In a weird coincidence, it turns out that the fertility doctor responsible for Nadya Suleman's 14 children, including the newborn octuplets, is also the specialist I visited when, after the loss of Lily, my ex and I decided to give pregnancy one last try.
Stories about Dr. Michael Kamrava also showed that his fertility success rate (i.e., ratio of procedures to live births) was one of the worst in the country.
I just thought it was me, not unreasonable given my lack of previous "success," the glowing letters from happy parents and photos of adorable infants posted around his office and the strong recommendation from my OB-GYN. Not to mention how much I hated the whole dispiriting process: the daily hormone shots made me cry, and I thought that maybe I just didn't want motherhood enough to make it happen.
But now I wonder, given his apparent penchant for implanting multiple embryos (contradicting accepted "assisted reproductive technology" procedure), if the sad shake of his head when he told me that I just didn't have enough eggs to keep going actually only meant that I didn't have enough to keep going with him.
Because you can't make an omelet without breaking them.