The D List

Part of the reason I began writing over the past year was to try and explain our choices around donor conception to our children. Just in case I die sooner than later.

July 22, 2012 marks the completion of 37 years since my mother died of ovarian cancer, and the beginning of the 38^th year. It’s not a “big” year, like 20, 25 or even 30. By the time we reach the 40^th anniversary of her death, she would have been solidly into “had a good life” range, had she lived. It would be considered a massive loss but no longer tragic. Leaving 5 grown children and nine grandchildren instead of three teenagers and two younger children.

But this year the insignificant number carries a personal resonance. A personal milestone that each of my four older siblings has already transited. Their numbers were all different. Twenty-six plus 18. Twenty-seven plus 17. Thirty plus 14. Thirty-four plus 10. The number of years that she’s been gone, plus the age each of us were when she died, equals our special combination of numbers when we finally reach the age she was at death.

So this year it’s my turn. In a few months I’ll be the last child to become older than she ever became. A lot gets lost over 38 years, not that much was saved. Thankfully I have, and wear, her wedding ring, from my parents’ marriage in October 1956. I was wearing it when I gave birth to each of my two children, and I like to think that she must have been wearing it when she gave birth to each of us. Swollen pregnancy fingers are not a family trait. I have a few other bits and pieces. Some photographs. A small confirmation bible, containing words that she took little consolation from during her last year of life, from what I’m told. Every so often my stepmother sends me random ephemera that she’s discovered in an unpacked box from three moves ago.  When I open the dusty pages of a personal recipe book and read my mother’s familiar 1940s handwriting, I like to hold it up close to my face and inhale. As if I’m breathing in a spec of her. And then I check to see if there are any special words written for me, but there never are.

So much can get lost when someone dies, and I don’t like to think of our children searching for something that doesn’t exist. The more I write and the more I explain, the better will be their understanding and acceptance about how they were conceived. At least that’s my hope. The only alternative is not to write and not to explain, but that just doesn’t feel like an option.

I wish I could say that only sticks and stones may hurt me, and not words. But words can.

The unparalleled excitement of my published article in The New York Times’ Motherlode was soon dampened by a toxic barrage of verbal sticks and stones. I had expected it, but I still wasn’t ready for it. It’s a little easier to read anonymous insults hurled at anonymous people, than it is to read the insults hurled at my family and me.

Two days post-publication, Donor Sibling Registry founder Wendy Kramer gave me some sound advice: do not ever read comments on a media piece. I knew beforehand that reading the comments wasn’t the wisest move, but my fragile ego got the better of me. What can I say? It was my first published article, and it was the New York Times. But I’m glad I wrote the piece, and I’ll grow a thicker skin. My friends and family have been my backbone of support, and the Dibling moms have carried me.

After the initial shock wore off, I realized the negative comments are an apt affirmation of why I feel the need to write about issues related to donor conception. If you live in a relatively progressive bubble, you can selectively duck the sticks and stones. And if you don’t live in a progressive bubble, then what you face is of course so much harder. Believe me, I understand why you would duck. But, I don’t feel like ducking will help make this a better world for our children – a world where families like ours aren’t maligned for our very existence. There are too many parents of donor-conceived children who read cruel, misinformed words, and those words only serve to reinforce their fear and silence.

The words are harsh, and they do hurt. But I’d rather flush them out than say nothing. And I’d rather show parents of donor-conceived children that they can speak up. Otherwise, the bigots control the dialogue. That’s not the world I want to leave to our children.