The Art of Waiting

The Art of Waiting Plot Summary

Introduction

On a cold December morning in Boston, Margaret Monteith looks around her newly converted guest room, ready for the family and friends who will visit when her baby arrives in May. "I wouldn't have this child without Massachusetts insurance," she tells me over Skype, her face illuminated with a quiet joy that comes after nine rounds of IVF and seven heartbreaking miscarriages. The antique crib in the corner of her living room stands as both a family heirloom and a symbol of her extraordinary patience and persistence. Margaret's journey represents just one of the countless stories of waiting, longing, and hope that define the human experience of fertility challenges. Waiting for something deeply desired changes us fundamentally. The waiting room at a fertility clinic might be filled with women and men from all walks of life, yet they share a common experience: time suspended between hope and uncertainty. Through intimate personal narratives and reflective analysis, this exploration of fertility, medicine, and motherhood illuminates the complex emotional landscape of those in waiting. It reveals how the modern experience of infertility intersects with medical technologies, social expectations, financial realities, and the deeply personal questions of identity and purpose. The stories shared offer wisdom not just for those facing fertility challenges, but for anyone who has ever found themselves waiting for something that seems both essential and elusive.

Chapter 1: The Longing: When Baby Fever Strikes

In Finland, a woman remembers the exact moment when baby fever overcame her rational mind. "I was infected when I took a six-week-old baby in my arms," she writes in response to family sociologist Anna Rotkirch's study of the phenomenon. "It was an all-encompassing desire for a child, without any trace of common sense and ignoring the consequences. Actually a very agonizing experience." Another woman in the study describes dreams about children arriving almost nightly as she turned 28, accompanied by "a restless feeling all the time, just as if my womb was demanding something I did not agree with." These visceral accounts capture what many experience as a biological urge that defies logic or timing. One 25-year-old woman reported being hit by baby fever with unexpected force: "It was something totally biological, because I did not experience any outer pressure. On the contrary, my parents stressed that I should have a good job before starting a family." Despite her career plans and ongoing education, she found herself unable to focus on anything but the physical, compelling need to be pregnant that "starts from my womb and radiates to all parts of my body." For some, the intensity of this desire becomes almost unbearable when prolonged by infertility or circumstances. They begin avoiding places with reminders of what they cannot have - baby showers, children's birthday parties, even the baby aisles of stores. The desire doesn't diminish but rather grows stronger, becoming a central organizing force in their emotional lives. Joan Didion described her own experience of baby fever as "a tidal surge" that transformed how she saw the world: "Once this surge hit I saw babies wherever I went. I followed their carriages on the street. I cut their pictures from magazines and tacked them to the wall next to my bed." Even evolutionary psychologists, who have long argued that humans are driven primarily by sexual rather than reproductive impulses, have begun to recognize this phenomenon as worthy of study. The women in Rotkirch's research weren't simply conforming to social pressure; they were describing something that felt primal and overwhelming, often arriving at inconvenient times and working against their other goals and aspirations. What makes these stories particularly powerful is how they challenge our assumptions about reproductive choice. Baby fever doesn't discriminate based on readiness or circumstance - it arrives unbidden, transforming how people see themselves and their futures. The longing to have a child speaks to something deeply human: our desire to nurture, to continue, to create family. Whether we act on this longing or not, its presence reminds us that beneath our rational plans and careful timing lies a more primal connection to the human experience of bringing new life into the world.

Chapter 2: Medical Journeys: Navigating Reproductive Technologies

Lesley Brown entered into her treatment for infertility unaware of its remarkable nature. "I don't remember Mr. Steptoe saying his method of producing babies had ever worked, and I certainly didn't ask," she wrote in her 1979 memoir. "I just imagined that hundreds of children had already been born through being conceived outside their mothers' wombs." In reality, when Steptoe collected her egg and Edwards fertilized it in their laboratory, she was about to become the mother of the world's first "test-tube baby." The procedure, described to her simply as an "implant," would lead to the birth of Louise Brown and revolutionize reproductive medicine forever. The development of reproductive technologies has transformed waiting into a highly medicalized experience. For women undergoing IVF today, the waiting is punctuated by daily hormone injections, frequent blood draws, ultrasounds, and carefully timed procedures. One woman describes preparing for her embryo transfer: "Richard injected me between six and seven every evening. Preparing the injections—measuring and mixing the medication, drawing the solutions into the needle, tapping out the air bubbles—took about twenty minutes." The clinical precision contrasts sharply with the profound emotional investment in each step of the process. The phrase reproductive endocrinologists often use is "take over"—as in, "We'll take over your whole cycle." This takeover represents both the promise and the challenge of reproductive medicine. The body, once trusted to perform its natural functions, becomes suspect, in need of expert intervention. A doctor's words to a woman whose embryo was being transferred capture this shift in agency: "There it is! Your embryo." The possession is ambiguous—is it hers, or does it belong to the medical team who created it outside her body? For many, the financial aspect of fertility treatment adds another layer of complexity. In the United States, the cost of a single IVF cycle averages $12,000 to $15,000, with medications adding thousands more. Only fifteen states have some form of insurance mandate for fertility treatment, and these vary widely in their requirements and exclusions. As one woman explains, "I have friends who live elsewhere who don't have this level of insurance and don't make enough money to pay for the treatments. Many of my friends who have been able to afford it either had high paying jobs or well-off parents to help them. It's heartbreaking to me because it seems that having children should not be based on being wealthy enough." Behind every clinical procedure is a deeply human story of hope, fear, and determination. Women and men submit to invasive tests, painful injections, and emotional roller coasters in pursuit of a possibility, not a guarantee. The odds of success for a single IVF cycle hover around 30 percent for women under 35, declining with age. Yet for many, these odds represent the best chance at building the families they envision. The medicalization of fertility has fundamentally changed how we experience waiting. What was once left to chance, luck, or fate now involves active participation in complex medical protocols. Patients become experts in their own reproductive physiology, tracking hormone levels and follicle counts with the precision of scientists. The waiting transforms from a passive state to an active process—waiting with purpose, with intervention, with technology as an ally against biological limitations.

Chapter 3: The Social Experience: Isolation and Community

Willis Lynch was just fourteen years old in 1948 when he was taken from the state-run children's home where he lived to a nearby hospital. He remembers singing a country song to a nurse who held a mask over his face, counting backward, then waking up barely able to walk. Though it took a while for him to realize what had been done—no one talked to him about the surgery—he has lived most of his life with the knowledge that he will never have biological children. Willis was one of thousands sterilized under North Carolina's eugenics program, which targeted minorities and the poor from 1933 into the 1970s. Decades later, Willis became an advocate for compensation from the state legislature, driving his 1982 Ford EXP to Raleigh to speak at hearings. "People around here know me for being smart, for knowing how to fix a lot of things," he told an interviewer, showing paperwork that suggested he was unfit to father children. His testimony, frank and courageous, stood in contrast to many victims who refused verification of their suspected sterilizations—they didn't want to know the truth. Despite his losses, Willis remained a devoted son and uncle, becoming a determined advocate for justice and contributing to the first movement that secured compensation for eugenics victims in America. The isolation experienced by those facing fertility challenges often extends beyond physical limitations to social separation. In support groups, women describe avoiding baby showers and children's birthday parties, untagging themselves from pregnancy announcements on social media, and feeling increasingly alienated from friends whose lives revolve around their growing families. "It's such an assault to your identity," explains psychotherapist Dr. Marni Rosner, who studied infertility as traumatic loss. "Physically, mentally, socially, spiritually." This isolation is compounded by what grief counselor Kenneth Doka calls "disenfranchised grief": the grief experienced when a loss "is not or cannot be openly acknowledged, publicly mourned, or socially supported." Unlike other losses that bring sympathy cards and casseroles, infertility often remains private, invisible to others, sometimes lasting for years. As one woman in Rosner's study explained: "There's something really wrong about the fact that my body doesn't function in the way that it was born to function... In certain circles, it makes me feel like I don't have any credibility." Yet within this landscape of isolation, communities form. Online forums and support groups become lifelines for many. In fertility clinic waiting rooms and hospital basements, strangers share their most intimate experiences, offer advice on medications and doctors, and celebrate each other's successes. "I often want to quit," says Regina Townsend, founder of The Broken Brown Egg, a blog addressing infertility in the African American community. "But then I shake it off and move forward because I know that someone needs to hear my voice, or just have me say, 'I get it, and I see you, and you're not alone.'" The shared experience of waiting creates powerful bonds. Where once infertility was suffered in silence, now there are spaces—both virtual and physical—where people can speak openly about their journeys. These communities don't eliminate the pain of waiting, but they transform it from a solitary burden to a shared human experience. They remind us that while medical interventions focus on the body, healing often happens through connection with others who understand the unique grief of reproductive loss and the tenacious hope that drives people to continue waiting, trying, and believing.

Chapter 4: Alternative Paths: Adoption and Surrogacy

Nate and Parul Goetz had recently come home from their baby shower when the phone call came from the adoption agency. An unusual situation had developed: a baby boy had been born prematurely just days before, and his birth mother, Kate, had chosen them from their profile. If they wanted to adopt him, they needed to be there the next day, prepared to stay in Kentucky for the three weeks required to complete the process. Without hesitation, Parul began packing the unwashed baby clothes from their shower into suitcases. By early the next afternoon, they were at the hospital, beginning an unexpected chapter in their family story. What struck Kate about Nate and Parul's profile wasn't the carefully crafted life story or the photographs of Parul gardening and Nate golfing. It was a strange symmetry in their lives—she'd had six children before this baby, and Parul had experienced six miscarriages. This baby—her seventh—was also Parul's seventh attempt at a family. After years of unsuccessful fertility treatments, including Clomid cycles, IUIs, and consultations with psychologists, Nate and Parul had decided that adoption was their path to parenthood. The seeming coincidence felt like fate. For same-sex couples like Gabe and Todd, the journey to parenthood involves different considerations. After marrying in Brooklyn—same-sex marriage was constitutionally forbidden in their home state of North Carolina at the time—they began exploring surrogacy. As a gay couple, they faced additional hurdles: adoption agencies that refused to work with same-sex couples, international surrogacy programs with ethical uncertainties, and the substantial financial burden of American gestational surrogacy, which can cost upwards of $150,000. For Gabe, having a genetically linked child felt emotionally compelling. His father, an only child, was a Holocaust survivor; Gabe's mother was an only child too. But more than continuing the family line, what he and Todd wanted was "to raise a human being from moment one." The landscape of alternative family-building paths is complex and often fraught with ethical questions. In international surrogacy, intended parents must weigh their desire for a child against concerns about exploitation of women in developing countries. Domestic adoption brings its own uncertainties—birth mothers can change their minds, costs can be prohibitive, and the wait can stretch for years. Foster-to-adopt programs offer another avenue, though one that carries the risk of forming attachments to children who may ultimately be reunited with their biological families. Each path requires its own form of waiting and its own leap of faith. Martha Ertman, a legal scholar who formed her family through donor insemination and contractual parenting, writes that "family happens incrementally." Her son's genetic father is also a close friend and coparent; after Walter's birth, Ertman and Victor each married same-sex partners, giving Walter two step-parents. What begins as a vision of family transforms through experience, contracts, relationships, and love into something both planned and unexpected. These alternative paths to parenthood remind us that families form in countless ways, each with its own unique story. The waiting involved may be different from medical treatments, but it carries its own intensity—waiting for a match with a birth mother, waiting for legal paperwork to clear, waiting to meet a child who will forever change your life. What unites these journeys is the profound desire to nurture, to create family bonds that transcend biology, and to participate in the transformative experience of raising a child, however that child comes into your life.

Chapter 5: Financial Realities: The Cost of Creating Life

"Did you do it the natural way, or did you pay eighty thousand dollars?" This blunt question, asked by in-laws after a pregnancy announcement, captures the uncomfortable intersection of money and reproduction that many couples face. While $80,000 represents more than many families paid for their first homes, it's not an impossible number for tough cases—some journeys through fertility treatment can easily exceed this amount, especially without insurance coverage. The financial aspect of creating life becomes not just a practical consideration but a moral and ethical one that permeates every decision. In the United States, the cost of a single IVF cycle averages $12,000 to $15,000, not including medications which can add thousands more. Only fifteen states mandate some form of insurance coverage for infertility treatments, and these mandates vary widely in their requirements and exclusions. New York, for example, requires coverage for "the diagnosis and treatment of a correctable medical condition" that causes infertility, but specifically excludes IVF—often the most effective treatment. Arkansas allows for IVF treatment but only up to a lifetime maximum of $15,000. Maryland covers IVF, but only with "the patient's eggs" and "her spouse's sperm," excluding same-sex couples and single women. One woman described how she and her husband entered into a "cost-share" plan with a fertility clinic, paying $20,200 upfront for up to three rounds of IVF and three frozen-embryo transfers. "We were betting on our own failure," she explained. "The clinic was betting on our success." This arrangement, similar to a financial derivative, allowed them to hedge against the possibility of multiple failed cycles. It gave them the confidence to choose a single embryo transfer rather than risking twins by transferring multiple embryos—a common choice for patients worried about affording multiple IVF attempts. The financial burden doesn't just deplete savings; it transforms how people live. "In my support group, though we didn't talk about the specific price tags of our treatments, some of us would occasionally mention what we exchanged for the opportunity to try them: vacations we didn't take, down payments on houses we didn't buy. Some of us stayed in jobs we hated, just to keep our health insurance." When Margaret Monteith and her husband moved from New York to Boston for new jobs, they discovered an unexpected benefit: Massachusetts mandates comprehensive fertility coverage. "It was an enormous relief to learn that we could do it, that insurance would cover much of the costs," Margaret said. For those pursuing adoption or surrogacy, the financial picture can be equally daunting. Domestic infant adoption typically costs between $20,000 and $45,000, while international adoption ranges from $35,000 to $50,000. Gestational surrogacy in the United States can cost between $100,000 and $150,000, leading some intended parents to consider international options despite ethical concerns about exploitation. Beyond the raw numbers lies a deeper question: who gets access to assisted reproduction? Studies show that those who seek and receive fertility treatments tend to be white, educated, and wealthy. When Quebec mandated IVF insurance coverage, researchers found that removing financial barriers increased both socioeconomic and racial diversity among patients. The stark reality is that for many Americans, the decision to pursue treatment is determined not by medical need but by financial capacity. The intersection of money and reproduction reveals uncomfortable truths about how we value family-building in our society. As one advocate asked, "What if men were the ones having babies? Would we pay for treatment then?" In a healthcare system where heart surgery and cancer treatment are covered by insurance but fertility treatments often are not, the message seems clear: having children is seen as a luxury, not a necessity. For those waiting and hoping, this financial reality adds another layer to an already complex emotional journey—making the universal human desire to nurture and create family contingent on the ability to pay.

Chapter 6: Cultural Perspectives: How Society Views Infertility

In the waiting room of a fertility clinic, a woman notices something troubling: "Every face you see is white. Looking at the literature, every face you see is white," says Candace Trinchieri, who is African American. "It's extremely isolating." This observation reveals a deeper truth about how fertility challenges are portrayed and understood in our culture. Despite the fact that infertility affects one in eight couples across all demographics—and is actually more common among minorities and those with lower income and education levels—the stereotypical image of an infertility patient remains a white, educated, professional woman who has "waited too long" to have children. This stereotype persists even among medical professionals. A 2010 study revealed that only 16 percent of physicians correctly identified African Americans as the demographic most at risk for infertility, and just 13 percent recognized that women without high school diplomas are more likely to be infertile than women with higher educational attainment. These misconceptions affect who gets referred for treatment and how seriously their concerns are taken. One woman in sociologist Ann V. Bell's study of inequality in fertility care reported, "Most doctors try to talk you out of getting pregnant." Cultural narratives about infertility often reinforce damaging myths. Literature frequently portrays childless women as dangerous or unfulfilled—from Shakespeare's Lady Macbeth, who would dash out an infant's brains, to Dickens's bitter Miss Havisham. These characters suggest that failing to have children has a socially distorting, morally corrosive effect, especially on women. Even contemporary media perpetuates the idea that people without children are somehow incomplete or selfish. "For a long time, children used to make me sad," writes Andrew Solomon. "The origin of my sadness was somewhat obscure to me, but I think it came most from how the absence of children in the lives of gay people had repeatedly been held up to me as my tragedy." Religious and cultural traditions often add another layer of complexity. In some communities, having children is seen as not just a personal desire but a religious or cultural obligation. Women may face particular scrutiny and blame, regardless of the medical cause of infertility. "In the waiting room, every face you see is white," Candace observed, but this isn't because infertility doesn't affect communities of color—it's because cultural stigma, financial barriers, and medical bias create multiple layers of exclusion. In response to these realities, new voices are emerging to challenge dominant narratives. Regina Townsend founded The Broken Brown Egg to address infertility in the African American community after finding few resources that spoke to her experience. "I try to just say and address all of the things that I wished someone had said to me," she explains. Organizations like Fertility for Colored Girls host both online communities and in-person events designed to increase awareness about infertility in minority communities. These cultural perspectives remind us that infertility is never experienced in isolation from other aspects of identity—race, class, religion, sexuality. The way society views and portrays fertility challenges shapes everything from who seeks treatment to who receives it, from how we understand our own bodies to how we navigate relationships during periods of waiting. By recognizing and challenging limiting cultural narratives, we create space for more diverse stories and experiences, moving toward a more inclusive understanding of what it means to create family in all its forms.

Chapter 7: Finding Peace: Acceptance and New Beginnings

Jamani, a gorilla at the North Carolina Zoo, experienced a devastating loss when her highly publicized pregnancy ended with a stillborn infant. Her keepers allowed her to hold and carry the baby until she made peace with the loss. She spent the day holding him, cleaning him, and trying to stimulate movement and feeding. Eventually, she set the infant down and moved away. Less than a year later, Jamani conceived again and gave birth to a healthy male named Bomassa. Though another female in her troop, Olympia, kidnapped the three-week-old Bomassa and began caring for him alongside her own newborn, the keepers eventually returned him to Jamani, who responded "almost as if nothing had ever happened." This story of loss, resilience, and new beginnings finds echoes in human experiences with infertility. Cat Warren, a professor and writer, planned to adopt a child from Vietnam after experiencing infertility and a miscarriage. She completed a home study, called on friends to write recommendations, and bought a house in a district with an excellent, diverse elementary school. Then she met David, fell in love, and was diagnosed with breast cancer. Though Cat kept the file folder of adoption paperwork—"it's hard to let go of a dream"—she decided that continuing with adoption, considering her uncertain health, would not be responsible. After two surgeries and radiation, Cat's cancer went into remission. She and David married and built a life together in a cohousing community surrounded by neighbors with children. In 2013, Cat published a bestselling book inspired by her experience training a spirited German shepherd to do search-and-rescue work, which brought more people, including children, into her life. "I wouldn't say David and I are childless," Cat says. "And child-free sounds like a PR riff... I don't relate to either term." The journey through infertility rarely ends with a single clear resolution. For some, like Margaret Monteith, persistence through nine rounds of IVF and seven miscarriages eventually leads to success. For others, like Michelle Latiolais, a novelist and professor, peace comes through embracing a different path: "As I've gotten older, I've also gotten braver about just saying, No, I never wanted children." She finds fulfillment in nurturing her graduate students: "I am not sure I'd be as open to students as I hope I am if I had children of my own." Finding peace often means reconsidering what constitutes a rich and meaningful life. "I was constantly letting go of, or trying to let go of, the person I thought I was going to be," says one man reflecting on his journey to parenthood as a gay man. This evolution of identity—this willingness to let go of one vision to embrace another—becomes a central part of moving forward, whether that means continuing to pursue parenthood through alternative paths or finding fulfillment in other aspects of life. For many, acceptance doesn't mean giving up desire but transforming it. Cat and David have been especially close to Reginald, the autistic son of a friend who died of cancer. As a child, Reginald adored her German shepherds, Solo and Zev, and Cat once watched him tell a group of tough boys in a park, "This is Zev, my dog." She showed me how he placed his hand lightly on Zev's head and raised his own in an expression of pride and belonging. Though not officially his parent, Cat created space for him to feel connection and joy. The art of waiting ultimately teaches us that peace doesn't arrive with a single resolution but through the ongoing process of discovering who we are and what we can offer the world. Whether through persistence that eventually leads to parenthood, through finding new ways to nurture and create, or through embracing a life different from what was originally imagined, those who have waited find that the journey itself transforms them in ways they could never have anticipated. They remind us that human worth and purpose extend far beyond reproductive capacity, and that meaningful connection can take countless forms beyond the traditional parent-child relationship.

Summary

The journey through fertility challenges reveals profound truths about human resilience and adaptation. As Mr. Cheek, a mason building a house addition for new parents, observed: "Imagine if there was only one baby in the whole world. Wherever that baby was, we'd put down our things and go see it. If that baby was in California, we'd all go to California." His words capture something essential about our collective investment in new life—each child arrives not just to their parents but to a world of neighbors, teachers, and caregivers who will each have some impact on their development. Whether conceived naturally, through medical intervention, or welcomed through adoption, every child represents both a deeply personal triumph and a communal celebration. For those still waiting, the stories shared offer wisdom beyond fertility itself. They teach us that waiting, though painful, can be transformed from passive endurance to active engagement with life's possibilities. The capacity to reimagine ourselves—to let go of one vision to embrace another—becomes essential not just for those facing reproductive challenges but for anyone navigating life's unexpected turns. As one woman reflected after her long journey to motherhood: "I'm glad I didn't know before I had her. I don't think I could have borne it." This sentiment speaks to the mystery at the heart of all waiting: we cannot fully envision what waits on the other side of our longing, whether it brings the child we've dreamed of or leads us toward an entirely different kind of fulfillment. The art of waiting lies not in perfect patience but in remaining open to the unexpected gifts that emerge when we navigate life's deepest challenges with courage, community, and compassion.

About Author

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Belle Boggs

Belle Boggs is the author of The Gulf, a novel; the nonfiction book The Art of Waiting: On Fertility, Medicine and Motherhood; and the story collection Mattaponi Queen. She has published work in Ecotone, Orion, Ploughshares, and Harper's, among other publications. She grew up in King William County, Virginia and is Associate Professor of English at North Carolina State University.

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