Getting pregnant is easy or so it's been said Your husband just looks at you Mine too. And a team of doctors, nurses, embryologists The room is full of frenzy when I conceive I just need to put it out of my head To take a vacation, you say — as if treatment has not already swallowed my savings Because getting pregnant is simple But if it's not happening for me It might be my diet; something wrong I can't see "I told you!" you'll say when I finally have happy news to share I w

---The below excerpt is a chapter from my debut memoir, Temple and Ash--- I am sitting on the front porch watching a spring rain soak the already-damp earth. I so rarely sit like this; never allowing myself a moment to rest. To just be. But today is Mother’s Day.  And the weather is kind to me, poignantly reflecting my mood.  As I watch muddy puddles form across the saturated lawn, an old song plays in my head. A song from childhood. Rafi, I think.  The lyrics are silly and a

It's 5:03 on a Wednesday. The day has been long, though not particularly unkind. Just more of the same: waking up too late, rushing to get the baby changed and out the door, a busy work day packed with back-to-back meetings and fires to put out. It is not unfamiliar, but it drains me nonetheless. I have been waiting for this. All day, I have been waiting. At long last, I ease my aching bones into the swivel chair, and she dresses me like a queen in a draping black robe. She d

I want to carry the pregnancy test around with me; a talisman for what my body still can't be convinced is true. Never mind the unrelenting nausea. The overwhelming odor of salmon in a co-worker's lunch box sending me straight to the restroom. No, it isn't enough. That could be something simple; the mere stomach flu. This thin plastic wand bearing a second painted pink line, faint as a whisper, is something solid in my hands. I can put it in my back pocket and pull it out aga

---The below excerpt is a chapter from my debut memoir, Temple and Ash--- My gerbera daisy bloomed this morning. I didn’t think she would flower again. Mom said she has never been able to get hers to, and her thumb is greener than Shrek’s.  There were times I thought she was a lost cause; dead for good. But this morning she stands tall and bright. Resilient. Hopeful. That relentless canary yellow daisy is the first thing I see in my mind’s eye when Dr. C tells me that we are

I started Progesterone in Oil (PIO) injections this week. Shall I compare them to a summer's day? No. Maybe more like a subzero January morning. An unprecedented winter storm. A flurried downpour of freezing hail. In short, they suck. PIO shots are widely regarded in the infertility community as the most painful. The needles are the longest, not to mention that they must be injected into the upper outer quadrant of the buttocks, meaning there is less landmass , if you will,

In a break from my traditional reflective, blog-style writing, I wanted to provide something a bit more informative. I've been so very lucky to be surrounded by a whole village of supporters through my IVF journey. Not a day went by without an encouraging text message, a thoughtful word, or a $5 Venmo so I could treat myself to a little coffee pick-me-up. I know that a good number of those of you who've subscribed are not members of the infertility community yourselves, but m

---The below excerpt is a chapter from my debut memoir, Temple and Ash--- It is nearing bedtime, and my younger sister Casey exhales dramatically as we sit side-by-side in the bathtub, scrubbing the shower walls with our soapy rags.  Together, we bemoan the devious Evil Step-Mother for forcing us into such cruel indentured servitude and preventing us from being outside instead, singing and dancing with the birds. I lean over to inspect her work, informing her that she has mis

I don't know if I'll ever be ready. They say that no one is. What I know is that I want my girl to have a sibling. To grow up playing House and School and Spies with her sisters, just as I did. What I know is that I want to feel my body swell with new life again, want to snuggle a tiny bundle in my arms who isn't yet so independent that she insists on being put "down, down, down". What I don't know is how to get from point A to point B. The path of least resistance. How to gu

From the moment she took her first breath, I forgot myself. Like a switch flipped, the internal body systems responsible for keeping me alive fell dormant. My need for food, water, and sleep — all quieted. Her breaths were ragged and labored, and so too, I couldn't quite catch mine. "She's in good hands," my nurse assured me as a team of masked, scrub-clad professionals rushed my minutes-old infant with skin an alarming shade of cornflower blue off to the NICU. I needed to go

I lay in bed, a bundle of 10 fingers, 10 toes nestled in the crevice of my arm. Tiny, still, but growing bigger and more alert with each passing day. I watch her raise a hand to inspect it. She turns it over to examine the front, then back to her palm again. She wiggles each finger individually as if just now registering her own superpower in controlling their movement. She proceeds to throw her arm around wildly, hitting me, then the bed beneath us, then herself. She is thri

As I sit quietly in the corner of a coffee shop, I see a man enter, gripping the tiny hand of a girl, not yet five. Her hair is an unkempt mane of golden wheat. An unidentifiable blue substance stains the perimeter of her lips. They pick a table. She howls with delight as her dad animatedly brushes his hair with a miniature pink hairbrush that could only possibly belong to her. She reaches across the table that separates them; her arms too small to span the gap, pleading. He

I spent the whole day cleaning. Scrubbing toilets and vacuuming floors and dusting shelves—even the high ones that nobody would ever see unless they were really trying. I weeded the garden and re-organized the pantry. The lemony scent of Pine-Sol hangs triumphant in the air. And yet. Everything within me aches for tiny fingerprints smudged across the glass dining room table top; for mismatched socks and stained bibs to fill the laundry basket. I wish for a living room overtak

Watching my body grow is a gift unlike any other. How many sleepless nights did I spend pleading for this; for a robust mid-section and a rounded belly to hold. I ached for stretch marks and morning sickness and midnight trips to the bathroom to pee, yet again. Each wearisome symptom a welcome reminder—it's working. It's really working. This is finally real. This body I once scorned has become my most prized possession. The belly I too often sucked in and sighed out disappoin

Just have faith, you say to me As simply as suggesting I switch to fat-free A diet pill for the insidious craving of my soul Feeding me empty calories you've learned to swallow whole Your words an equivocation to a much deeper ache Finding myself tempted by the fruit from a snake The wisdom of deities a worthy addiction Unwilling to stake roots in the topsoil of your conviction What sort of blind faith do you wish upon me, I implore Is your god afraid of me asking for more? M

I don't let myself overthink the hug after the interview. How it lasted too long. How it was a little too tight. How he walked me to the front door; out of view from his business partners, his wife. I willfully ignore the drop in my stomach, the quickening of my heartbeat. How conceited, in fact. Not every man you meet wants to get with you, Megan. Stop playing the victim. When he calls for a follow-up meeting, I let myself feel optimistic about my chances. Maybe I'll get the

I feel like a helicopter mom. And yet, I am childless. My babies are growing every day. In a lab. In a dish. And yet. Are they babies? Are they just a collection of cells? Can I call them mine? This journey has been robust with legal jargon and dotted lines. What will we do with the embryos we do not implant? Donate? Cremate? And what if I die? Who will they go to? What if Kris dies? What if we both die? Do I will my unborn children to my sister? My parents? Does anybody even