14T17:04:00.000-08:00

I'm glad to report that our original egg donor is on the path to recovery. It has been reported that she is in good spirits despite the seriousness of the accident. Via our agency, we sent her a box of chocolates and a card. I wanted her to know she was in our thoughts on a daily basis.

My agency suggested that we choose another donor right away. I was unsure if we should wait or move on to another donor. Our donor's rehabilitation could last up to six months and we weren't in a position to wait. I was left with this acute feeling of loyalty to our donor. I felt guilty that we were switching so quickly. We had no choice. Like it or not, we were back to square one.

It was just as frustrating as the first time around. I said it once and I'll say it again: choose wisely and choose quickly. Our first two picks weren't available. Our agency sent us 'first looks' at a few new girls that weren't on the web yet. I really appreciated their tenacity towards finding us another donor. Our third pick was a 'maybe' until a couple from New Jersey decided to fly her across country for their cycle (c'mon, can't they find someone on their own shore?!)

Just when I was ready to give up or switch agencies, I got a phone call from our agency. Turns out my first egg crush (the nanny with the porcelain skin) just became available for cycle. Her first cycle was with our IVF doctor which made everything just a little easier. There was one glitch ... she wouldn't be available for three months. Three months felt like an eternity. Or was it?

I poured myself a big glass of Pinot and decided to go with my gut. This was the one. She'd come back around and I wasn't about to let this go again.

The phone call no one expected.

2010-01-23T14:44:00.000-08:00

I was two weeks into my cycle. Our nightly shots of Lupron were less painful than I had imagined. The estrace pills made me feel somewhat 'fuzzy.' My brain, body and soul missed coffee. My jeans missed my pre-ivf body before the bloat. Overall, I felt pretty good. A little moody. Nothing out of the ordinary.

I took a two-week commercial knowing that it would be fast and furious. Nothing I couldn't handle, but the lack of caffeine was going to kill me. I muddled through my first day, happy to be working with a dear friend in from New York. I hit the ground running. I shop for a living. It's not as glamorous as it sounds, but not a bad way to earn a living.

Around 3pm, I started to drag. My normal routine was a predictable latte post lunch.
A little kick to get me through traffic, rude salespeople and not enough time for too many sets. I popped a little dark chocolate and kept moving.

My phone rang and I read the name of my clinic in the window. Huh? Our coordinator was a chronic emailer, a call was out of the ordinary. I answered in my cheery 'work voice.' The minute I hear our coordinator's voice, I knew something was wrong. "There's been an accident," she said. "Your donor was in an accident last night. She was thrown from the car and she's in intensive care." I think I muttered 'Oh my god."

Too many thought raced through my head. I prayed she'd recover. I prayed for her son. I prayed that she'd make it through what appeared to be a horrible accident. I tried to push away my sense of dread and fear and pity and disappointment that my donor wasn't going to be my donor anymore. I sobbed. I called my man and cried some more. I was in shock. Complete shock. I felt guilty for my feelings that screamed 'why me again?' My sorrow paled in comparison to this incredible soul that was fighting for her life. I stopped crying for myself and started sobbing for her.

A Shot of Romance

2009-10-20T19:54:00.000-07:00

There's a tremendous amount of poking and prodding in the land of infertility. It's invasive and occasionally scary. I'm told I have delicate veins each time I flinch when my blood is drawn. I don't like needles and I'm a wimp when it comes to pain. I was not looking forward to the IVF shots that were about to begin.

Our IVF drug start date loomed on a calendar circled in a bright red sharpie. I hung it in our kitchen so he would help me remember how real this all was about to become. Our nurse called as a reminder too.

We celebrated the night before with a bottle of red wine and a delicious dinner. They suggest you abstain from alcohol and caffeine when you start the drugs. I'm not a big drinker, but I will miss my wine. I had an upcoming dinner party planned and I knew my friends would question my lack of wine glass in hand. Solution: make sangria (with wine & without). It workslike a charm.

I failed to completely wean myself off coffee but was down to 1/2 caf/ 1/2 decaf in the morning. I figured I'd be pure within a couple weeks. I was starting a hard freelance job and knew I'd need that extra bump for at least one more week. The doctor didn't seem too concerned as long as I started taking Estrace (pills).

The first shot you'll take is Lupron. It's injected in your thigh or arm Your nurse can show you the drill. Or you can simply follow the instruction as we did. Side effects may include bloating, mood swings or 'fuzzy brain' ( I had all three, but nothing too extreme).

My honey is a methodical one-task wonder, so I wasn't too concerned that he'd miss a beat in our nightly ritual. Sure there was the pain issue, but I was concerned that I'd feel awkward or embarrassed by this unsexy route to pregnancy. Wrong! Call me crazy, but there was something romantic about these shots. Big needle or not, he was tender in all the right ways. It's intimitate in that good way. This may not be as fun as baby-making the old fashioned way, but who knows where the night might bring you both. Light a candle. Enjoy.

Give Me the Drugs

2009-10-19T18:22:00.000-07:00

Once we chose a donor, it took about a month longer than anticipated for our cycles to sync together. She had been a previous (proven!) donor and her meds may have caused her period to be delayed by nearly a month. By the time I was off my BCP (birth control pills = hello water weight) and able to start meds, I was anxious to get this show on the road.

You'll receive a call from the pharmacy asking for your address so they can Fed-Ex your medications. Fed-Ex?! I don't think so! This wasn't some sweater I had ordered from The Gap. Ok, this is just an example, I never order clothes on-line, I'm too tactile and I don't trust that they'll fit.

Besides, you need to sign for your fed ex. so shipping to my home wasn't an option during the work week. Although the return label doesn't say 'FROM THE SUPER-DUPER EXPENSIVE IVF DRUG COMPANY," I still didn't want any of my nosy co-workers wondering what just came in the mail.

The meds are sent by Fed-Ex to your donor, but you have the option to pick up yours if you choose. They won't be sent to your local CVS or Walgreens, they are delivered to a 'speciality pharmacy.' which may or may not be in your neighborhood. I had to drive about 40 minutes for mine. I'm glad I did.

At the fancy pharmacy, you'll be faced with a giant shopping bag (think Gap again) filled with lots of "stuff' and lots of information. I immediately felt overwhelmed with the sheer amount of pills, bottles, syringes (two kinds and gulp, so many), swabs and containers that were laid out on the counter.

There are different instructions for each drug. Some need to be put in the 'door' of your fridge (Lupron). Some do not. Some are taken with food. Some or not. While everything is labeled and spelled out, I took comfort in having an actual person explaining each part. I'm sure I could have figured it out on my own, but I needed that extra bit of comfort and peace of mind. You'll be struck with the weight of 'oh shit, this is really happening' once you see the magic drugs before you.

My insurance (thank you Motion Picture :{ )doesn't cover infertility, but they ran my card through anyways. I saved $150 by picking it up in person. I didn't have to worry that my package was at some Fed-ex station in Texas or Illinois. There's enough to worry about with IVF, this shouldn't be one of them

On my way out the door the pharmacist told me to call anytime. As I gathered up my bag of goodies, she gave me the warmest smile and wished me luck. That was worth the drive alone.

The 24-hour Wallow

2009-10-17T14:53:00.000-07:00

The other day I visited an old friend and came home feeling miserable. It was nothing she said or anything she did. It was only a few hours spent with her and her adorable girls. Beautiful toddlers with faces that lit up when I entered the room. Despite a lovely afternoon that included wine and Auntiie Em cupcakes, I could not shake the feeling of sadness when I returned home.

It had been awhile since I had visited and now I remembered why. She had the one thing that had eluded me for so many years. What I felt was envy. Pure and simple. That ugly emotion we are taught to ignore. It was choking me and I couldn't let it go. So I didn't, I decided to wallow. But this time , I did something different. Instead of moping for days, my wallow had a 24-hour limit. My screenwriter neighbor (who deals with rejection on a daily basis) first suggested this uncanny notion. It's like a 24-hour cleanse of all the vile that's in your body. I was intrigued.

What to do in 24 hours.

Go ahead and wallow. Wallow in your misery. Wallow in your pain. Wallow in the injustice. You might not be able to tell someone to 'fuck off' when they tell you 'just relax and it will happen.,' but imagine what that would feel like if you did. It's your 24-hour day, do whatever the hell you want. Stay in bed. Watch bad reality. Write it. Burn it. Eat chocolate. Drink wine. Don't pick up your phone when your mother calls. Infertility sucks and you deserve a good wallow.

And if you need longer, well, you need longer. Whatever gets you through the day, is right for you. For me, I'm trying this new rule out. Is it working? I'm not so sure, but I'm willing to give it a try. The alternative doesn't feel so great.

I've experienced pain and paralyzing bouts of fear that I would never achieve this lifelong dream. It's impossible to deny these feelings, but I decided to not allow these feelings to rule me. Even if the outcome isn't what I imagine, I can, in this moment
choose not to wallow in worry.

Donor eggs. Adoption. Foster Care. When I consider these options I think I'll wallow in hope.

My First Egg Crush

2009-10-16T23:27:00.000-07:00

I'm not ashamed to admit my former dalliances in the internet dating world. I'm sure I'm not alone . If you haven't done it personally, you've looked over your cousin/best friend/co-workers shoulder to peak at their dating site with hundreds of hopeful 'this may be the one.'

So it doesn't surprise me at all that my first look at a Donor Egg site feels strangely familiar. These sites have clever names like 'Conceivabilities' and 'Alternative Conceptions.' They list dozens of women with attractive photos and sparkling white teeth. Suddenly it feels like I'm cyber trolling for dates again. There are so many sites. So many choices. It's overwhelming. We laugh through some of it and I break down more than once. It can bring on jealously you didn't know you had inside.

Get ready for it all.

I feel shallow when I pass on the girl with the big nose (my honey has a honker and I fear we might have a girl.) I feel ashamed when I reject the one who didn't go to college or the pre-med who revealed her mother's depression. This is one of the toughest choices you'll ever make.

But that's only the beginning. Wait till you learn what your partner is looking for. Education and intelligence were at the top of his list ( he never would have picked me, my college GPA sucked.) He swore he could detect hapiness and he wanted someone with a sparkle like mine (his sweet quote.) I wanted an artist with dark hair and eyes like my own. I gravitated towards good writers with warm smiles who volunteered and travelled around the world. I suppose I was looking for a little part of me.

We chose not to meet the donors in person. It felt too complicated and uncomfortable for me. Respect those feelings. Donor profiles are fairly detailed and you can learn a great deal about someone's personal and health history in a few pages. Honestly, I was fascinated by the whole process of it all.

And now for the difficult part. The choice. After scouring dozens of sites, I kept coming back to one woman. I was drawn into her deep brown eyes and porcelain skin. She was an artist who worked as a nanny because she loved children. She seemed smart and good natured. I could be friends with her. And then I thought to myself, "I have an egg crush." And then I said it out loud to my man who was buried in his computer. I thought it would make him laugh and it did. But I meant it. Despite my good intentions to stay detached, I was smitten.

Serendipity came into play when the agency we chose turned out to be run by a childhood friend of mine. Only days prior to deciding, we had reconnected via Facebook. I knew we could trust her. She suggested that we pick at least three candidates in case one might not be available. Excellent advise.

I definitely lead the search, but we both had the veto vote. He was far more detached then I pretended to be. We took nearly a month to decide on our choices of egg donors. Looking back, I wish we had made them sooner.

Here's a few lessons we learned the hard way.

Websites are not always accurate. The girl who's 'In Cycle' may actually be available and the girl who is not "In Cycle," might be. We wanted someone local and that wasn't easy to determine on most sites. The ex-beauty queen pre-med student might charge you $12,000 (average is $5500-8500) for her prime-proven eggs. There's lots of reasons why someone may or may not be available. And think about this, if you have an 'egg crush, ' you're probably not the only one. You might have to wait in line for her next cycle. We weren't willing to delay another cycle. We were ready now.

It's human nature to get attached, but you can't alway control the outcome. Trust your gut and jump right in. Turned out another couple felt the same way about my crush as I did, but they acted on it one week sooner. I was disappointed, but moved forward. Picks two and three were in cycle also. Shit, could everyone else really have the same DNA taste as us? This was getting depressing. It felt like dating all over again.

And then I remembered what lead me to find my perfect match (my wonderful him.) Getting out there again even when you're sick and tired of being let down. The search was back on and this time we had more inside information.

We picked another three women more easily this time. I looked closer at the green eyed mother with the beautiful young son. She was 'in cycle' and we hadn't thought to ask the first time around. She was our bonus pick and turned out to be the one we decided to choose after all.

I will forever be grateful for the women who choose to donate. They are goddesses to me. But I am the mother. Or I hope I will be. I think I lost sight of that in the dating pool of youth and fertility. I hope I won't lose sight again.

I'll always remember my first crush, but it was time to let it go. Or was it? That's another blog. Another story. Another night.

The IVF Coordinator - the Wizard behind the OZ.

2009-10-14T19:29:00.000-07:00

After we survived the doctor's visit, we were introduced to our IVF coordinator. She is a trained nurse and so much more. She is the liason responsible for the medical, legal and financial information that will rock your world for the next few months.

Don't make the mistake of talking money with your doctor. Ours gave us a number thousands 'less' than we were anticipating. So when our coordinator showed us the contracts with the real numbers, we were concerned. She apologized and said, "He's a brilliant doctor, he truly cares, but he should know better than to discuss money." I'm glad he's not our accountant, but his statistics for births are one of the best in town. He's lucky he has her. She put us at ease. She felt real to us.

She is the Wizard behind the OZ. The one behind the curtain, pulling the strings and making sure we all stay on task. Our Dr. OZ (not his name -- no worries Oprah) is a nice man, but this is not like going to your warm and fuzzy gynecologist. He is a scientist and I hope he's brilliant like Einstein. I'm praying this science experiment works. There are so many emotions riding on this, I find comfort in believing in the procedure.

Sometimes I feel like just another statistic hoping to beat the odds. We've seen our doctor only once for our initial meeting. I'm not sure if this is normal, but we've mostly dealt with the coordinator. Emails and phone calls are returned in a timely manner, so I don't really have any complaints so far.

I recently learned that Michael Jackson's Paris and Prince were conceived via IUI (turkey-baster) at our clinic. I could have lived without that creepy knowledge (I read it on some trashy post-eulogy MJ story) , but I still believe we're in the right place.

I met with one other IVF doctor and he was a pompous ass. His waiting room blasted Jerry Springer on TV and I knew I was in trouble. I left his office in tears. Next time around, I did my homework. We picked the clinic with the best reputation . We were referred by my gyno, my fertility acupuncturist and a friend. We liked the doctor. We liked the nurses. We liked the coordinator.

The coordinator is the keeper of the 'all mighty' calender of meds, shots and eventual retrieval. Get to know this lady or gent. Yours will be your lifeline through all of this. Our coordinator is kind and patient. She tried to warn us about the range of emotions that we might feel in choosing a donor. She gently said, "Choose carefully, but don't get too attached to any one donor."

It's sound advise. It was easy to hear. I wish it had been easier to follow.

When to tell or not to tell.

2009-10-06T20:12:00.000-07:00

I realize most people write blogs in the present. Blogs resemble the diary in a modern age. For the next few entries, I'm writing in the past and attempting to catch up to the present. I'm not too far away.

In my donor egg education, I found fertility blogs to be insightful and comforting. I loved reading about donors and why they decided to donate. I cried when I learned other woman avoided their pregnant friends and felt guilty like I did. Blogs can be educational. They can be hillarious. They can also be healing.

If we have a child, we've agreed to tell them the story of their birth. We're not quite sure how or when, but we agree it's important to tell. Eventually we'll probably tell our family and close friends. I think woman are incredibly fortunate to have this option. For me, I see no reason to keep it hidden forever. Although I respect anyone's decision not to tell.

Sometimes I wonder why I've chosen to keep my IVF plight secret from my closest friends and family. I haven't even told my closest sister who I can tell my deepest, most disgusting secrets to with no judgment on any level (a mutual pact.)

I'm grateful for amazing friends and family. They love me. They love my man. Most of my inner circle are blessed with healthy, adorable children and they would be over-the-moon happy for us if a child came into our world. But these same friends/family shouldered my not-so-private pain and disappointment when my fertility path lead to a nowhere a few years back.

In spite of their good intentions, I realize I couldn't face 'that' look. That 'look of worry' in their eyes that it might not happen for me again. Believe me I've dealt with that worry. I've faced that real concern and I've decided to go for it again. This time, with better odds, a clear intention and certainly a better partner.

So for now, it's kept private. Between he and I. Well, I guess that's not entirely true. I do have a wonderful counselor (more of a life coach) who I call from time to time. And then there's my acupuncturist who treats me for fertility. She's wise, talented and funny as hell. She lets me ramble for most of my session. She's a great listener, and sometimes that's all I really need.

My best friend keeps telling me she's having dreams that I'm pregnant. I'm dying to tell her. She'd be fascinated by the science and miracle of it all. I know I am. I hope I'll have an amazing story to share with her in just a few more months. I really do. I'm just not ready to share it right now.

The Vessel

2009-10-05T21:47:00.000-07:00

There would be no link to my Irish heritage. No taste of the Italian. My European genes would not be passed on to the next generation. I had wrestled with the loss of a biological child two years ago when I had decided to adopt.

I knew I could love an adopted child. I figured I'd feel no different about the birth of a donor egg kid. Love is love. He was just beginning to process it all.

It was his idea to jump to the next level of IVF. He has excellent genes. Dreamy blue eyes with a mad talent for math and music. His father just turned 80 and still rides his bike every day. If I was picking sperm, I'd shout, "My that's some smart spunk you got there mister!"

He clearly felt the desire to grow the fruit of his loins. He wanted that biological link and he wanted me. I suppose that made me the vessel. Our vessel of love. Mother. Father. Child. Family. I felt honored. I was thrilled. I was terrified. I was in.

So off we went to the fifth floor of the high-rise clinic north of Rodeo drive. We chose one of the best clinics in the country. We are not rich, but we are fortunate to be able to afford this. It is not cheap (understatement) and there are no guarantees.

It was reminiscent of a biology lecture and he was the new exchange student (the cute one from Belgium.) Charts and illustrations of fallopian tubes, uterus, sperm and eggs. The doctor was surprisingly warm as he explained the scientific mystery of it all. I had heard some of this before. He was attempting to absorb it all.

I was not shocked nor surprised when the doctor suggested donor eggs. Despite my expiring eggs, I have the uterus of a 35-year old (listen up sisters, many of us do! ) and a thick lining when I ovulate. He gave us encouraging odds (70-80%) if we chose donor eggs. This was better news than I had expected.

I turned to him and he looked shaken, like he had lost his best friend. The doctor got up and left us alone.

I grabbed his hand and said "Honey, these are better odds then we had expected." All he said was "But I want you." Tears fell down my face.

I felt sick. I felt old. I felt like I had failed us. I was incredibly sad. Why had it taken so long to find someone who finally felt so right?

40 is not the new 30.

2009-09-29T18:39:00.000-07:00

40 is not the new 30 when it comes to the beauty and luster of your uterus, fallopian tubes and eggs. This is not a story about Cougars and botox. I wish it was that simple.

My path to motherhood hasn't exactly been flowered with butterflies and rainbows. Trust me, this is not one of those 'poor-me' or 'how my man done me wrong.' tales. I've read too much David Sedaris to recognize that profound truths can be found in dark humor and tragedy. Infertility is heartbreaking. I am forever changed. Despite it all, I am stronger and full of life.

I'm not one to dwell on it, but this story starts with a cautionary tale that involves my somewhat complicated past.

My biological clock went off and I hit the snooze button. It went off again and he asked me to snooze it again. At 38, I knew I was ready. He asked me to wait a year, I agreed. Two years later we dipped our toes into the fertility dark sea lagoon. What a monster.

"They take the short bus," we joked when we found out his sperm swam backwards. My hormones and progesterone levels were just fine. It wasn't going to be easy, but I was determined. Two IUI's later, my fear and sadness was palatable. He spent more time in the mountains, to clear his head from the traffic and smog and everything he hated about Los Angeles.

After the third attempt, I thought I was pregnant. Elated, I shared the news with my fiancee. He looked shocked and terrified "I can't believe it. " he said, and started to sob. It took a pregnancy scare (turns out I wasn't ) for him to finally admit the truth. He didn't want to be a father. Not now. Not ever. Not even with me.

I had hit the snooze button for the last time. I had to wake up and get on with my life. I was 42, my fertility ship had sailed and I was shit out of luck without a ticket.

Or was I?

At the tender age of 43, I decided to adopt. I had a good career and support system. My desire to be a mom was stronger than my desire to find 'the guy.' I was always open to adoption and loved the idea of giving a child a better life. My single friend had adopted from China with great success. I chose a Latin country open to single moms. I was told it would take around 18 months.

I plowed through the exhausting paperwork, fingerprints, IQ test, and home visits required. It takes forever, but when you're done, you're done. And then you wait. And then you wait some more.

I was single. Single with a kid. Well, sort of. And I could write an entire blog on dating with that lump in your throat of 'how the hell do i tell this nice guy this story." But I won't. I thank my lucky stars every day that I have another story to tell.

He came into my life when I wasn't really looking. I was charmed. He was charmed. I conveniently left out my future little someone on our first date. (I wanted that second date) Date two, over home-made risotto (key to divulging awkward tales) and red wine, I simply told him. I spared him the gory details and kept it pretty factual. There was an awkward pause, then he kissed me for the first time. I hate to brag, but I'm told that I'm a great kisser.

I was elated when he called again.

In the early stages he asked me if I could still have children. I answered "Probably not," then mumbled something about 'all kinds of ways to make families," I told him not to waste his time or my time if that was a 'deal breaker." I knew where he was coming from. I feared he would have to let me go. He said, "I'm not going anywhere."

We found ourselves falling in love. He wanted to make a child. His idea. Not mine. The 'trying' was sexy as hell. It brought out a wave of emotions. I knew it wouldn't be easy. It was like pouring salt on a wound, but we we're in it together. A first, for me.

Nearly two years later and three failed IUI attempts, we're still in. We met with the Beverly Hills IVF doctor who kept us waiting for 55 minutes. We were told donor eggs were our only option. I was reluctant at first, he was game for it all. God, I'm lucky.

My adoption is still pending, we're in for as long as it takes. The backlog of waiting parents and children is staggering. The country is a bureaucratic mess and my slimy adoption agency went out of business. It's my other 'Lifetime' movie. It could take up to two more years. Maybe we'll be parents before then. We may start Spanish lessons in the winter.

One child would be incredible. Two children seems like a dream. They'd have each other. They'd share two unique different stories and a bond that's more than biological.

If you're reading this blog you know that we're on to something Hollywood mom's have been hiding for years. Science has given us promise. Egg donors are remarkable women. They have given us the ultimate gift of letting go. It's time to let go of the loss. Let go of the pain.

L'eggo my eggo, it's time for hope.