On Infertility, Loss, Life, and Love

As astute followers of my blog know, Memorial Day - and May 28th in particular - is a significant day for me. Although the holiday is intended for remembrance of those who died while serving in the US armed forces, it is also the day my father died and so, for the last 28 years, I have observed Memorial Day with somber reflection. I even blogged about it in 2008, 2010, and 2013.

This year's Memorial Day observance has even greater reason for gratitude and reflection: Katie and I recently had a baby. You might be surprised that I haven't been shouting about it from the highest mountains (which would be much more "in character" for me!) but we have avoided as much of the "pageantry" of both pregnancy and birth as we have been able to get away with. Perhaps Memorial Day is a good day to explain why.

Six years ago we started trying to have children. Many things in life have come naturally and easily to us but conceiving turned out not to be one of them. After two and a half years we sought out medical help. We were diagnosed with "unexplained infertility," one of the most useless terms I have ever encountered. It was amazing to me that we could put a human on the moon and cure myriad diseases but still had so much unexplained about one of the most basic human functions, reproduction.

At long last, though, we managed to conceive, and we were elated! It was just before the winter holidays so we shared the news with our closest family members. We spent long evenings discussing all our hopes and dreams for this new chapter - baby names, parenting philosophies, house rearrangement, necessary gear, etc., etc. Everything had changed for us. And then - abruptly - it hadn't.

Shortly before Christmas we lost the pregnancy. It was heartbreaking. I was astounded just how bonded you could become to a tiny little cluster of cells - no personality, just the promise of a new life. We had already hopped on board the train to our new future - and then we were kicked off. It was not our best Christmas.

We are resilient, though, so we got back on the horse and lost a second pregnancy. And a third. And a fourth. Gradually the feelings changed from the acute stab of loss to a mounting fear that we may actually never be able to have children - and a feeling of impotence to do anything about it.

The irony was that we didn't want kids desperately. We have some friends for whom it was the be-all end-all desire and that just wasn't us. But it was something that we wanted, and our repeated failure to achieve it - especially in light of our peers who seemed to be bursting with fertility - just felt sooooo . . . disappointing.

In many ways my career in startup entrepreneurship had prepared me for this - repeated failures until you finally hit it big. I was more worried about Katie, who, no matter how much support she had from me, was still the one to bear all of the physiological consequences of both pregnancy and miscarriage. Katie proved to be strong, though, and resilient in the face of adversity. Although I wouldn't choose to have had the experience we had, it certainly brought us closer together.

At first we didn't share our struggle out of feelings of shame and failure. Eventually we opened up about it to some of our closest family and friends, though, and that made all the difference. Some of them (Surprisingly many!) shared their own experiences of infertility and loss. Some shared advice. Some simply shared compassion and support. It was exactly what we needed and we were/are eternally grateful for it. We felt less alone, which made it easier to persevere.

And now, having been through the dark times, our baby's arrival brings us all the more light. Rather than just the light of joy, though, there is the light of gratitude and humility as well. We don't refrain from tooting the horn of our baby's arrival because our joy is muted (And our joy for others who welcome new children into the world is no less in magnitude.) but rather out of recognition of our journey.

Now each Memorial Day we don't just honor those who made the ultimate sacrifice for our country. And we don't just remember my father on the day of his death. We also now remember our four little babies who didn't make it. And we remember those of all of our friends who have also experienced such loss.

We especially hold in our hearts all those of you who continue to struggle with infertility and miscarriage. Now that we have "succeeded," we haven't "graduated" from your tribe. Our journey has left an indelible mark on us and we will always be one of you. Please let us pay forward the overwhelming love and support we received along the way. We will always be here for you - on Memorial Day and every day.

Some Memorial Day Thoughts

Memorial Day is always a good day for reflection and gratitude - for grieving the ones we've lost and for celebrating what they did for us in their time on this earth. As I've posted before, it is a particularly poignant time for my family as it was 23 Memorial Days ago that we lost my dad after a 10+year fight with cancer.

This 23rd Memorial Day is especially significant for remembering Dad - and not only because 23 is my favorite number! Dad was born January 23, 1945. When I was born March 23, 1979, Dad was 34 years and two months old. Guess what age I turned a few days ago: 34 years and two months . . .

It's a bit mind blowing to think of myself as the same age as my father when he and my mom brought me into this world. The image of him fixed in my mind is always one of an older/wiser/sterner parent - which is hard to reconcile with the notion of him as a hypothetical peer.I'm spending the day listening to his old records and playing his old pinball machines.

And while I do focus a great deal on him each Memorial Day, I also take plenty of time to reflect on my gratitude to those who have died while putting themselves in harm's way for our country. It is humbling to think of how little I've risked or sacrificed relative to them. It always leaves me with a sense of duty and purpose that I must do everything I can to ensure they didn't die in vain. I must be the best I can be - as a person, as a professional, and as a citizen.

So thank you, fallen patriots; I'm trying to live up to your example.

Empty House

20 years ago today I woke up alone in my father's house at the top of Monte Sano Mountain in Huntsville, AL. Having recently moved up to the Washington DC area for Mom's new job at the Smithsonian, we had flown down to Huntsville to spend Memorial Day weekend with Dad. Saturday and Sunday had been great but Sunday evening Dad wasn't feeling well so we called it an early night.

When I woke up in an empty house Monday morning I remember feeling exhilarated. At 11 years of age I wasn't used to being left alone and the freedom was intoxicating. I could do whatever I wanted! Turn on the juke box, play pinball, play Nintendo, watch movies! Yes, it was shaping up to be quite an exciting Memorial Day!

Later that morning Mom came back to the house and let me know that through the night Dad had been feeling worse and worse and she had eventually taken him to the hospital. So began an emotional roller coaster of a day that began with such excitement and possibilities and ended with making phone calls to spread the word of my father's death.

Wow, 20 years. 2/3 of my life. In some ways it seems like yesterday; in some ways it seems like an eternity ago. What would he be like if he were still alive today? What would *I* be like if he had been alive through the rest of my childhood and beyond? Would he be proud of me? There are so many questions like this on a reflective day like today.

The other evening I was sipping some great wine after Katie and I had made a great dinner and the juke box was playing some great oldies. It struck me that, among the many things my father left me--most of them intangible--one very tangible item was his juke box. It's more than a machine, though; it really represents the gift of music. Wrapped up in all those old 45s is the soundtrack to my childhood--the pleasure, the pain, and everything in between. All those songs on their imperfect vinyl with pops and scratches hold a wealth of memories for me, memories of many aspects of my childhood, but especially of time with Dad.

As with most things parents impart to children, my father's gift of music wasn't static. It laid a foundation to which my mother added her influence and from which I explored and developed my own interests. It's like Dad started a melody in my life, a song based on oldies and folk music. Mom harmonized with him and added her own classical and contemporary musical themes. I jammed out to that for awhile and eventually added my own chords of classic rock, blues, and even some funky stuff that neither of my parents ever would have liked. Today the juke box still has many of Dad's original 45s but some of them have been swapped out for Mom's contributions (Hello, Jimmy Buffett!) and some for my own (Cream and Jimmy Hendrix, to name a few).

So the juke box represents the gift of music left by my father and embraced by my mother and me. Best of all it's a gift that can be shared with many others. When asked what's the one thing you would save from your house in a fire, I always go to the juke box. Practically speaking I don't know how I would manage the 400-pound, unwieldy load, but I hear that people are capable of great things in times of crisis!

So anyway, thanks for the music, Dad. And everything else. I miss you. And I'm pretty sure I'm not the only one.

Chance Encounter

Yesterday was wonderful. I went to IMD to have lunch (OH how I miss those lunches!) and talk with the MBAs about careers in technology. On my way out, I debated whether or not to stick around and play a little ping pong--oh why not?! As I was playing a my first game, who should walk by but Martin, my Czechoslovakian classmate, bbb7 member, MBAT volleyball partner, and ping pong opponent. An immediate timeout was called for a big hug and overjoyed surprise.

I invited Martin to join me in ping pong so we played against two executives in doubles. Our first game wasn't pretty but Martin had just enough time for a second before he had to rush off to the train station. We barely won the second game so he HAD to stick around--whether he had time or not--for a tie-breaker. Fortunately we won the third game handily and he made his train on time.

What a fortuitous meeting. IMD truly is the global meeting place for executive ping pong!

On a more somber note, I wish all my family--both immediate and extended--a good May 28. Wow, 19 years . . .

May 28th

As many of my readers know, May 28th has been a poignant day for me for 18 years now. It was on this day in 1990 that my father lost his 11-year fight against cancer. Not a day goes by that I don't miss him, but not a day goes by either that I'm not thankful for the time we had together.

He was a remarkable man, born in Lucera, Italy during WWII to my Arabic grandfather and Nonna italiana. He then grew up with four wonderful sisters in a modest little house in Hot Springs, Arkansas--just a few doors down from Bill Clinton, incidentally. I don't think his parents ever really understood his ambition as he established a promising career in optical physics and moved around the country, but they loved him and supported him all the way until the end.

In the wake of Dad's death, I discovered exactly how blessed I was. I have a strong, wonderful mother who was more than up to the challenge of playing the roles of both of my parents. I have an extended family who has always been and will always be there for me. And I have devoted friends who accept me unconditionally. Through no fault of my own, I have more than anyone could ask for and for that I am extremely grateful.

So on a day that I always devote to pensiveness and reflection, here's to you, Dr. Guido Hassin. I miss you. We all miss you. But we're all better off for having known you.