Mistake Number One: Throw a sleepover bash for a dozen girls at the Hilton in downtown Omaha to mark my daughter Mia’s 12th birthday.
Mistake Number Two: Devour three hefty slices of deep-dish pizza followed by a mountain of chocolate cake while racing to catch the elevator to the lobby.
Mistake Number Three: Convince the hotel shuttle driver to whisk us off to Starbucks.
Mistake Number Four: As the younger girls delight in their tall, creamy drinks, I sip my grande cup of Alka-Seltzer.
Mistake Number Five: Back in our hotel room, they gather around the TV to watch The Theory of Everything. My theory? I need more cake.
With sugar coursing through my veins, I join the crew. As the film reaches one of its most poignant moments, when Jane Hawking, Stephen’s wife, says, “I did the best I could,” I can’t help but cackle.
“Mom, just go!” Mia exclaims, pointing to the adjoining room. My daughter literally sends me to my room.
Our life hasn’t always been about sleepover escapades and belly laughs, watching Mia explode with excitement over new Converse sneakers, or my astonishment at the risqué fashion trends for 12-year-olds at Forever 21. “You must be joking,” I say when she admires a tiny crop top and shorts that, as my Jewish grandmother would say, wouldn’t even cover her tuchus.
In utero, Mia faced gastroschisis, a critical condition where her intestines protruded through her abdomen, developing in the amniotic fluid and cutting off blood supply. Her first home—and my second—was a neonatal intensive care unit in New York City, where she spent seven months surviving on tube feeds and total parenteral nutrition, an IV fluid that kept her alive but risked her liver.
When Mia turned 3, I discovered Nebraska Medicine’s intestinal rehabilitation program in Omaha. Even before we arrived, the team assured us they would have a treatment plan ready within a week or two.
Before we could leave, our neighbor burst through our front door, “You’re moving to Oklahoma?” she asked. As a typical New Yorker, I always thought going out of town meant heading upstate. I had dreams of owning a SoHo loft with oversized windows that would let the sun wake me like an urban rooster. But I actually lived in a Greenwich Village apartment building that felt more Jewish than all of Nebraska combined. I achieved my goal of writing for New York magazine’s “Best Of” issues and covering restaurants for Time Out New York. Yet my greatest dream was simply to be a mother.
Three months after moving to Nebraska, my sweet girl’s cirrhotic liver failed, and she was listed for a small bowel, liver, and pancreas transplant, which she received on July 20, 2006—her second birthday. Back then, I couldn’t even utter the word “transplant,” a daunting term that felt too futuristic for me. However, I learned that the universe has a way of providing exactly what we need. Our extraordinary transplant team truly fit the bill. We sold our New York home and purchased one in Omaha, a place I barely recognized on a map.
For years, people who knew our journey would ask, incredulously, “You left New York for Omaha? Was that a culture shock?” Oh yes! One day, while walking our shepherd-husky, I was passed by a kid in a black, muffler-free TransAm who I expected to flip me off. Instead, he smiled and waved. At Target, the cashier asked, “Do you need help getting to your car?”
I’ve grown to appreciate the ease of life here: children playing outside until dark, five-minute rush hour traffic, and a cost of living that felt like Monopoly money. Ironically, my funny girl has even shared the stage with Tony Award winners in Omaha at the Holland Center, our equivalent of Carnegie Hall.
I’ve unexpectedly transformed from a hair-on-fire neurotic—once obsessively begging multiple operators for a coveted 212 area code—into someone who embraces the help that comes her way, like a kind aunt bringing snacks and gifts. I encourage Mia to shift her mindset and accept the present moment, saying things like, “Feel the fear and let it wash over you.” She simply rolls her eyes and quips, “Buddhist.”
Now, as I fly into Omaha and catch sight of the skyline (which I lovingly call “The Building”), I still yearn for my Manhattan. But I’ve come to understand that home is an internal feeling, and I’ve realized that a city girl can indeed flourish outside her comfort zone, as long as there’s love—and a trusty supply of Alka-Seltzer.
This story originally appeared on our blog. For more insights on insemination and pregnancy, you can check out this excellent resource from the CDC or learn about home insemination kits at Cryobaby. If you’re interested in more about insemination techniques, read about it here.