Please stop discussing how many is too many. How many embryos. How many babies. How many births. Please stop unless you’ve rested with your feet in stirrups and watched while someone carefully moved little raindrops full of hope through a catheter and into your uterus. Please stop unless you’ve had to make a decision to carry multiples, or not. Please stop unless you can discuss the relevant details with an open heart, an educated mind and a desire to understand.

Please stop saying there needs to be additional regulation within the medical community to decide which patients have the right to receive care and treatment. Are you going to serve on that decision-making body, and if you are, please tell me what kind of litmus test I would have had to endure?

Please stop using this woman and her children to hold up a light and try to peer into the world of IVF. Her situation, her decisions, her out-of-the-norm case is so misrepresentative of the majority that if we all of a sudden shout too loud and induce knee-jerk regulations, the people you least intend to hurt will be the people you hurt the most.

The very reasons for which this case is being sensationalized are the very reasons it does not represent the world of infertility treatment.

Ethicists, doctors, parents and adult children involved in anonymous conception through donated eggs, embryos or sperm have very divergent opinions on the right to know. Obviously the infertility industry is concerned that releasing donor information would threaten donor availability. One of the strongest claims is that people who donate reproductive pieces don’t want to worry that some day in the future a person will come knocking on his or her door and introduce themselves as a long-lost child. On the other end of the debate is a person’s perceived right to know his or her biological parent, health and family history.

In April, 2005, The UK passed a law that gives donor-conceived children the right to trace their biological parents when they reach 18. The Government said that children’s rights to discover their genetic origins outweighed donors’ right to privacy. As a result, anonymous sperm and egg donations have significantly decreased and the removal of anonymity has provoked a crisis in fertility treatment that is denying couples treatment and creating multiple-year waiting lists. In fact, The Times reported that infertility therapy with donated sperm has collapsed to the lowest levels, ever.

Is it our right to know our biological beginnings? Over the decades we’ve changed stance on closed adoption and today birth mother’s often choose a family for their child. Adoptive parents send annual photos and updates to biological parents, and many families stay in touch on an even more routine basis. There’s a reason the closed vs open adoption changes in attitude have taken place. Should we also embrace a change in attitude about anonymity related to infertility and donor-conceived children?

I’m wondering on Wednesday—what do you think?

I had a time like that. It was the five years I spent trying to become a mother. I remember one night specifically when my world was black, my mind was warped with mourning and my body riddled from hormone injections. I was literally peering over the vault of sanity and ready to free-fall into dementia. Succumbing seemed easier than taking one more step as an infertile in a fertile world.

My mind cracked that night. I felt it as my body buckled to the floor and my well of tears ran dry. My husband was helpless and I could feel his hands tremble as he knelt beside me and gently stroked my hair. He tried to wrap me in whispers of hope and massage love into my heart, but I couldn’t hear his promises. While he grasped for straws of comfort, I briefly hated him. The fact that he already had four children, conceived the good old fashioned way with someone else, was a ripping acknowledgment of my own inadequacy as a woman.

The more my psyche spun, the drier my eyes became and I started to hyperventilate. Huge, ugly gasps for air that wouldn’t enter my lungs made suffocation stunning and loud. My husband ran to find a paper bag but our dog, Zach, wouldn’t leave my side. He started to whine and nudge me while gently lapping at my cheek. With all the force I wanted to use to push my husband away, I shoved Zach.

Rather than tuck his tail between his legs and head for safer territory, he kept looking at me. I saw a glimmer of doggy disappointment cross his gentle brow. He knew that if I became a mindless vegetable, there’d be no one to buy him special treats. So before my husband could return with a brown bag or completely panic and call the psyche ward, Zach decided to take things into his own paws. With a fur-flying lunge and cry, he clamped his front teeth onto the back of my arm. The damn dog bit me.

The pain was enough to fill my lungs with air and illicit an excruciating scream. As soon as I started to breath, I swear he barked, “There you little twit, take that. Now get off the floor, get it together and get over yourself, and if you don’t…the next time I’ll draw blood.” He turned around and sashayed over to his favorite sleeping place leaving me to contemplate his obvious wisdom and my husband wondering why he was still holding the bag.

Whenever I need to remember to breathe, I think of Zach. What reminds you to breath?

Recently The New York Times ran the article, Facing Life Without children When It Isn’t by Choice, in which Pamela Tsigdinos shares her and her husband’s 11 year battle with infertility. A battle that’s been unsuccessful in putting a baby in their arms. The article is part of a bigger Health section feature, Voices of Infertility.

I’m thrilled to see people being so open about their experiences and to see coverage of infertility in a national publication. Typically when someone decides to share this type of experience, something so intensely personal and filled with emotional demons, they do it for two reasons: to help themselves heal, and to educate and help others.

There’s no shame in infertility, yet it’s a stigma shrouded by humiliation, pain and feelings of inadequacy. Reaching out and sharing stories about how you cope, the different choices you make, and the toll it takes on a couple’s life is therapeutic for the story teller and for the multitudes of people suffering without their own voice.

Our shared experiences create wisdom and comfort and expand our levels of acceptance and even provide choices. Whatever the topic … addiction, incest, domestic violence—go ahead, pick one. If nobody, ever, was brave enough to address ideas and issues, to share their stories, so many others would still suffer silently.

Here’s what I don’t understand, and what has me all hot under the collar. When someone cares enough and is brave enough to share something as painful as their story of infertility, why would anyone else feel compelled to go on the attack? Even if you disagree with infertility treatment, even if you don’t understand, why attack?

The level of hostility from many who commented on the NYT site quite simply blew me away. I am stunned. I’m saddened and deeply disappointed. People wrote things like:

“…Any infertile woman who cares to can take my twins for just 1 day and find out how easy her life is and go back to a lovely clean, neat, organized and spontaneous existence.”

“…I have little sympathy for people who can’t have their own children. No one ever promised you a rose garden, and no one ever promised you a perfect family, either.”

“…I’ll save my sympathy for someone who really needs it. When a society is so fortunate with everything it has, such as the US, it’s significant that the inability to have a baby is supposed to be deserving of sympathy.”

“…There are thousands of children just begging to be put in a caring home and you women could have done that. Or as the other response suggested put your efforts to good altruistic use…”

“Cry us a river. As harsh as this sounds, why should I sympathize with someone who can’t reproduce themselves when the world is littered with (a) far too many people already and, more importantly, (b)too many unwanted children in foster care worldwide. Adoption is difficult as other posts have noted? Surely it’s worth the difficulty for those whose sole goal in life is to be a parent. It is to be a parent, correct? Or is it to have a walking, talking example of ME? Lastly, if both conception and adoption are impossible, how about volunteering time for sick children, or kids whose parents are incarcerated, or any of a host of other opportunities to give back rather than dwelling on the supposed pain of what’s unavailable. This is life: if one door is shut many others are open. This is also life: everyone has a proverbial cross to bear. The infertile are nothing special in this regard.”

I realize that when you share publicly, you invite public scrutiny and debate. What I don’t understand is people’s ability and willingness to outright attack. To be so heartless. To spew venom at people they don’t know—to claim a stake in someone’s life and try to drive it through their heart. Are we so callous?

If you want to know how Pam handled the horrific comments, well she’s done it with class and a positive spin. She’s also focusing on the power of connecting with others. As she wrote yesterday, “The ability to connect with others, to know that we can be there for each other, that we’re not alone in facing the confusing and unpredictable emotions that come as a result of not being able to conceive and deliver a child is a powerful tonic.”

Visit her blog, but only if you’re going to be nice, or you’re at least willing to agree to disagree.

“Well,” I thought. “This could still take a long time. We’re practically already on the road. I need to get back to the office.” I turned to my husband who was sporting a hesitant question, “What do you want to do?” he asked.

“Let’s go. I’ll just fly back up in a couple of weeks. I want to go home.”

“Are you sure?” he asked.

“Of course I’m sure. Drive. Please.”

He looked skeptical but put his foot on the accelerator and we left my parent’s house. We made it 30 miles before my husband noticed the silent tears and snot that were turning my face into a gruesome mess.

“Tricia,” he started. “Have I ever denied anything to you?”

“No,” I sniveled.

“Then why don’t you just say that you want to stay. I’m OK with leaving later. This is important to you and if you think I’m going to be upset, you’re wrong. Now for the last time, do you want me to turn around?”

I couldn’t’ even choke out the YES, so I simply shook my head up and down spraying the windshield with the foolish tears I couldn’t stop. I was obnoxiously emotional.

I think the truth about my hesitation to stay in Vermont or return to Georgia as scheduled had more to do with my growing fear that I’d not be able to keep myself in-check during a long hospital wait. I was worried that I’d fall to pieces, have a pity party or that I’d actually strangle the grandmothers and sister-in-law if they spent the waiting time recounting their own birth stories. But I wanted to be stronger than that. I wanted to get over myself enough that I could participate in this rite of passage. I wanted my sister to know I was there, that I wasn’t a selfish twit mired so deeply in my own infertility pain that I couldn’t participate in this celebration of life. I wanted my sister to know how delicious the thought is that she didn’t experience the pain I did on my road to motherhood. I wanted my sister to know how much I love her.

It was another 15 hours before my brother-in-law came to the hospital waiting room and invited family to see my sister and their gorgeous daughter, Hannah.

I expected to see a woman completely spent from 20 hours of laboring…a disheveled woman, her mane slicked back with her own perspiration, but that’s not what I found at all. There was my sister, looking even more beautiful than she did on her wedding day, and she was holding the most precious gift…her daughter.

When I walked into the room I of course immediately started with the eye fountains. I kissed my sister’s forehead and peeked at my niece’s long fingernails. My sister, knowing that her pregnancy had been bitter sweet for me, and now the realization that she had just endured the one experience I’ve longed for but will never have, she simply placed Hannah in my arms.

There were other people in the room who should have had first rights to this new family member. The grandmothers were eager to wrap their arms around their new seven pound, six ounce 20.5 inch granddaughter, but my sister knew. She knew I stayed so we could share this moment. She’ll be an outstanding mother, this little sister of mine. She knew falling in love with Hannah was exactly what my heart needed.

She spent the day before registering for baby gifts and we were excitedly discussing all the pros and cons of different nursery paraphernalia. Following the course our conversations always do, we quickly jumped from topic to topic and before I knew it we were discussing two of her long-time girlfriends.

With the building excitement of a baby shower for my sister, all the gal pals were looking forward to spending an afternoon together, something they rarely get to do. Of course prevailing topics-at-hand include pregnancy, giving birth and how many bouncing bundles of joy each person wants to raise.

My sister, without knowing she was stepping on an emotional land mine, casually mentioned that both of her friends recently confessed they want to have another child, bringing each household count of ankle biters to three. “They just don’t feel like they’re done yet,” my sister said casually.

My poor cuticles didn’t stand a chance. I started ripping skin in an effort to distract myself enough that I’d not lose my composure. That familiar catch in my throat could have easily turned into a fountain of hurt and I didn’t want to acknowledge the vulnerability, especially to myself.

“What an amazing feeling it must be to have a choice,” I lamented. These women get to choose how many children they want to conceive, birth and raise, and they take it for granted. I could feel my heart turning shades of green.

One of the ironies here is that I’m not desperate to be pregnant. I’m not desperate to add another child to our little family. I’m so completely smitten with our four-year-old son that I can’t imagine sharing my time and affection with another child. I was taken by surprise when that old, familiar catch in my throat erupted. I was surprised when later that night I found myself perusing the websites of international adoption agencies. I was surprised when I woke up the next morning, walked into my office and wept.

When my sister called to tell me she is pregnant, I cried with joy. I only admitted to my husband that some of those tears were for me. I didn’t want my baby sister to experience the fertility dramas I had endured. I wanted her to conceive easily, the old fashioned way, and to delight in every moment of her journey to motherhood. I also wanted to scream because the jealous bitch inside of me wants what she and her friends have…a choice.

Before we decided to pursue surrogacy and began Project Aaron there was a year when it seemed like everyone I knew was pregnant, planning to get pregnant or had just given birth. Each new announcement crushed me.

The worst was the morning of my 30th birthday when the fertility specialist called to suggest we move onto more aggressive treatment. I had literally just put the phone back on its cradle. My head was spinning with a new tune that went something like, Happy Frigging Birthday to Me. I reached for the phone to call my husband but it rang again. My girlfriend needed to reach out and touch someone. She had peed on a stick and all signs were positive. She was jumping-up-and-down excited, and I was the first person she called. She hadn’t even told her husband yet. I wanted to spit in her face.

My mind was as fragile as my heart. I cried behind the back of every woman who dared to pass by with a stroller. I put baby showers on my mental list of torturous procedures that should be outlawed, I worked crazy hours, and I tried really hard to pretend I was OK.

It’s different with my sister’s pregnancy. I’m not so caught up in my own tragedy and self pity that I can’t be deliriously happy for her. I’m even planning her shower, and enjoying it. The difference of course is Aaron (and probably the fact that I’m no longer bloated and irrational from an overload of hormone injections that made my hair fall out).

I wish I could contemplate the idea of a sibling for Aaron. I’d love to daydream about a daughter. I’d love to again see my husband napping with an infant on his chest and to argue about when’s the right time to start solid food.

During this most recent bout of self pity, the jealous bitch inside of me had a bit of an epiphany. While surfing those international adoption sites, I realized that I do in fact have choices; they’re just not the same choices most people have. We could try fertility treatments again. We could pony-up the $30K-$50K and suffer the excruciating wait that adoption system requires. We could pursue another surrogacy. These are all choices.

Before Aaron was born, I had been dreaming of a little girl who would inherit my eyes and my husband’s legs. Instead, we were blessed with a miracle child who has filled my heart in ways I didn’t even know I could dream of: hope, purpose, breathtaking devotion, laughter and love. With Aaron’s birth, my husband and I became a family. With Aaron’s birth, I learned about the power of friendship and love. With Aaron’s birth, I became something I wasn’t sure I’d ever be…a mom.

We’ve chosen to enjoy our family of three, to be thankful for what we have, which is a wonderful, healthy and happy little boy. My road to motherhood was long, excruciating and a bit twisted, but the only reason I was able to make the journey was because I have choices.