“2025: A Novel” — Chapter 2

Project 2025 and IVF

Last week, I introduced the opening of my newest project: “2025: A Novel.”

My concern is that most Americans either don’t know about or don’t take seriously the very clear directions spelled out in Project 2025, and promises being made by Donald Trump.

Over our history, fiction (based on reality) has often done a better job than non-fiction at bringing reality home. So the purpose of the “2025: A Novel” is to make as real as possible what Project 2025 promises to bring.

If you haven’t yet, please start at the introduction and Chapter 1 here:

Introduction and Chapter 1

Now, onto…..

Chapter 2

February

“Eve Wallace”

by Rose Cunningham

Pittsburgh

To people outside of the nursing profession, working three days a week—sometimes four—sounded cushy.

But that’s because those who assumed that never had to work the seven to seven shift in the emergency room. The always understaffed emergency room in the always understaffed hospital.

By four or five in the morning, the stress, uncertainty and unforgiving workload overwhelmed Eve Wallace’s entire body—starting with a throbbing head, onto aching legs and arms, then pinching the nerves of her lower spine by six. And that was on the quiet nights.

But because her hospital was a Level 1 trauma center in central Pittsburgh, a quiet night was not the norm. The typical night involved multiple gunshot victims in various stages of bleeding out as they arrived. Or patients as high as a human being could get, lashing out physically at anyone who tried to handle them, hospital or city cops swooping in to restrain them. Too often, those two situations—the gunshot victims and the thrashing addicts—presented themselves in the same patient.

Simply dealing with one of those incidents could sap the energy of an entire 12 hours. But since these usually took place between midnight and three, once resolved, Eve’s shift still had hours to go.

This morning’s shift had been one of the worst of the new year.

Two teenagers had died in front of her, each with gunshots to the torso. A drunken fight between two large groups of kids, out way too late at night. Senseless. Where in the hell were the parents?

An older homeless man came to out of an overdose in a wildly hostile state, scratching Eve’s arm before punching the other nurse who had revived him. Livid that they’d interrupted whatever he was feeling inside, the man didn’t appreciate that they had resuscitated him only moments from death. OD patients rarely did.

Of course there were positive moments as well. They too took hard work and energy, but little miracles did occur along the way.

Tonight’s came at her shift’s end.

Two city firefighters rushed in with a young woman who’d gone into labor early. She delivered twenty minutes later. From her guerney. In a hallway.

Eve was the first to hold the tiny, 33-week infant after delivery.

She cut the umbilical cord, clipped it closed, then washed and dried the infant as she scanned for any obvious trouble signs. Seeing none, she took the infant’s vitals.

While tiny—just under 3 pounds—and bawling, the pale little guy appeared to be perfectly healthy. She swaddled him tight, then handed him to another nurse, who rushed him to the NICU. Eve watched the tiny head with its shock of black hair until he was out of sight.

“Where’s my baby?” the mom yelled out from behind her. “Is he ok?”

Eve let out a long breath. Preparing to exude needed calm.

She stepped to the front of the guerney and grinned.

“He’s perfect. You were so strong, and he takes after you. Looks healthy as can be.”

“Where is he?” the woman yelled. “I need to see him.”

“We have to take the little guys right to the NICU. For their safety. You’ll be able to see him soon.”

She wiped the woman’s forehead with a clean towel, trying to soothe her.  The new mom closed her eyes and let out a long sigh. Now at peace, she appeared so young. Eighteen or nineteen—twenty at the oldest.

There was no father in sight. And because the young woman didn’t ask about him, or anyone else, Eve didn’t inquire about family. She’d let the social service worker dive into those questions, then access resources that could help.

Fifteen minutes later, hands washed and winter parka covering her Steelers sweatshirt, Eve walked out a rear door and stepped into the frigid morning air. Along with six other nurses who appeared as worn out as she felt, she boarded the shuttle bus to the staff parking lot.  Unlike her, and her 34 years of age, the other passengers looked like kids.

For the past 20 minutes, she’d held strong, knowing full well it was boiling up. It didn’t actually hit her until she sat down and the shuttle door swung shut.

Emotion welled up from deep in her gut, nervousness and darkness and stress exploding all at once. Sudden, quick breaths. Shivering even in the warmth of the shuttle. Her vision blurred as wetness accumulated in her eyes. She squinted her eyelids hoping to fend off full tears.

To be safe, she ducked her head down. With that and the darkness, maybe no one would notice.

A light tap on her shoulder.

“Eve!”

She turned to a long-faced young woman beaming at her. The tan skin and short brown bob were familiar, but she couldn’t remember her name.

“Hi,” she said back, forcing a smile, a skill she’d perfected in recent years. A vital shield at difficult moments.

“It’s Rachel—we overlapped a few weeks ago when they needed more bodies in the ER.”

“Great to see you,” she said, hoping Rachel wouldn’t notice her moist eyes. “And we always need more bodies in the ER!”

Rachel’s full lips curled into a frown.

“What’s wrong, honey?” she asked, a slight Southern twang coming through.

“Nothing—just a tough night. You know the drill.”

She looked away for a moment.

The truth was, her shift hadn’t been any tougher than the usual exhausting 12 hours. It was the happiest moment from the morning that had shaken her up, but that’s not something she would ever admit.

“I’m so sorry,” Rachel said, reaching a tissue to Eve’s right eye to dab away at a tear. “You owe it to yourself to rotate out of there.”

Eve would’ve shifted years ago if she’d had a choice. But she and her husband just couldn’t afford it. Not if they wanted to grow their family. In fact, she’d chosen to be in the ER, as draining as it was.

“Thank you,” she said gently. “Hopefully soon.”

The bus squeaked to a stop as a metal gate opened in front of them, then pulled forward. Seconds later, it stopped again in the middle of the lot.

“Watch your step,” the driver said as they stood up to leave. “It’s slippery out there.”

Rachel grabbed Eve’s hand as they reached the bottom of the shuttle stairs, both of them shivering in the wintry air.

“Hang in there,” she said. “You’re one of the best, kindest people I’ve ever worked with, which can make it all that much harder to see what you see every night. You need to move to a quieter unit.”

Rachel hugged her. Eve squeezed back tighter than she meant to.

A breeze chilled her as she stepped carefully toward her gray Chevy Malibu, parked in the same corner as always. With the sun still rising, it was hard to see where the dark asphalt was just wet, or frozen solid. And the last thing she could afford was a fall. As she joked with her husband, she felt like “Humpty Dumpty.” Her precious eggshell just happened to be on the inside.

Her car beeped and tail lights blinked as she pressed the button on her key, walking faster as she got close. Rachel had calmed her slightly, but the brew of emotion was bubbling back up at the sight of her car—of purely personal space.

She sat down and shut the door behind her. But didn’t start the car.

She glanced around to make sure nobody was nearby.

Then the tears she’d held back the entire bus ride burst out as her head and upper body collapsed against the steering wheel.

She bawled loudly.

Let it all come out, she’d learned. The pain. The frustration. The loss.  The love blazing deep inside her, anxiously awaiting its recipient. The craving for motherhood. Burning for so long, fierce but exhausted.

Over the next five minutes she gathered herself, taking long, deep breaths she had perfected over the years. She grabbed tissues from the center console, wiped away the tears, then cleaned up the mascara that had streaked down her cheeks.

This wasn’t quite a weekly routine, but it was close.

Always triggered by the same thing.

The happiest moment of her shift.

A delivery.

The crowning act of motherhood she’d dreamt of for almost a decade. A goal she’d worked harder to achieve than anything in her whole life. Something she’d sacrificed so much for. Everything.

She could assist others in making it happen. Yet it was something she seemed destined never to achieve.

Seeing that sweet boy 30 minutes ago—helping bring him into the world, holding him in her hands, caring for him, swaddling him—unleashed all that pent up emotion and sense of loss. As newborn deliveries always did.

She knew the drill now.

Get it all out. Hold nothing back. Then come back down and move forward.

And today, at least, maintain hope that the appointment later this morning would bring the news she’d been waiting a third of her life to hear.

* * *

Once home, Eve showered, dressed in the white blouse and tan slacks she liked to wear to appointments, and applied enough makeup to hide how exhausted she was. She’d usually be heading to bed right around now, but her appointment would push that back by a few hours.

Still, getting ready calmed her spirits. A transition from the trauma of the delivery.

She sat down at the island in the kitchen and picked through a bowl of organic, gluten-free raisin bran.

Even tired, no coffee. Ever. Too risky.  Just a small part of her very complicated diet. As the book on her nightstand declared, “It Starts with the Egg.” The credo that had dominated her life for a decade.

Earl was already gone—off to a worksite where he’d be all day. But as usual, he’d left his dish and coffee cup unrinsed in the sink, and the television blaring. To his credit, he’d put his Cheerios box back in the cupboard, although Eve doubted he’d closed it the right away. He never did.

Nervous about the appointment to come, she let the morning news distract her.

It was consumed with Washington, as it had been every day since the election. The new president did this, then that. Then everyone reacted with this, and that. And this and that often boiled over into protests and outrage. The cycle just kept repeating itself. So much time and energy wasted.

While she wasn’t political, Eve couldn’t remember the entire nation so obsessed with the every word and action of a single person. It exhausted her.

When would they all get a break? Just be able to live their lives without each day in America being about politics. Angry angry politics.  And why did people let one ridiculous man dominate their lives?

She usually turned off the TV as soon as she walked in. She faced much bigger challenges in life than the hot air of politics.

But the TV stayed on this morning.

Beyond the needed distraction, this morning’s news caught her attention. Last night, as expected, the new president gave a speech doubling down on his inauguration promise to ban abortion pills nationwide. He planned to sign the executive order at 9 a.m. Now, the new Attorney General was explaining why that order was legal—why the Supreme Court would allow the ban to stay in place.

Then the Attorney General got political.

“This was clearly part of what the people voted for last November,” he said, sneering. “So nobody should be surprised by this.”

Eve shook her head.

She was surprised.

And her guess was that most Americans were too. The new president had been over the top for years.  A big talker, and a bullshit artist. But he’d been in office before, and none of these things ever happened. Why, she’d thought in the final days of the election that had exhausted all of America, would this time around be any different?

But now it was. Fast.

The TV coverage shifted, capturing women raising hell all over the country, including a fast growing protest at the gates in front of the White House. A reporter updated the nation live from the scene, speculating that this might be yet another day of riots and arrests. Just like Inauguration Day. Just like the protest of deportations in the days that followed the news that thousands of “dreamers” had been secretly shepherded out of the country for national security reasons. Just like the broader Muslim ban and mass deportation protests that had ended in tear gas, stampedes, and fatalities.

In most cities, these protests usually ended peacefully. But in DC, where the president had a front-row seat and demanded action, they cracked down fast and with brute force. Most recently, several trigger-happy troops fired at protesters’ legs, killing three and injuring dozens, just as the president had demanded they do.  Amid the outrage, the president immediately declared he’d protect them from any prosecution. Just as he himself was apparently immune from deaths his rhetoric sparked.

She couldn’t remember so much tumult in the country.

Still, Eve’s overall state of mind and suffocating work schedule kept her so exhausted, she didn’t have the time or energy to keep up with all the outrage.

But this morning, she kept the TV on.

Because the abortion pill ban cut through the usual clutter. The issue tore at her, seeing what she saw in the ER every day.

Like this morning, too many teen moms were delivering kids they were wholly unprepared to raise. Nurses like her tried to put a rosy face on these deliveries. But they knew—kids delivering kids kick-started a long, dark path of obstacles and pitfalls and problems. Paths that armies of social service workers would struggle, and usually fail, to make less treacherous.

The president’s announcement would only make that all worse. Former colleagues in Southern states where abortion was already banned had shared horror stories about a spike in deliveries. By young women. Girls. Many alone. Some, clearly victims of rape. And even when they had families to support them, women of all ages were showing up in hospitals in grave physical danger.

Eve also knew from her own struggles that, depending on how it was defined, there was hardly a difference between what happens amid an unsuccessful pregnancy and what politicians would ban as an abortion.

At the same time, Eve’s Catholic school upbringing and deep wanting for her own child made her chest ache at the idea of snuffing out life, or even cutting off its potential.

It was up to each mother, she knew and believed. But when her life’s all-consuming mission was now to deliver a baby herself, the entire topic of abortion pained her. Triggered her own longing. Reminded her of the continual loss she endured, cycle after cycle.

She nibbled on the last raisin just as police in riot gear pounced on the crowd outside the White House, who looked to be mainly women her age and younger.

Eve winced. There’d already been too much violence—she didn’t need to see any more.

She turned off the TV.

* * *

Eve’s heart fluttered as soon as she pulled out of the driveway, slick from a thin layer of snow.

She’d made this drive so many times. Playing loud music to contain her anticipation on the way there, then usually shedding tears, in silence, on the way home. The emotional roller coaster used to play out for far longer, when she’d head there from outside Altoona—two hours each way for appointments that usually lasted 15 or 30 minutes. She and Earl had loved small town life and missed Altoona, but the long, frequent drives and the need for better insurance had prompted their move back to Pittsburgh four years ago.

As much as she’d grown accustomed to the cycle over the years, the tough appointments still devastated her each time. Actually, they hit harder over time. Not immediately—because her expectations for each appointment had diminished. But in the hours or days that followed, as the reality set in, so too did despair. The clock was ticking.  The odds were declining. Whatever wasn’t working really wasn’t working. Was it even worth it to keep trying? Was she nuts for still trying? For clinging to her dream?

Yes, there’d been hopeful appointments over the years. A warm Doctor Barresi, and more recently Dr. Johnson, at various moments reporting that the fertilized eggs looked good. Or that the embryo transfer went well. Or that readings confirmed a chemical pregnancy. And, twice—for two incredible moments amid ten years of striving—that ultra-sounds confirmed actual, clinical pregnancies.

But inevitably, a later call or appointment had always intervened—extinguishing that faint light of hope. The fertilized embryos became non-viable. Not enough HCG meant that the chemical pregnancy had ended. And after those two clinical pregnancies, later ultra-sounds delivered the toughest news of all. On the first, only an empty gestational sac remained. It was over. On the second, the ultrasound detected an ectopic pregnancy, requiring a medical abortion to protect Eve’s life.

After each of those meetings—after the tearful, silent and slow ride home—she and Earl would commit to start over.  Even if expensive, and painful, and exhausting, starting over was their only hope.

So after halting the meds, enduring grueling days or weeks as the tissue and clots from the failed pregnancy passed out of her, and finally getting another green light from the doctors—she and Earl always started over.

Sometimes, starting over meant using one of the frozen embryos that remained. Other times, they had to go back to square one—stimulate another round of eggs to be “retrieved,” as the doctor’s called it, then fertilized. Which meant fourteen days of daily shots—of burning, and bruising, to her belly and hip.  Then back to the stirrups, for another retrieval of another round of eggs. Then fertilization. New embryos. Yet another transfer. Then all the meds needed to maximize success.

On and on and on, every several months. For 10 years. Occasionally taking a longer break to regain their strength and resolve, and to scratch together the funds needed to pay for it all. Or to change jobs outright for new insurance.

Like any nurse—like Eve herself—the nurse who scheduled appointments tried to maintain an even tone on those calls. But years ago, Eve had learned to detect the tiniest hints at what was to come.

When they’d hung up last week, the slight lilt in the nurse’s voice contrasted with the usual monotone endings of these scheduling calls. It left Eve with hope—that this time, for the first time in a year, they were off to a good start.

While she hummed to her most uplifting country songs to calm herself, her heart pounded the entire 15 minutes to the office. At least Pittsburgh public services had done a good job clearing her way.

* * *

Earl’s presence always made these appointments better. Physically, he knew just how to hold her hand. Emotionally, he knew just what to say at just the right moments. And he sensed when she needed silence to think, and recover. He was truly a gentle giant.

But they needed extra money to pay for continued treatment. Plus, much of his work was back towards Altoona. So lately, his longer hours—with some overnight stays built in—meant she had to go to these alone.

Eve had long ago decided that the clinic was staffed by angels. Every visit, familiar smiles greeted her all the way in from the building's front door.

This morning, the two receptionists at check-in asked about Earl, and if he’d recovered from the Steelers’ playoff loss. Neither of them had, Eve reported. The young aide who walked her back to an examination room could not have been sweeter.  On the way, Eve and two patients greeted one another as they passed by—she recognized both from the peer-support group sessions where they all shared their journeys. The emotional ups and downs the outside world would never understand.

Back in the exam room, she sat for longer than usual, hearing her own heartbeat pound away. That scheduler’s voice—the slight hint at good news—echoed in her mind. Had she read it right?

When the door opened, she expected one more smile. Because that was always the greeting of Joy Walters, the diminutive, gray-haired nurse practitioner who’d guided her through so much of this difficult journey. The one who’d been there from the first appointment on.

Instead, the look on Joy’s face was one she’d never seen before.

Not just somber. She’d encountered that side of Joy many times after opening pleasantries.

This was worse.

A tight-jawed grimace of worry. Maybe even fear.  Her lips looked to be trembling. Something she'd never witnessed from someone as cool and confident as Joy Walters.

She stood to greet her, but Joy gestured to stay seated. As she did, her hand shook.

“Joy.”

Thrown off by her harried manner, that’s all Eve could do. Say her name.

Eve and her peer group sisters thought of Joy as the team captain of the entire clinic staff. The glue. A woman who’d brought her back from anguish countless times. A woman who always had a plan B. And C. And D.

Joy, queen of the “what the fuck meetings.”

They used the term for the appointments where Joy reviewed what the fuck went wrong this time—in the last cycle—and how to fix it. That’s when new terms and abbreviations popped up for different procedures. Or Joy adjusted the med dosages. Or she ordered a biopsy of the uterine to gauge its receptivity.

Thanks to Joy, “what the fuck” meetings always ended with a new path. A hint of hope. Enough to keep going.

But now, Joy stood erect, shoulders and neck stiff, saying nothing.

“Joy…what’s wrong?”

Joy sat down in the chair facing Eve. Lips now pursed, eyes red. Blnking.

Eve’s own nursing instinct kicked in. Something was wrong. For her, yes. But this was bigger. Something was wrong for Joy.

“We’ve had some developments.” Her voice cracked as she spoke. “We’ll wait for Dr. Johnson to fill you in.”

They sat in silence for ten more minutes. She’d never sat in silence with Joy before.

* * *

Two knocks shook the thin door before it whooshed open.

Dr. Jane Johnson stepped through quickly.

As with Joy, Eve had never seen her look like this. The doctor’s usually tight bun was loose, strands of sandy blonde hair escaping in all directions. Her eyes were red, with a smudge below them indicating she’d been crying.

She sat down next to Joy.

“Can we call Earl?”

Eve felt her stomach roll. They’d never asked to call Earl before. Even on bad days.

“He’s on a worksite all morning. I really can’t reach him.” She paused, trying to steel herself. “I can handle it. We’ve been through this all before, haven’t we?”

She took a long breath, then forced another smile. Shield up.

Dr. Johnson didn’t return one, swallowing hard instead.

“I’m afraid we have terrible news about your treatment.”

Terrible.

Neither she nor Dr. Barresi before her had ever used a word that dramatic before. That hopeless.

Joy reached over and held Eve’s hand.

“So it didn’t work?” Eve asked.

Dr. Johnson shook her head. “That’s not clear yet. You remain chemically pregnant, although the levels aren’t where we’d like them to be. The next few days will tell us the story.”

To a jaded Eve, this was nothing new. Both Dr. Johnson’s look and words signaled another failure, and the need for a new embryo soon. But it was better than so many meetings at this stage—where the HCG level had plummeted, indicating the pregnancy was definitely over.

“I’ll live with that for now. So what’s so terrible?”

“What’s terrible…” another visible swallow, “….is that this is our last shot. And that we may even face jeopardy already.”

“Jeopardy? Last shot? What in heavens are you talking about?”

Dr. Johnson’s hands trembled as she reached for glasses in her front pocket.

“Yes. I’m afraid so. We can’t do any more transfers.”

The sentence hit like a punch to the gut.

Embryo transfers were Eve’s lifeline. Every one of Joy’s backup plans—every new path coming out of those “what the fuck” meetings—involved another transfer. Plus, Eve’s last round of simulation had produced 6 embryos—now frozen—all available for transfer. Which meant less overall pain and lower costs for some time. An open field of new tries.

No more transfers essentially meant the end of her dream of motherhood.

“I don’t understand.”

Dr. Johnson took out a piece of paper and mouthed words to herself. Whatever she was reading caused her to shake.

“Eve, it’s all about politics that I too don’t understand. I just got off a national conference call with specialists and lawyers from all over the country. And we have to stop our work. Today—here and around the country.”

Stop?

“Why?” Eve asked, still confused. “What is happening?”

“Did you see those protests this morning? The president’s announcement last night?”

“I caught a glimpse of that getting ready. I can only watch so much of that stuff. But what does that have to do with me? And what you do?”

“Well, what we just learned is that the president’s new order doesn’t just prohibit abortion pills. It also bans fertility treatments that lead to what they call the “death” of embryos. And as you know from our years together…”

Eve closed her eyes as Joy squeezed her hand tighter. She was trying hard, but it didn’t bring the comfort of Earl’s. Eve so missed him right now. She suddenly felt light-headed.

“…losing embryos is an inevitable part of our process. Under the new law, if we transfer an embryo to you, and it doesn’t survive, we’re liable for manslaughter. If frozen embryos don’t survive, same thing.”

Eyes still shut, a decade of sacrifice flashed by. Bad news after bad news, but always the hope that the next time would work.

The next round was what kept them going.

So they’d kept going even after her boss back in Altoona informed her that their insurance had declined paying for the next cycle. That’s why they’d moved back to Pittsburgh, back to her old hospital, and to an insurer who would still give her family a chance. In her peer group, they called it employer “shopping”—finding new jobs that allowed you to extend treatment. When that new job’s insurance ran out, you “shopped” again. They all did it.

They’d kept going even after they’d hit their new insurance cap, triggering a spike in their co-pays. Which is why she’d requested to move to the stress and long hours of the ER—she needed the extra pay to make the co-payments. And it’s why Earl kept signing up for more jobs with more hours. They had to work longer and harder than ever to keep these treatments going. And even with that hard work, in recent years, it’s why they’d taken out a second mortgage and drained most of their 401k. As uncomfortable as it had been for a couple that cherished their privacy, “Go Fund Me” campaigns had become their last resort, closing the gap for the past year of treatment.

Through all the sacrifice, there’d always been the prospect of another chance.

No more.

She re-opened her eyes, head spinning as questions flooded her head.  She had long ago mastered the biology. She knew those answers, and what she needed to do—from shots to the belly to letting all the grief explode out during meltdowns like this morning.

But bouncing around her brain now were questions that had nothing to do with biology. They were about law…and politics—the topics she’d ignored as she fought to build her family. The questions she’d left to lawyers and TV commentators and politicians and protesters.

“But can’t that be stopped? Wasn’t this kind of thing stopped last year by the Supreme Court?”

She tried to recall the Attorney General’s interview from an hour ago. He’d been wrong when he said no one should be surprised. Could he be wrong on the law too? She forgot the specifics.

Dr. Johnson shook her head.

“That’s what our call was about. We asked the same questions. The lawyers in DC are confident that the current Supreme Court will let this happen. They’ll say the administration has the right to do this. Probably not even a close case.”

“But can’t you guys try to stop it? Your lawyers? This is life or death for so many of us, and our babies.”

“I know, but all we can do is go to court. And we’ll do that. But we’re being told we’ll lose.”

So many details of her sacrifice replayed in her mind, which began to twist her mood.

“Fine, so let’s keep going until we know.”

Dr. Johnson looked at Joy, who’d worked with Eve far longer.

“Eve, we can hope and pray and do all we can for the embryo in you now. If that fails, we can’t do anymore transfers.”

Again, Eve could read her tone, and she knew from past experience. The embryo inside her wasn’t going to make it.

More questions interrupted that thought.

“A crime?” Eve asked, her pulse now quickening. “For giving all I have to bring a baby into the world?”

“It makes no sense, I know,” Joy said. “But that’s the new law.”

Eve swatted her hand against her thigh.

“I don’t give a shit. If I can carry a baby to term because of this treatment, I’ll do it from a prison cell if I have to.”

Joy smiled, tears now filling in her eyes.

“We knew you’d say that, Eve. So will every patient we treat. But we can’t take that risk here. For all the people who work here. For our families. We’d all be liable for crimes.”

Joy paused. Swallowing hard before saying more.

“My guess is half our staff would take the same chance you would. Some have already told us that. But we can’t let that happen.”

Silence filled the room for a few seconds.

“Eve,” Dr. Johnson said gently.

“Yes.”

“There’s one more thing.”

She shook her head, but sat up a little straighter. Used her sleeve to wipe away her latest round of tears. There wasn’t anything worse that could come.

“This is the worst “What the Fuck Meeting” ever!”

Joy grinned, gently shaking her clasped hand.

“What is it?” Eve asked.

“There’s one more risk. But one we’re willing to take.”

“Hell yes. What is it?”

“The current embryo. Since we transferred it before the law was signed, if it doesn’t advance to a clinical pregnancy, the lawyers think we’ll be OK under the law.”

“Well of course!” Eve shot back.

“But,” Dr. Johnson continued, “if it advances to a clinical pregnancy, and you have another failed pregnancy, then what we need to do to keep your safe could be labeled an illegal abortion.”

Eve nodded, remembering her friends’ horror stories from Southern states.

“Already?”

“Yes. We couldn’t use any of the abortion medications they just banned.”

“Any other options?” Eve asked. “How about just the usual procedure?"

“Well, it’s not illegal in Pennsylvania yet, but we’re afraid a full national abortion ban is next. The lawyers certainly think so. And because that embryo’s in you, and not in our lab, you’d be liable as well as us.”

“For manslaughter?” Eve asked.

“At least,” Joy said grimly.

Eve sat up even taller. “Well, that’s a chance I’m willing to take.”

“We are too,” Joy said. “We are too.”

* * *

After long hugs and more tears, with Joy, Dr. Johnson and other staff and nurses, Eve walked out of the clinic and back to her car.

No meltdown this time.  It had all out come out.

Plus, sadness had morphed into resolve. And burgeoning anger. She’d left sad back in the exam room.

Eve now recalled the faces from this morning’s news coverage. The women in front of the White House. Marching. Protesting. Strident signs high in the air. Stern, determined looks on their faces.

Her mood felt the way those women had looked.

Like warriors.

For ten years, the obstacle she’d faced was a biological one. A small physical or chemical glitch within her own body that stood in the way of her dream. If that’s what stopped her, after doing everything in her power to overcome it, she was resigned to that.

But this was different.

As of this morning, the federal government of the United States was directly interfering into the most personal of decisions. Her decisions. Interrupting her years of commitment and toil and sacrifice to grow her own family. And threatening those trying to help her as if they were common criminals—when they had been the most empathetic supporters and caregivers she had encountered in her life.

Seething at that thought, gripping the steering wheel so tight her knuckles turned white, she reached the parking lot’s exit. But she didn’t turn left.

While left was the way home, she dreaded the prospect of being home, alone—confronting the end of her infertility road and the near certainty that the last opportunity now inside her was going to fail. Whether she stewed in the kitchen, the living room, in bed, it would be torture.

So she turned right instead.

Joy had mentioned that women were already gathering at the Allegheny Courthouse downtown.

Suddenly, that felt like the right destination. If those faces from TV resembled the faces she’d see at the courthouse, Eve would feel far more at home with those warriors given her rage inside. So that’s the direction she chose.

Minutes later, she parked four blocks from the courthouse.

Groups of women streamed toward the old building from various directions, all but the most elderly walking at a brisk pace. On a mission.

Eve caught up to the back of one group, which merged with more, which ultimately flowed into a crowd of at least 1,000 women spread across the sidewalks and streets surrounding the stately, gray edifice.

Eve was underdressed for the cold and overdressed for a protest, but as she said to herself, practically yelling — “what the fuck?” An older woman next to her cast an odd stare her way, then laughed out loud.

At one corner of the courthouse, volunteers were handing out signs declaring “Bans Off Our Bodies” and “My Body. My Choice. My Freedom.”  Eve grabbed a large “Bans” sign, then entered the throng—women packed tight, facing the courthouse entrance. She raised the sign high over her head, shaking it up and down.

There was no order to the protest. No agenda or speakers. No microphones or sound system. Just a loud buzz of conversation and shouts, interrupted by a spontaneous series of chants initiated by those with the loudest voices.  And the signs multiplied— all sizes and messages, many home-made.

The chaos summed up how she felt—anger and frustration and confusion all at once. What was happening to the country she lived in, when the national government could reach all the way down to her Pittsburgh fertility clinic and end her quest for motherhood? A bunch of older men making decisions about what was best for her health and her family?

As she milled around with her sign overhead, Eve ran into several of her infertility peer group sisters. The ones who shared their most intimate struggles and pains. Then they ran into some of the clinic staff who’d worked so hard to help them through those struggles. Joy had let them leave early, they explained.

They stuck together, growing in size. Beckoning over to others whom they recognized.

And amid tears, and hugs, her group grew bolder. Louder.

The steely eyes and clenched jaws now resembled the warriors from the morning’s White House protest.

She didn’t know who started it, but one of her peer group members—one who’d been getting treatment almost as long as she had—started a new chant.

“What the fuck? What the fuck? What the fuck?”

What the fuck, is right, Eve thought. The perfect question.

She immediately started shouting the same words:

“WHAT THE FUCK? WHAT THE FUCK? WHAT THE FUCK?”

Other peers and staff joined her immediately.

Nearby protesters looked over, confused at first. Eve didn’t care. She yelled even louder. Those not dealing with infertility wouldn’t understand.

But soon enough, the confused looks faded, and the onlookers joined in too. For Eve, and clearly all those around her, the three words captured what they felt more than any chant they’d heard.

For two more hours, until courthouse deputies broke the crowd up, that short chant was all they yelled.

Thousands of women. Same three words. Top of their lungs:

“WHAT THE FUCK? THAT THE FUCK? WHAT THE FUCK?”

This Chapter is dedicated to Ashley Cossins, who is running for State Representative in Missouri. Ashley was motivated to run in part to share her own decade-long journey, navigating her own fertility treatment and advocating for others.  She was willing to share many of those difficult and personal details with me as well. They helped inform much of Eve’s story above. Please consider helping Ashley share her story by supporting her candidacy HERE..

Author’s Note: I explained in my last newsletter the clear risk to IVF treatments presented by Project 2025 and its backers. You can read all those alarming details here.

Here’s a basic fact sheet from HHS on In Vitro Fertilization (IVF) Use Across the United States. This will not be what HHS says if we allow Trump to be elected.