Female Stuff

The number one rule in writing is: Write about what you know. Well, I am a female. And I know about being a female. So, here are two entries I wrote that deal with issues of being a female.

(Note: I am also sarcastic, lazy, overly-dramatic and quite self-absorbed. So, I like to write about that stuff, too.)


Two Eggs, Over Easy
March 28, 2001

Continuing with my on-going attempt to experience things I don’t normally experience, I went to a reproductive/infertility clinic last week to attend a seminar on egg donorship.

Lest you all think I was attending the seminar to learn how I can distribute my DNA to all four corners of the world (a frightening thought for us all), let me assure you that I was there merely as an interested party who is fascinated by this process. I wanted to know what was involved in this modern miracle and I also wanted to know what kinds of people actually take part in this procedure. I, myself, am too selfish to ever consider giving such a gift. I don't even buy cards for people on their birthdays. But I can respect that there are woman out there who want to help, and I went simply to learn more about it.

I will begin by saying that the going price for a viable female egg plucked farm fresh from the ovary is $5000. This is, of course, the standard National Coalition of Egg Gatherers agreed-upon rate. I have no idea how much you could get for one on e-bay. This price was determined to be a suitable compensation for the time and effort put forth by the donor without being so much that it would incite those who would simply be donating for the money. And believe me, after I learned all there was to know about this procedure, I knew that $5000 was definitely not enough for an altruistic-deficient person like me. The price would have to be much higher for me to hand over my genes -- and then it would no longer be about helping unfortunate couples battling infertility, but about buying me a new car. So, it seems the Coalition has set the right price.

But even if they were offering me a new car in exchange for half the ingredients needed to cook a human being, I still don’t think I could go through with it.

The next thing I discovered was that not just anyone can toss their eggs into the gene pool. These programs have extremely high standards, as well they should I suppose. But as an insecure neurotic freak whose paranoid fantasies include the fear that I am constantly being rated and judged in every aspect of life, I immediately began to feel the pressure to succeed. The ideal age range for a female egg donor is 21-years- to 29-years-old. Right away I allowed myself to panic thinking that my eggs were only good for another two years. There is also a weight requirement based on what The Man calls the "ideal weight" for a woman in relation to her height. I don't meet this requirement. A slightly ill part of my brain takes pride in the fact that I am eight pounds under this "acceptable average" category. I often take pride in the wrong things.

Before you are accepted into The Program, you must submit to an extensive physical, psychological and genealogical screening. Past medical records are studied while results of personality and psychological tests are interpreted. Blood and hormone levels are checked and rechecked, and a session is scheduled with a genealogist who maps out your DNA with the precision of a Human Genome Project technician. You’re being judged on a genetic level, people. That's not something you can study for. You can exercise, get in shape, try and pass the physicals. You can do a lot of soul-searching, bone up on your lying skills, try and out-smart the psychiatrist. But your genes? There ain't no changin' 'em. As any woman who has tried to retrain a man will tell you.

I have to wonder how I would handle it if I were not accepted into The Program. And, quite frankly, I don't think I could take the kind of rejection. All my self-esteem needs right now is -- after all that testing and screening and consulting with psychiatrists, physicians and genealogists -- to get a phone call and hear, "Um, yeah, Regina? About that egg donorship thing? Well, while we really appreciate the gesture, we're just not so sure you should be reproducing. Yeah, in fact, we've never actually recommended sterilization to anyone before, but after examining you case, we'd like you to at least entertain the idea. Look, what we're saying is, for the love of all that is ovarian, please keep your DNA to yourself. Have a nice day."

But let's just say, for the sake of a really funny argument, that I (and all my physical, psychological and let's not forget genealogical problems) slip past the guards and actually get accepted into the program -- the eggs now have to be harvested.

In order to prepare your ovaries to produce the maximum amount of healthy human seeds, hormones are injected into your system for weeks before the harvesting. These hormones are given by injection (which you can give yourself if you are so masochistically inclined), three times a day for a week -- two in the morning, one at night. 36-hours before the eggs are taken, one last double-duty shot is given intramuscularly in the hip or butt area.

And, lastly, we were told how the eggs were retrieved. Ladies, go ahead and start internally clenching your ovaries right now.

In yet another example of how unfair this cold, cruel world is for women versus the sunny, happy land inhabited by the penis-barers, removing just one fragile, precious egg from an ovary is not nearly as simple as releasing the floodgates to allow millions of mindless sperm to splash into a paper cup. Nor is it as pleasurable. All the girly magazines and skin flicks in the world won’t ease the discomfort of having a needle inserted through your vaginal wall directly into your ovary.

Needle.

Vaginal wall.

Pierced ovary.

Sign me up.

Now, all talk of money, discomfort and/or inconvenience aside, there is still the issue of why a woman would do this. I just can't seem to tap into this uber-humanitarian desire to help total strangers in such an extraordinary way. Giving them 50% of a human? I've never even given anyone a puppy.

Also, I won't get into a discussion on nature versus nurture or what constitutes a family. I have several friends who are adopted and I have never seen any difference between their family and my own biologically-grown one. However, I, personally, can't seem to separate myself from my DNA. Maybe I’ve seen too many episodes of "The X-Files" and, therefore, don't want to let my eggs out of my sight. You've seen what's happened to Scully, for the love of all that is reproductive. And as much as I think the world would benefit immensely from thousands of Regina Clones, I just can't take the risk that one of my clones may go on to be happier or more successful than me. Because that would be so like me to try and show me up.

And, finally, I think I am just egocentric enough to want to take credit for anything that may come out of my body. I believe that if I produce something, I should be able to point to it at any given moment and say, "See that? I made that."

So, for now, I'm keeping all my eggs in my basket and not even the Easter Bunny will be able to get at them. Unless, of course, the Easter Bunny has a brand new car to offer. Then, we'll talk.



Feminine Journey
August 8, 2001

I am posting this entry at 6:00 in the freakin' morning. Just so you know.

I was very tired yesterday. As a result, when 10:30 PM rolled around, I made the horrible mistake of thinking I could simply go to bed early and catch up on some much needed sleep. At 3:30 AM, I was wide awake again, watching an infomercial for the latest and greatest in herbal fat burning products.

After dismissing the legitimacy of this product, and finding no other believable products for sale on the other 78 channels' offerings of early morning inventions, I decided that perhaps I would go to the store to buy some feminine products (as I am a female and occasionally in need of products). Also, the familiar feeling of uterine rebellion was upon me and there were currently no products of a feminine nature in my apartment.

So, at 4:30 in the morning, I got in my car to go to my local 24-hour Kroger. God bless a nation the offers us the opportunity to buy feminine products (or any products, for that matter) on a 24-hour basis.

Not too many people frequent Kroger at 4:30 AM. I wasn't surprised by this, of course, and was in fact glad to have the store practically to myself. While I am quite confident and at ease with myself (hey, I hardly think a sarcastic laugh was necessary there), I still like to have my privacy when buying my feminine products. Not that it isn't a perfectly natural process (this need for feminine products), but when you walk up to the check-out counter with nothing but a box of Tampax and a box of sani-tree towels, you just know the cashier is making conclusions about the activeness of your sex life for the next five to seven days.

I wanted to add a couple of decidedly non-feminine products to my purchase, just to divert some of the attention from the true nature of my business in that store. Unfortunately, due to a $100 Target shopping spree made over the weekend (funded by my benevolent Mother) the only thing I could think of that I still needed was a box of Kleenex. Unfortunately still, the only other people in the store happened to be two, big, burly men stocking the shelves on the Kleenex isle. I debated returning my feminine products to their shelves, going to select my box of Kleenex, and then returning to the Chick Isle to reclaim my products -- but then I decided that would just be plain silly.

So, I just didn't buy the Kleenex.

I know, I know...but at 4:30 in the morning, in a relatively deserted Kroger, with a war raging in my uterus, I was in no mood to lecture myself on the need for a more Gertrude-Stein-I-am-woman-this-is-my-uterus-and-I'm-not-ashamed-of-it attitude.

Now, I'm back home (after buying only what I went to the store to buy, thank you very much), watching the early-morning news and wondering if I shouldn't just go ahead, get in the shower, and be at work hideously early.

(Again, with the sarcastic laughter.)