A Real-Life Murphy Brown

I could feel my hands trembling as I gripped the steering wheel of my MR-2, dodging traffic on Route 50 on that afternoon in April 1990. Driving alone from my apartment in DC to the fertility clinic in Fairfax, Virginia, I wondered for the hundredth time whether I should have asked someone to come with me for this daunting appointment, someone to be there for moral support.  Yet I knew it was right for me to go alone, since whatever the future held for me at that moment, I was going to have to face it by myself.    

I was forty-three years old, single and, and pregnant for the first time in my life. When I found out I was going to have a baby, I knew that no news could ever have made me happier. I had always wanted to have children, but marriage and long-term commitment had eluded me. Although I had spent years trying to make peace with the reality of being a childless adult, I could not ignore the strong and persistent sense of having lost out on a crucial aspect of my life.

In recent months, I had found myself drawn to poignant stories in the news of infants in Romanian orphanages, neglected and forgotten, begging to be adopted. I felt an odd emotional connection with these sad-eyed children, because my father was born in that area of Europe, but the idea of adoption remained only a vague abstraction for me, one I didn’t seem able to act upon. Instead, I tried to explore the option of assisted conception. “Don’t get your hopes up,“ cautioned my gynecologist. “The procedure is very expensive, and since fertility declines rapidly after age forty, and the statistical probability for success is quite low.” Neither he nor I suspected that, within days of that conversation, I would become pregnant in the more traditional manner. Someone up there must have gotten quite a chuckle out of that.

During my next visit with him, the doctor solemnly warned me, “At your age, you should have genetic testing as soon as possible, to make sure there are no problems with the fetus.” On his advice, I opted for chorionic villi sampling (CVS), a (then) newly-developed and less invasive procedure that could be performed in the ninth week of pregnancy, rather than having to wait until the sixteenth week for amniocentesis.  

I was elated to find out that the test results were perfect.  My joy at the prospect of having a child totally outweighed my fears of this enormous new responsibility and the unknown changes and challenges it would bring.  “Please don’t tell me the baby’s sex,” I told the nurse, although I somehow knew in my heart that it would be a boy. I decided on a Hebrew name, in memory both of my grandfathers and our many other relatives who died in the Holocaust. The name I chose means ‘happiness’—and it continues to capture perfectly all of my feelings about my son. 

While pregnant, I was often preoccupied with thoughts and dreams about my own parents, who had died years earlier.  I found myself reflecting about their strength, their ability to cope, the incredible inner resources that enabled them to flee the Holocaust without their families and to forge a new life for themselves in America. It saddened me greatly that my son would never be able to meet them, but the memory of their love and their strength gave me the courage to face the myriad challenges of the next few years.  I know they would have been thrilled for me, having a child after almost giving up hope. Smiling joyfully, they would have exclaimed, “Better late than never!”   

As I learned for the first time how to care for an infant—bathing, diapering, breastfeeding, doctor’s appointments, finding high-quality day care—I felt mature and experienced, confident that I could handle these challenges.  Although I worried about meeting the day-to-day demands of my professional full-time job, and managing the logistical hurdles and paying for it all, I nevertheless felt totally prepared to cope with everything by myself.  I even accepted the fact that the baby’s father would probably not be meaningfully involved--while difficult and disappointing, it was not really a surprise. In my heart I was prepared to face whatever I needed to.  

Of course, raising a child meant making many lifestyle changes. After a few months, I reluctantly traded my beloved two-seater sports car for a more practical grey Honda Civic that could actually accommodate other humans.  (During the later months of my pregnancy, when I had managed to squeeze behind the steering wheel of my MR-2, my nephew warned jokingly that his cousin was going to be born with a Toyota logo imprinted on his forehead.)  Similarly, moving from a downtown high-rise to a larger and more practical garden apartment in the suburbs was a necessity, and I was proud that I was able to purchase my first home and accomplish the move successfully without help. 

Although I was prepared to cope with many such changes, I was less prepared for the shifts in my social life and support system. My single female friends, most of whom were younger than I was, were attentive and supportive throughout my pregnancy and my son’s first year. At first, they seemed enchanted by him, and by what they probably perceived as the glamorous notion of it all. But as he became a toddler and grew more active and independent—for example, rather than sleeping adorably in his infant carrier under the table in a restaurant, he began to occupy a highchair, and to make his presence known by dropping things on purpose and making emphatic (if incomprehensible) observations on everything around us—the thrill seemed to wear off, my single friends began to lose interest, and we saw less and less of them.

I was also surprised and dismayed by the attitudes of some of my work colleagues, who often dropped unkind and judgmental comments.  “Good luck!” a few of them muttered sarcastically and disapprovingly--“I can’t imagine how you’ll be able to manage!” I was surprised at how little these attitudes had changed despite the supposed social advances of recent decades, and how free some of my colleagues and acquaintances felt to offer criticism or express disdain.

Although I am not an avid television watcher, the program “Murphy Brown” caught my attention because it presented an eerie parallel to my own life.  In the series, Murphy became pregnant as a single parent during the 1991-92 season, a year after my real-life experience, and I immediately felt a close identification with her. I developed great respect for the show’s writers, who succeeded in capturing the more subtle aspects of single motherhood. The episode in which Murphy tells her co-workers that she’s going to have a baby is especially true-to-life. Her closest friends react with shock, disbelief, and skepticism; they want to want to know how she will manage, and if this will change her, and will she still be the same old Murphy? She is increasingly dismayed by their reactions; I found it very moving—and very believable--that the only person to throw his arms around her and offer spontaneous heartfelt congratulations is Eldon, the itinerant house painter.  

Having my son wasn’t a statement on my part, nor a rebellion, nor a wish to find myself on the cutting edge of social change. It was an adaptation. When you’ve always wanted children, and haven’t had the chance, and you suddenly find yourself pregnant long after you imagined it possible, you don’t worry about what the world is going to think. You just accept the miracle for what it is.