In Vitro Fertilization: A Desire of Motherhood

By Fratax Retta Sang

A story about the struggles of a young woman and her husband in a battle against infertility.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Apr 15, 2015
• ISBN: 9781504940481

Fratax Retta Sang

Born 1976, in Serbia. As a young woman went trough many life troubles with the help of her family. Had the hardest struggles with maternity and still struggling. Decided to write about the problems and decisions that needed to be made in the battle against infertility.

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IN VITRO

FERTILIZATION

A Desire of Motherhood

JENIFER MEDISON

AuthorHouse™ UK

1663 Liberty Drive

Bloomington, IN 47403 USA

www.authorhouse.co.uk

Phone: [phone]

© 2015 Jenifer Medison. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system,

or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 04/15/2015

ISBN: 978-1-5049-4047-4 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5049-4048-1 (e)

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In Vitro Fertilization,

A Desire of Motherhood

A woolen string tied around the wrist - an ancient belief carried from one generation to the next around the world, no matter the faith or nation - serves to protect the person wearing it from the evil eye and the surrounding evil forces. It is given to newborn babies and children, girls and pregnant women, but can it change the destiny of a person, or is destiny predetermined by the very act of birth?

In our childhood it seems as if no one can hurt us, we have our whole lives ahead of us and cannot wait to leap into the world of adults. But what happens when entering that world we encounter only sadness, grief and suffering…

The year 1991 changed the lives of all, first Slovenia declared independence, Croatia and Bosnia and Herzegovina followed, than the Social Federal Republic of Yugoslavia dissolved. Created by the struggle of our forbearers, who, united, rebuilt the country ravaged by World War II, it held out for so long, until, overnight, it ceased to exist. The friends we met on school trips to Slovenia, Croatia, Bosnia, and sent letters back and forth, suddenly stopped being our friends. For most, a single night was enough to label as the greatest of enemies. Politics divided us. Europe started unifying, Yugoslavia dissolved. Summons for reserve troops were given out; our fathers, brothers, uncles were enlisted… They went off to fight people with whom they were friends up until yesterday. Everyone of differing religion or nationality had to flee Croatia and Bosnia, the Bloody Drina started flowing again. Of Srb, the birthplace of my grandfather, I have heard only stories. I had dreamt of going there, to Srb in Lika, envisioned the fields, pastures, and the family I have never met. Unfortunately, those were only the unfulfilled dreams of a child, who first knew it’s relatives through tears and moans, without a place for a joyous meeting.

In July and August of 1995, around 250 000 Serbs from Croatia were made refugees and ran to Serbia. Everything they had build and gained they left behind. They packed hastily; nothing that was carefully nurtured for future generations could be kept, only their lives mattered. Every day the news announced names, war casualties, victims of a war that divided us over night and destroyed our youth. Instead of happy and carefree faces, more and more we were surrounded by a war that brought poverty and countless unknown exiles… fleeing, searching for shelter from the whirlwind of war, hoping for a better tomorrow. School gyms, kindergartens, hotels became refugee centers over night. The locals gave as much as they could. The last piece of bread was shared with those who did not even have that much. Food first; for the rest we will somehow manage.

On the first day of our third year of high school we were greeted by the unfamiliar faces of the new students, who were in all the classes. Nataša, Sandra and Nevena are just some of the names I remember. In their eyes you could see fear of the unknown, pain, anger, loneliness, a forlorn gaze full of sadness and remembrance of old friends, schools and professors they had had and left far behind. It was up to us to embrace them and help them forget the horrors they had lived through, help them find the will to carry on, flung far away from home and hearth. Some children came with their relatives, while their parents stayed to try and salvage what they could. It took strength to come back to the refugee center after school, not knowing whether dire news of their parents awaited, and study with teary eyes and bleeding souls, ignorant of what tomorrow brings. The rest of us were not aware of how lucky we were to have parents by our sides, to have someone to share our joys and sorrows with.

We all led our own battles for a better tomorrow, but the new day always brought the same question: Will that tomorrow ever come, and if so, when?

What remained instead was the pain written on our parents’ faces, trying to hold out and earn enough for another loaf of bread.

This was an everyday occurrence in undeveloped countries like Ethiopia, where hundreds of children die daily of starvation. But, that was not our country; it was economically developed and powerful, then over night became poor and started sinking into the abyss, dragging all of us along with it.

In that same short period of time, we stepped into the world of adults, unaware of what happened. We fought our own fight, trying not to show our parents how unhappy we were that there was no money for going out on weekends, that having good clothes was just wishful thinking, that we can’t even afford sweets and snacks. Still, all of this didn’t dampen our spirits; we never stopped fantasizing that we will make something of ourselves, that our children will never know poverty. We learned to fight, to take what life throws at us with our heads held high.

We learned to make something out of nothing, to make a piece of bread a treat, a generation in their best years, on the verge of the twenty-first century, starved for life…

On April 17, 1996 the phone rang. My mother answered and simply responded:

All right, she’ll come.

She turned to me and said:

"Get ready, you should be downtown in two hours. SIZ¹ called, you’ll start volunteering at the post office; they are taking six people in and you’re among them."

Suddenly the world went black, my throat constricted, I couldn’t utter a sound. In a haze I imagined myself sitting behind a counter and counting money. That was not a place for creativity and energy, everything was regulated – hello, may I help you, thank you, goodbye.

I couldn’t dissent and protest, so I lowered my head and silently complied. Deep down a sliver of hope remained - I may not be accepted, I will return home. To my great sorrow, I started working behind the counter that very same day. Meeting new people and making new acquaintances was hard. I didn’t want to make friends; I wanted to get out. I felt lost in time and space, as if I wondered into someone else’s story, a place where I didn’t want to be. To top it off, they told me right off that I could not come to work in jeans and sneakers, but that I had to