Category: News

Uzo Aduba is using the memory of caring for her late parents to make a difference. 

The former Orange Is the New Black star, 44, narrates the upcoming documentary Caregiving, which is executive produced by Bradley Cooper and premieres on PBS on June 24.

Aduba, now starring on Netflix’s The Residence, says her personal experience and desire to advocate for reform in the caregiving space that affects millions motivated her to get involved.

“The doc is a step in pursuing policy changes that greatly affect and impact the lives of many Americans in terms of the support, financially and professionally, with caregiving leave,” Aduba tells PEOPLE.

“I just wonder and imagine what sort of ease that might’ve had in my own life personally and professionally, as someone who has served as a caregiver, if there had been some infrastructure frameworks in place,” she says.

Reflecting on her role as a caregiver, Aduba recalls, “I, along with my sisters and brothers, were caregivers to my parents before they passed away.”

She adds about her mom, Nonyem, who died from pancreatic cancer in 2020: “That’s no small job. I spent almost two years doing that for her, and I experienced an incredible load of stress. It’s a job unto itself frankly.”

Though Aduba had known others who had served as caregivers, she admits that nothing compares to the isolation and difficulty of the experience until you live it yourself.

“I couldn’t ever really understand it concretely, particularly from the elder space, until it was my turn,” she shares. 

“It feels like your whole world has turned upside down in some way and the world is still spinning while you’re still trying to figure out how to navigate all the parts of this role that you just really maybe never expected to have,” she continues. “You just realize what a huge chasm exists in the knowledge of what that role really means. And we should have more information.”

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Through her narration in the upcoming doc, Aduba tells the stories of others, revealing the challenges and triumphs they face each day in looking after loved ones in need.

“I think you see the common thread that exists in the caregiving space, I certainly felt that way when I was listening to stories,” she says. “Though there were nuances that could help me to distinguish their experience from my own, what is consistent in every story was just how much work it is and how much love you have for that person.”

“Caregivers have these really challenging experiences — and because it’s just not something we talk about, it feels like you’re going through it alone and in silence. I think that can make it really emotional,” Aduba adds.

Aduba, who believes that “caregiving is the rent we pay for our time here on earth,” appreciates the shared understanding between other caregivers, including Cooper, whose experience with his own father, Charles, while he faced lung cancer, inspired the documentary.

“It was comforting, I would say, to know that there’s a person in my industry, in my orbit, who’s been through this same thing and made it to the other side,” Aduba says of Cooper, 50.

“It’s also nice to know who cares about this issue — and it’s doing the thing of ringing the bell to make it less of a silent conversation and more of a public one,” she shares.

For viewers of the documentary who have never been caregivers themselves, Aduba says she hopes they come away with a deeper understanding of those people face and the support they need.

“Maybe consider checking in … and just ask them how they’re doing today,” she continues. “I always make a point of saying, ‘You’re doing great,’ because there’s no one way to do it and there’s no one way to get it right.

She adds, “Everybody’s just trying to do the best they can with what they know, and that’s enough.”

A woman who duped a man into believing they were having twins, until her fake baby bump was exposed in a hospital scan, has been jailed and given a restraining order.

Libby Vernon, 23, from Staffordshire, spun a web of lies over 13 months after she met the man online, a court heard.

She constructed a fake life about her job, home and relationship when she met him and later announced she was pregnant with him when she was not, even bursting balloons at a gender reveal party.

After the case went to court, the man, from Cumbria, said his family’s lives have been torn apart and he had been left grieving babies that were never real but felt real to him.

Since the birth of my son two and a half years ago, I have lived in a kind of fugue state. It feels as if I grew a second head and am expected to traverse my small world as though I haven’t. I left behind everything I knew and all that knew me. In this new land, answers are quicksilver. If it is beauty, absolution or contentment you seek, you needn’t look far, but you must learn to see through fog and make a home inside questions. Here, there is unrelenting, fecund solitude. Yet you are never alone, fused to an amorphous being.

Here are some questions: What makes a half-Armenian person fully Armenian or Armenian enough? Is a boy who can’t speak to his grandfather, because his grandfather doesn’t speak English, an Armenian boy? Is a mother who can’t fashion a coherent armature on which to hang her own Armenianness capable of passing on this heritage? What of the non-Armenian father, who daily bemoans the fact that the nickname arjuks hasn’t stuck despite his earnest efforts? What are our obligations of inclusivity to him? How do we reconcile the health of the family—and the health of the young child’s psyche—with the cultivation of Armenian identity, when they are sometimes mutually exclusive? What is culture without a community to enact it? Is it culture if it’s not born of and borne by a relationship to elders?

My boy has two names. His father’s side and the rest of the world call him by his first name. My side of the family calls him Areg. Perhaps I have cursed him to a lifetime of bifurcation. From where I sit today, in the dreamscape that is living with a person being forged, this seems plausible. Will he be a different person depending on the name he’s called? Which name will he call himself?

Culture in Armenian is mshakuyt. The root of the word in both languages brings me to my knees: to cultivate, to tend. I’ve swallowed it whole, literally. My family moved from the center of the Armenian diaspora in Los Angeles to the foothills of the Sierras in Northern California, where we’ve yet to encounter another Armenian. Instead, we regularly encounter the Confederate flag and the rivers, forests, mountains and wildlife that may be the only real inheritance I’ll leave my child (though they, too, will be sullied). There is no one who speaks our language, no one at whose feet we can sit to hear our stories, no one to dance with, shoulder to shoulder.

But we can tend the earth. We can grow our own food, get lost in the woods and learn from those who are indigenous to this land how to tread lightly, live in harmony with more-than-human kin and nourish the world around us before nourishing ourselves. Here, as I often tell anyone who will listen, we have the same climate as in Armenia. We have traded one culture for another.

In August, at Navasard, we worship wheat, fruit and water. In September’s Mabon, it’s husk dolls, lanterns and soup. For Samhain, we make an altar to our ancestors; on this night, the survivors of genocide greet their American khnaminer (in-laws) with hungry smiles, their only shared language.

On Targmanchats, we admire our alphabet and make ghapama. The first time I made this, I felt I must have been shining. I felt proud to prepare it with my boy, and in doing so, present him to my foreparents. Here he is, look, he is ours! He is yours!

On the winter solstice, we bake Sun Bread and walk in a spiral. On New Year’s Eve, we bake Tarehats. Each year, I scramble to Google a recipe I can understand. So far, it hasn’t tasted like anything we can eat. I attempt to knit socks, each stitch a prayer.

In February, we make Aghi Blit. I have explained the token to my son and his father—one of them doesn’t understand, and the other isn’t too keen on divination. We build a small bonfire and fly over it. I’ve read if you don’t get a little singed, you’re not doing it right. Then, he cuts out and colors hearts.

In March, we worship animals, and Utis Tat and Aklatiz come to visit. For Imbolc, we sow seeds and honor the soil. Then, it’s the Maypole. In July, we fill buckets of water with rose petals and give them to the sun. We hang apples on the branches of the kenats tsar that sits on our dining table year round. There is frankincense, honey, pomegranates, rosehips, thyme and fire. His little fingers wind colored yarn and knead walnut-filled dough. His nose inhales the fragrances of everything I almost forgot to remember.

All year long, we worship the sun. All year long, we honor all of Areg.

When Areg was born, I disappeared inside the role of his mother. While I remember little, can imagine less and always feel lost, I like it here. I don’t have to choose who to be—only how to be. I am not beholden to any past version of myself. No past version of me is committed to self-preservation. This is a kind of freedom.

When we left Yerevan for Glendale, I didn’t know that, years later, I’d beg my father to bring back whatever he could find in the drawers of my old wardrobe—letters, drawings, knick knacks and photos. I didn’t know that these things weren’t coming with us, or that they should have. I didn’t know that leaving behind everything I knew and all that knew me meant revision. My memories today are only of retellings of memories.

When I was young, my mother sang me to sleep with “Ari Im Sokhak.” I can hear the melody now, her voice gravelly, fraught, aglow in the candlelit room. I had no memory of the words until I started singing them to Areg. They just tumbled out of my mouth, one after the other, breathless and seeking. I wonder what else lies waiting inside me, what else I know that I don’t yet know. I wonder who else has filled me up for my son. I wonder who guides my hands in the soil as they reach—for his hands, for the seeds.

The overwhelming feeling I had after watching the Netflix series Adolescence, the compelling story of a 13-year-old boy charged with the murder of a girl from his school, was one of unsettling ignorance.

I’d been vaguely aware of the term “incel” (a portmanteau word that means involuntary celibate), but I couldn’t have told you anything about its usage, the culture that surrounds it, and the way it is indicative of some of the most harmful aspects of social media.

Adolescence is a haunting, disturbing, evocative tale whose broad theme is the way in which young boys have become isolated from society, and how they look to the online world for a sense of meaning and belonging. Some are lost to the most malign of influences, and, as is the case here, find violent expression for their disassociation and rage.

The parents of the boy charged with murder (who are portrayed as victims of his crime, too) convey, similarly, a sense of bewilderment of the world their son inhabited. They talk, almost fondly, about buying him a computer and how his bedroom light was still on in the early hours, but they reveal a lack of interest in, or at least knowledge of, what he was actually doing online. How that must have resonated chillingly with well-meaning parents up and down the land.

Even the officer investigating the murder had to have the messages on the boy’s Instagram feed explained to him by his own teenaged son. The red pill emoji (denoting an incel); the dynamite exploding emoji (the sex that is denied incels); the 80/20 “rule” (that 80 per cent of women are attracted to 20 per cent of men); the “manosphere” (the larger grouping which includes incels but which promotes misogynistic views). This world has a language all of its own, and meanings known only to its followers, used to bully and marginalise others.

“The Andrew Tate shite,” is how one police officer described this lexicon, the only direct reference to the online realm’s chief influencer, who deals in misogyny and hate. It turned out that the boy had been taunted online by his victim – “you’ll always be a virgin” is how the messages are interpreted – and the grainy CCTV footage which captures the crime shows the terrifying consequences of his alienation.

Stephen Graham (who co-wrote, and starred in, Adolescence) says he was propelled to create the series when he read a newspaper report about a young boy who had stabbed a girl to death. Three weeks later, he saw a news item in which a similar murder had taken place. “I just thought: what’s going on in society where this kind of thing is becoming a regular occurrence? I just couldn’t fathom it,” he said. “So I wanted to really have a look and try and shine a light on this particular thing.”

Neither polemicised nor sententious, Adolescence is an extraordinary piece of work, for which Graham has deservedly won acclaim. Four hour-long episodes, each shot by one camera and in one take, its uncompromisingly naturalistic approach takes us into dimensions of which most of us have no experience or understanding.

The final scene is shot in the accused boy’s bedroom, his parents not quite comprehending how and why this has happened to their son, and to them. And that’s the abiding feeling I was left with. We adults are out of our depth. I never really knew what the “manosphere” represented, still less its subculture of incels and anti-feminism, and this acted as a jolt to my senses.

If Adolescence tells us one thing, it is that we cannot leave the wilder shores of the internet unpoliced because we run the risk of harming a whole generation of youngsters. And we can’t look to the instruments of state to do the job for us.

Parents must find a way to take responsibility themselves. I know of not one parent who opposes the restriction on smartphones in schools, yet they are the ones who make sure their children have smartphones, fearful they may be analogue outliers, and teased as such. Of course, we can never be sure exactly what content our children are consuming online, but ignoring the negative impact of social media is no longer an option.

The opening scene of Adolescence shows the police battering down the door of the accused boy’s family home at dawn. For the parents watching, it was, equally, an uncomfortable wake-up call.

For parents who rely on formula to nourish their babies, safety and availability are non-negotiable. Now, the federal government is stepping in to address concerns over both. The U.S. Department of Health and Human Services (HHS) and the Food and Drug Administration (FDA) have announced Operation Stork Speed, a new initiative aimed at making infant formula safer, more transparent, and more accessible.

What is Operation Stork Speed?

This initiative, led by HHS Secretary Robert F. Kennedy Jr., is a direct response to concerns about infant formula safety and supply chain fragility. It comes on the heels of a Consumer Reports study that found elevated levels of lead, arsenic, and PFAS in some formulas. The program will focus on:

• Increasing Testing: The FDA will expand testing for heavy metals and other contaminants in formula and baby food.

• Reviewing Nutrients: For the first time since 1998, the FDA will conduct a comprehensive review of infant formula nutrients to ensure they meet modern health standards.

• Enhancing Transparency: Formula manufacturers will be encouraged to provide clearer ingredient labels and information for consumers.

• Supporting Research: The FDA will collaborate with the National Institutes of Health (NIH) to study the long-term health effects of formula feeding.

• Boosting Supply Chain Resilience: The FDA is extending policies that allow individuals to import infant formula for personal use, a move meant to increase options for parents.

Related: Consumer reports study finds 50% of baby formulas contain unsafe chemical levels—what parents need to know

Why this matters

Formula shortages in recent years, including the 2022 Abbott formula recall, left many parents scrambling to find safe alternatives. Meanwhile, revelations about contaminants in some formula brands have heightened concerns about product safety.

The Biden administration had previously announced a long-term strategy for market resilience, and Operation Stork Speed builds on that plan by increasing government oversight and industry accountability.

Related: 6 things parents should keep in mind while shopping for baby formula

What this means for parents

While this initiative is a step forward, the results will take time. In the meantime, parents can take the following actions:

• Stay Informed: Follow FDA updates on formula safety and new research findings.

• Check Formula Labels: Look for brands that meet high safety standards and have a history of transparent testing.

• Test Your Water: If using powdered formula, ensure your water source is free from lead and other contaminants.

• Support Stronger Regulations: Parents can advocate for stricter safety limits on formula contaminants by signing petitions and contacting lawmakers.

The bottom line

Parents deserve formula that is safe, nutritious, and consistently available. Operation Stork Speed is an encouraging sign that the government is taking infant nutrition seriously, but meaningful change will depend on following through on the scientific evidence on infant nutrition.

For now, staying informed and choosing safer options are the best steps parents can take while waiting for stronger protections to take effect.

• A California woman took to Facebook to allege that her father is a serial killer, spurring an investigation that has so far proven inconclusive, according to authorities
• The Mendocino County Sheriff’s Office is sharing the timeline of Galina Trefil’s allegations — beginning from when authorities were presented with “recordings, scanned journals and other investigative materials” in early 2023 and spoke with Galina, who claimed she “specifically questioned” her father, Jon Charles Trefil, 86, about one murder in the 1970s, which she alleged he “admitted to”
• Galina further “alleged her father buried numerous people he murdered at a cabin” in the town of Comptche, Calif. — but authorities were unable to locate human remains or “any evidence” to substantiate the claims, per the MCSO

A California woman alleged on Facebook that her father is a serial killer — prompting an investigation by authorities that so far has not led to evidence connecting him to the alleged crimes.

On Monday, March 17, the Mendocino County Sheriff’s Office announced that it was investigating claims that a local woman, Galina Trefil, made about her father, Jon Charles Trefil, 86, just days earlier on social media.

The MCSO has since revealed that it has been investigating her claims since Jan. 30, 2023, when she first alerted local authorities of her suspicions, and has not found evidence to support the allegations.

“For so many years now I have lived a double life, carried an impossible secret,” Galina wrote on Facebook, per The Times. “Now everyone needs to know. I am the daughter of a serial killer. He wants to tell his story. He actually wants to go public with his crimes. He’s given his blessing for me to do so in his stead.”

Now, the MCSO is sharing the timeline of her allegations — beginning from when authorities were presented with “recordings, scanned journals and other investigative materials” in early 2023 and spoke with Galina, who claimed she “specifically questioned” Jon about one murder in the 1970s, which she alleged he “admitted to.”

As the MCSO noted in its news release, detectives began to research the specific case, finding “some consistencies in the information provided by Galina,” before they went through with a warrant to obtain Jon’s DNA and have the California Department of Justice Bureau of Forensic Services compare the DNA sample to evidence items.

Jon’s DNA “did not match the unknown male contributor DNA profile from the unsolved 1970s murder investigation,” according to the MCSO, which added that the Department of Justice said Jon’s DNA profile was uploaded into the Combined DNA Index System for “routine and regular comparisons to DNA profiles uploaded from unsolved cases” — but the MCSO has not been informed of a match or potential match as of Monday, March 17.

Galina has also “alleged her father buried numerous people he murdered at a cabin” in the town of Comptche, Calif. — but authorities were unable to locate human remains or “any evidence” to substantiate the claims, per the MCSO.

The office was also unable to locate “any expressed confessions to any murders” in Jon’s diaries and journals. And while the daughter said she submitted her and her father’s DNA to “genealogical / ancestry sites,” the MCSO has not “been informed of any investigative leads from these efforts or from other agencies investigating these claims.”

Galina has also referenced “other serial killers identified by her father,” the MCSO said, adding that those “inferences were not substantiated by detectives” and that it was “unable to substantiate the claims of the other individuals alleged to be serial killers or their involvement with homicides in Mendocino County.”

“The Mendocino County Sheriff’s Office has and will continue to investigate crimes associated with Trefil or allegations that he was a serial killer in Mendocino County. The Sheriff’s Office has not interviewed Trefil directly regarding these allegations due to his fragile medical state and information provided by his family that he will not cooperate with law enforcement,” the MCSO noted.

Authorities added, “When legally justified and supported by probable cause, the Mendocino County Sheriff’s Office will continue to investigate this matter.”

When reached for comment on Thursday, March 20, Quincy Cromer of the Mendocino County Sheriff’s Office said there had been no further developments since the news release. 

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Sheriff Matthew Kendall told the Press Democrat that the office spent “a lot of time trying to keep up” with the woman’s social media claims. Sheriff’s Capt. Quincy Cromer added that the MCSO reviewed audio recordings that the daughter submitted, noting that Jon’s voice was inaudible.

“It was very clear that leading questions were provided to him and then when he would make a sound, she would say, ‘Oh, he confesses to this,’ ” Kendall said, per the outlet. “But my detectives could not hear him say yes, no or anything else. A lot of it was just strange moans.”

Authorities are asking anyone with information pertaining to the allegations to contact the MCSO.

“When everything that is brought before us, we run it to the ground and it doesn’t turn out to be as reported, eventually we are going to get to the point where we are kind of stomping on some civil rights here, as well,” Kendall said.

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Rachel Zegler is the latest actress to bring a Disney princess to life, and her parents are thrilled about her new role!

The 23-year-old star plays the titular character in Disney’s live-action Snow White, which premieres in theaters on March 21. During a March 20 appearance on Good Morning America, Zegler revealed that she grew up in a household of Disney fans, starting with her parents Gina and Craig Zegler.

“I’m a product of two really amazing Disney fans whose wedding song was ‘A Whole New World’ from Aladdin,” Zegler said, adding that playing Snow White has been both “a homecoming to my inner childhood” for her and “so special” for her parents.

Rachel went on to note that her parents would be seeing Snow White for the first time on Thursday, March 21, and she was “just really excited to share it” with them, adding that she was “honored” when Disney offered her the role.

“[Snow White is] the first Disney princess that Disney ever created in the 1937 film. To get to bring her to life in such a unique way and such a special way, it’s just a beautiful opportunity,” she gushed.

The new movie is “all about bringing a classic to a modern age,” Zegler explained. “[Snow White’s] superpower remains her heart. That’s always been at the core of this story [and] it’s the core of the Disney company,” she said.

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Seeing how a new generation of fans has reacted to Snow White has been particularly exciting for Zegler. And that came to life for her when a group of young girls dressed up in the princess’ iconic blue and yellow costume on the set of Good Morning America.

“It makes me really weepy and emotional,” she said of all of the young fans, adding that the movie is “for the inner child in all of us but also for this actual next generation that sits in front of us.”

Zegler also touched upon the true meaning of the word “fair” in the movie, explaining that it is about kindness.

“It’s not about the way you look. It’s not about the color of your skin. It’s really just about being kind and using the voice that’s hidden in your heart,” she concluded.

Snow White premieres in theaters on March 21.

Because no two paths to parenthood look the same, “How I Got This Baby” is a series that invites parents to share their stories.

Elena and her husband, Anders, were living in New York City when they decided to start trying for a baby. Elena, a photographer, was 37 — “I knew that probably my fertility wasn’t that amazing,” she says — but the couple didn’t feel too much pressure, and hoped they’d have success the old-fashioned way. After a few months, they’d had no luck but decided to keep at it. They might have pursued fertility treatments had they not been so busy: The couple moved cities, and soon after, the pandemic started. They had been in England for about nine months when they decided to seek help. A fertility doctor, who was part of England’s National Health Service (NHS), assured the couple that even though they’d been trying for about a year and a half, they should just continue to try. 

“By that time I was already 38,” says Elena. “That should have been a little bit alarming. At this age, you should probably test the woman and see if she’s still okay to get pregnant naturally, right? But they didn’t bother.” 

Elena recounts what happened next.

We continued trying for eight or nine months longer. I was still 38 when we came back to the fertility doctor and said, “This is really bothering us. It’s really not working. What can we do?” And they said, “Okay, let’s do some tests.” But because this all happened during the pandemic lockdowns, six months passed between that visit and the test being done. By the time we went to see the doctor to get our results, I was nearly 40. I was really stressed.

First they gave us the results of the testing they did on Anders. We found out that he had a really low sperm count and low motility — almost nonexistent. We were so angry. I felt devastated. Why didn’t anybody suggest we do those tests earlier?

They told us that we should try IVF, because, even if somebody has a very low sperm count, there’s technology that can fish out the sperm that are still alive and viable. It’s called ICSI — intracytoplasmic sperm injection — and it involves injecting the sperm directly into the egg mechanically, as opposed to traditional IVF when they just put some sperm around the egg and then the sperm swim. So Anders started going to a male fertility clinic. Then my test results came back: “Unfortunately, we cannot refer you to the IVF clinic here because your ovarian reserve is too low.” One of my tests had shown that I would not qualify for the state-funded IVF program. I was devastated again. If only we had known all of this much earlier!

We started thinking, Okay, so what are our options? We both really wanted to have children — that was kind of our whole vision of our future. When you see yourselves as a couple with children, it’s really hard to restructure that in your head. Your identity and your whole idea of your future life is completely shattered.

We knew we had to try IVF privately or adopt a child. I had always wanted to adopt. When I was younger, I thought, even if I have my own children, maybe I’ll have one of my own and one adopted. The adoption rules where we are — we live in the U.K. — are quite strict. We realized that we would probably not even qualify to be approved to adopt because you need to have a certain income (I’m a freelancer), and you also need a separate bedroom for a child (at the time, we lived in a one-bedroom apartment). I thought I could get some kind of part-time job to show a steady income. But nothing seemed realistic. I make a good income as a freelancer; I’m in good financial standing, but I can’t prove that according to their standards.

I felt frustration, but also anger — they should go case by case, looking into our situations and what kind of other qualities we have, rather than just the ability to make a lot of money in the current economy, when the rents are so high. You can’t put all your income into renting a huge house to show to the adoption authorities, yeah, look at my amazing home. But then you have no savings, nothing for the future! So we decided to just save up money and try to do IVF privately.

It took us another year to collect all the funds.

We started by going to private U.K. clinics and doing all these blood tests and exams. We spent around £2,000 on just the cost of prepping — the cycle itself, the egg collection and procedure, would be another £7-8,000. We couldn’t really afford it. The clinic was also very discouraging, saying things like, “With your levels, the chances of getting pregnant are less than one percent. It’s so tiny!” I guess they didn’t want to lie. But when you’re already feeling vulnerable, you want someone to be kind and supportive, no matter how low your chances are. My husband is from elsewhere in Europe, and his mom suggested a clinic there, so we decided to try it.

The clinic was such a contrast. They said, “It doesn’t matter if we collect only a couple of eggs, there’s still a chance those eggs will fertilize and you’ll get pregnant!” They did raise the possibility of using donor sperm, because we didn’t know if my husband’s sperm would even work. But my husband was like, “No, I feel really uncomfortable if you are going to give birth to a child from another man.” I said, “It’s still going to be me giving birth. It’s still going to be our child.” And he said, “Yes, yes, I know all of that, but it still makes me feel super uncomfortable.”

But we didn’t even get to the part of transferring his sperm. We’d stayed for about two weeks to get through the process. They assessed and prescribed medications, and then we came back to the U.K. and I did all the injections and pills at home. Then for the last two weeks of the cycle, I had to go back.

The cycle didn’t work because my eggs weren’t good enough for the transfer. We were devastated, because it took us a year to collect the money and go through all these tests. The cycle itself involves injecting hormones, taking medication — you have to endure a lot, both physically and emotionally. You’re doing all this for this great goal, and in the end, there’s just emptiness.

I felt hopeless. We were thinking, Should we try again? Is this even worth trying again? We were just spending so much time just waiting.

The treatment at the clinic cost around £4,500, plus about £1-1,500 for medication. We circled back to the adoption idea, thinking: Maybe we could move. Or maybe we could do something to qualify to adopt a child. But we ultimately decided, okay, let’s try one more time and then we’ll close the door on a genetically related child. We were literally thinking this would be our last try.

It’s like an evolution. At first, you think, I only want to have my child naturally. Even IVF sounds scary — all these chemicals in my body, then the child is conceived in a lab … what if something goes wrong? You don’t really have control. It’s something that’s so foreign to you, so you just naturally are afraid of it. It took us months of talking and talking and talking before we decided to go with IVF at all. But then once you are already in it, it’s kind of hard to stop. You’re thinking, I’ve sacrificed so much that I need to do just another cycle. Just another cycle!  

And then when it didn’t work, we had to have, again, discussions and discussions. Should we try a donor egg? I had to talk to myself and convince myself that even with a donor egg, it was still going to be my child no matter what. But it was an incredibly hard decision. I read a lot of articles and watched videos with donor children trying to understand how they feel about not being genetically related to their parents. I wanted to make sure it was ethical. There were so many emotions, so much consideration, and so much thinking.

If you go on YouTube, there are these videos when some grown-ups who are donor children say, “I hated that my parents did that. I hate my life.” And it’s like the most horrible thing. But then there were other children saying, “I felt so special. My parents really wanted me. They’ve been through so much. They did all this just to have a child.”

It was very, very hard. I don’t know. I guess at this point you just feel so desperate — it’s either that or close the door completely and hope adoption could work. It was a very, very difficult decision.

I started researching options in different countries. It’s fascinating how different the laws on sperm and egg donation are in different countries. In the U.S., at least in California, I read an article about how a couple was able to go and literally click through a database and look at pictures of their potential donors and read about their education, height, weight, interests, hobbies — everything. Where my husband is from, it’s complete anonymity. You cannot get any information about the donor except maybe skin color, hair color, and eye color. That’s it. Nothing else, not even the donor’s age.

There are a lot of clinics in Spain and Greece with big online presences, and we had calls with a few. They advertise themselves quite aggressively, especially for older couples who have either sperm or egg issues, because they have really big sperm and egg banks. It’s a whole industry. In the end, I didn’t like any of them because everything they said sounded like a sales pitch. The doctors weren’t interested in my recent tests or the history of my previous failed IVF round. They were just giving me information about their results and success rates. I wanted a more individual approach — someone who would really listen to me. I didn’t want to just feel like a part of this baby-making industry. Even now, thinking about that experience … It’s horrible.

I ended up choosing a clinic that was able to tell us the education of the egg donor and their height, weight, eye color, hair color. The education level was very important to us. There was a consultant at the clinic whose job was specifically to do matching. She has a lot of information about the potential donors that she doesn’t show you, but she can help make a match. I couldn’t ask, obviously, the name, or ask her to show me a photo. But if I wanted to know more about a donor’s personality, she was willing to share. We are both artistic, so that was kind of important. She told us that the donor we chose was very bubbly, very easygoing. I was like, “Okay, that’s good. That sounds good!”

We had a video call with the clinic and this doctor was much more attentive and personal, asking a lot of questions. She had asked me to send her all my blood tests and all my husband’s tests, and all of our treatment history. She looked into it and said, “I understand why your cycle failed, and my honest recommendation would be to do the ICSI procedure where we introduce the sperm to the egg, but to use a donor egg instead of yours.” So that’s what we decided to do.

The first time we went in, they assessed everything, took more blood tests, and then the doctor wrote a procedure protocol. Then, we traveled back for a test cycle. Basically, the doctor wanted to assess when to do the transfer because some women have pre-receptive endometrium and then some women have post-receptive. So even though you know your cycle, you still need an ultrasound to check if your endometrium is the right thickness, or the fertilized egg might not attach. That’s what she wanted to test. So we did a first run without the transfer.

When we went back for the third time, to transfer the embryo, I suddenly got this terrible virus. I was so sick I couldn’t walk. The clinic said they could still do the transfer, but if it didn’t work, we would never know if the problem was the virus or my reproductive system. So we decided to stop that cycle there.

We had collected ten eggs; eight of them got fertilized, and then they were supposed to transfer one. Some of the embryos are stored in the freezer, and if the first one fails to attach, they can go another round to attach another one. In our case, the first six all failed before they were even ready to transfer, and they froze the remaining two for the next round.

I had to go back home, then start all the medication and injections again on my next period cycle. (Not counting flights and the accommodations, our total cost for all the treatments at this clinic was just under £8,000.) We came back for the transfer, and we ultimately only had one embryo that was viable. It wasn’t even the best grade — they give grades to the embryos, and if it’s a good embryo, it’s like A or AA or A+. We had a grade-B embryo.

But it worked! People often say they have to do multiple cycles because the pregnancy doesn’t “take” or doesn’t progress, or they lose the embryo. But this worked. We thought it was a real miracle.

We went back home. You have to wait 14 days and then do the pregnancy test. And if it’s positive, you go to a clinic for a blood test. When I first saw our at-home test, my body wasn’t feeling anything — I know some women feel like they are pregnant, but I didn’t feel anything. I saw the test, and just thought, Is it true? Can I trust it? We hugged of course, and cried a little bit, but we couldn’t fully allow ourselves to be happy.

And then when the test came back from the clinic, the blood test, I was like, Oh my God. Oh my God! I was so excited and so emotional — everything. Our doctor really brought me back to Earth. She said, “You need to focus, you need to do everything very methodically, dah, dah, dah.”

I continued injecting the hormones for maybe 12 weeks. I also had to take aspirin as a blood-thinner, because at my age there’s a higher chance of miscarriage. So it was still quite nerve-wracking and we weren’t able to relax and fully celebrate, because it’s so common to lose these pregnancies early on. For the first three months, I wasn’t even kind of admitting to myself that I was pregnant. I would say, Maybe pregnant, maybe not. Maybe I’m pregnant! in my head. We told our families that we had a positive pregnancy test after the blood test, but we said, “Don’t be too excited about it, it’s very much up in the air. We’ll see what happens in three months!”

Then, at ten weeks, I had some bleeding. We went into the emergency room and I was so scared. It was too early for a regular abdominal ultrasound, so they had to perform it transvaginally. They went in very quietly, and they’re moving around and moving around, and we were just sitting there. It was so quiet. I was digging my nails into my husband’s hand. And finally they said, “Look at the screen, there’s a heartbeat!”

That was probably the most emotional moment of the entire pregnancy.

There were several reasons the doctors didn’t want me to carry to 40 weeks, primarily my age, as I was 41 already, and I had gestational diabetes. I was on a strict diet and had to measure my sugar levels four times daily. My doctors were concerned because the baby was measuring quite big — at five-foot-one, I’m tiny, and my husband’s very tall. They feared trauma either to the baby or to me or both of us due to potential complications like shoulder distortion or spinal damage.

I decided to go for an induction at 37 weeks, even though I initially wanted a natural water birth with no pain medication. I just wanted everything to be as natural as possible — I thought, Nothing was natural about how the baby got in, but maybe it could come out the natural way. By then, they were estimating that the baby could be almost five kilos — that’s nearly 11 pounds.
The induction involved several attempts over three days, including a cervical sweep that was the most painful thing in my life, even more than all the painful IVF procedures. I did everything — walking around the block, dancing, bouncing on a fitness ball. But each time, my labor eventually stopped. We were at 37 and a half weeks by then, and the doctors recommended a C-section because they said further delay increased risks. I was really hesitant because I was scared, but I eventually agreed, with a heavy heart.

When they pulled her out, the baby started crying immediately. Tears just rushed out of my eyes. So that was a very happy experience. They said, “Looks like a very healthy baby. Everything is good!” And then I could see panic in the doctors. Something was going wrong. My husband was standing there with a crying baby — she kept on crying and crying and crying. So I was worried. “Is she okay? Is she okay?”

“Yeah, she’s fine. She’s fine. She’s just crying!”

And I was like, just give her to me, because you’re supposed to do skin-to-skin as soon as possible. That was very important — it was in my birth plan that I wanted the baby right away on my chest. But they said no; I had an anesthesiologist sitting next to me and he was like, “They’re working something out. Just give it a bit more time. We’ll give you the baby. Just be a little bit more patient.” He was a very nice doctor, trying to calm me down without giving too many details. But then at some point I overheard them saying something like, “Should we take her uterus out again?” I could see the stress on their faces.

I didn’t know what was happening, but my husband told me later that he could see blood pouring out of me. Apparently the doctors couldn’t find where I was bleeding from, and I had to have a blood transfusion, which was one reason I was so scared of a C-section in the first place. I couldn’t even hold the baby, because there were needles in both my arms, so I couldn’t bend my wrists or elbows. Somebody put the baby on my chest for a moment, but I couldn’t hold her.

Finally, after about 40 minutes or so, they patched me up. And Clara ended up being only about three and a half kilos — about 7.7 pounds. She was very healthy. I was so happy.

That first night, all that adrenaline and the hormones of just holding the baby, finally, meant I didn’t care that much about all the needles and everything that had happened. I didn’t feel the pain.

Even after Clara was born and home from the hospital, I had this feeling that something terrible would happen. I had to get some counseling — I was able to get therapy through my husband’s work insurance — because I was having these terrible thoughts that something would either happen to me or to her. It was as if it wasn’t meant to be, and I had cheated the universe.

We didn’t tell anyone. Our families don’t know. Nobody knows. We wanted Clara to be the first to know — when she’s a little bit older, of course, when she’s able to comprehend the whole concept of conception. We will not hide it from her, so she’ll be growing up knowing everything. But I wanted her to be able to make the decision whether she would like to share this information with our families, with anyone else.

It’s a really heavy weight on my shoulders, because I still haven’t had this conversation with her yet.

You imagine how your life will change, but it’s impossible to really know. How I see life now — it’s just so different. I feel like every decision or even any news that you encounter, you start viewing it from a completely different perspective of a parent. Maybe I’m just more emotional now.
Before I had Clara, if I had a bad day at work, for example, or something didn’t work out, didn’t go as planned, I would get so upset with myself. But I now feel like it all doesn’t matter. A client is upset? Oh well! This child and her life are so much more precious and valuable and meaningful than any personal project or job that I’m working on.

Maybe because of Clara being so precious, and the length of our journey and everything, I feel like all the emotions are tripled. I don’t know. Maybe if I got pregnant easily at 25 and had other things happening in my life, I would be less obsessed with her!

She’s very funny. I feel like she has a really good sense of humor — she’ll point out something funny in a book. She’s only a year old, so she doesn’t talk yet, but she just points with her finger and starts laughing. She’s very active; a very cheerful, funny, active baby. The first year wasn’t so easy for us because I was struggling with breastfeeding. We were also struggling with sleep cycles. She still doesn’t fully sleep through the night, but we are getting there.

She’s a real joy. I don’t think you can compare it to any other feeling in the world. You know, when you hug your child, it’s like nothing else.

Want to submit your own story about having a child? Email thisbaby@nymag.com and tell us a little about how you became a parent (and read our submission terms here).

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