Strength in Numbers

We're sitting at a table in a suburban restaurant, giggling at the waiter-in-training, who can't seem to remember his name, much less the menu. There's nothing outre or risque about this girl gathering, but whenever we get together, it's never long before someone says something so outrageous it makes other diners practically choke. This time it's Karen O'Neil, former day-care provider and church-going mother of four. "Remember our old motto?" she says, perhaps a tad too loud. "Keep your chin up and your legs open!" We roar while the buttoned-down businessmen at the next table try to appear uninterested. The newbie waiter bobbles a plate, spattering red sauce.

Meet my friends, the members of what we affectionately call the Mind-Body, or MB, group. We've been gathering like this since 1999, when we met at an infertility support program at Beth Israel Deaconess Medical Center. Back then, I can safely say, we were all functioning basket cases. We'd all been subjected to embarrassing tests and invasive procedures (thus the motto), and, at the time, if a doctor told us the only way to conceive was to stroll down Newbury Street naked, we would have stripped on the spot. Thankfully, it didn't come to that.

Nine of us stuck together over the years, and, all told, we have 20 children, including one set of quadruplets and two sets of twins. Some of us conceived with the help of science, some of us adopted, and others hit the jackpot the old-fashioned way. Among us, we've suffered 15 miscarriages and consulted a realm of experts, including reproductive endocrinologists, immunologists, acupuncturists, geneticists, and, in one case, a shamanic healer named Cleveland. We've lit candles, meditated, prayed, cursed, cried, and, sometimes, laughed uncontrollably. Through it all, we forged an inextricable bond.

Our gatherings are usually carefree, but they weren't always. Once, we demanded a different table when the host seated us next to a couple with a newborn. Another time, Tracey Bell, a former advertising account executive, quietly told us about having to deliver a baby at six months that she knew was already dead. Some of us wept, but Tracey maintained a carefully cultivated composure and finished her sentences. Later, when I suffered a series of miscarriages, Tracey knew exactly what to say.

When we first met, we were living in our own private hells. Infertility is a disease of the body, but its psychological effects can be unbearable. Everything is colored by a persistent, gnawing desire. You turn on the television, and there's some doe-eyed celebrity cooing about the joys of breast-feeding. You walk into a room of 200 people, and the only one you see is the glowing (and they're always glowing) mother-to-be, rubbing her beautiful belly. In your mind, you are the only woman in the entire room - or the entire world - who can't manage to pop out a child on cue.

That's where the group comes in. According to the American Society of Reproductive Medicine, 10 percent of the population will be affected by infertility at some point in their lives. But despite the numbers, it's an isolating and humiliating experience. As a group, though, we didn't have to hold back. "Everybody was getting knocked up all around me, and the group gave me the permission not to have to go to baby shower after baby shower after baby shower," says Karen O'Neil. "Nobody else realized I was bawling all the way there and all the way home."

When Karen gave birth prematurely to quadruplets in November 2000, we took turns delivering meals to her home. She came close to death, and two of the babies almost didn't make it. Today, they're all thriving, and her irreverent sense of humor in the face of chaos is inspirational.

And it's the laughter that has kept us together over the years. We've spent hours comparing the insane things we all did in our quest for a family. Arlene Childs, a nurse, had to give herself an injection at Fenway Park - an unusual version of the seven thinning stretch. I saw an acupuncturist who gave me an herb mixture containing an ingredient called Donkey Glue. Sometimes the men in our lives joined the party, too. Arlene's husband regaled us with a hilarious saga about doing his part - that is, producing The Specimen - in a sterile room without the help of visual aids. When the men weren't around, we lambasted the perfect young mothers, those lucky creatures who were flaunting something we didn't have.

Now we've turned into them. Or most of us have. I wish I could say there is a unanimous happy ending. Four of us, including Arlene, are going through secondary infertility, a condition that is every bit as agonizing as the first time around. And then there's Lisa Martin, the only member of the original nine who didn't get a new baby. When we first met, she already had a little girl - a fact she initially kept to herself for fear of upsetting the rest of us who were childless - and she sought out almost every existing treatment to have another. Lisa became a walking encyclopedia of studies and statistics, to no avail. After six miscarriages, she finally stopped treatment. She doesn't join us for dinners now, and who can blame her?

Recently, I drove to New Hampshire to have lunch with Lisa. She was the master of self-diagnosis, and we used to laugh but listen intently every time she said, "I have a theory. . . ." At 43, she doesn't have theories anymore. "I accept the fact that I will not be blond, I will not be tall, and I will not have another child," she tells me. I wish I could offer her hope. But with my virtual triplets (3-year-old twins and a 2-year-old), I know I'm not the best person to offer support, so I don't spit out pat words of wisdom or resurrect our old motto. Infertility taught us that life is not fair, and our support group taught us to know when to laugh, to know when to extend a hand, and to know when no words will help.

Patti Hartigan is a freelance writer living in Carlisle. E-mail her at pattihartigan@gmail.com.