Brexit, schmexit

This morning, on a rare foray into facebook, I read a British friend’s post about his sadness about Brexit. He talked about how upset he was to lose his citizenship of the EU, one of the most important collaborations in the world (in his opinion).

I’ve followed the UK position fairly obsessively over the past two years, watching the soap opera play out on BBC Radio 4. And my friend is right, it is sad – also dysfunctional, self-punishing, illogical.

Living in Brussels gives you a close-up of the EU, in all its idealism and its dysfunction. Brussels isn’t without its own problems. But it’s clear that the UK’s political administration is pretty imperfect too. And the EU’s true goal – to prevent conflict within the continent – remains a truly important one.

Image credit: Furfur, via Wikipedia

Image credit: Furfur, via Wikipedia

Last time I took the Eurostar, as the train pulled into King’s Cross St. Pancras, I looked up at the station’s magnificent ceiling, and at Tracy Emin’s neon pink scrawl–apparently a message of love for Europe–and felt the loss of Brexit. Even if the UK suffers more than other parties in this mess, it’s not a zero-sum game, and with Brexit, we’re all of us going to miss out.

The strange case of Dr. Jan Karbaat

The Karbaat case has attracted significant media attention.

The case has attracted significant media attention.

On Wednesday of this week I went to Rotterdam to cover  the verdict being given in the trial of Dr. Jan Karbaat, a Dutch fertility doctor who’s suspected of using his own sperm on patients.

I’ve been following the donor-conceived community for months now and of all the stories to emerge–astonishing, unjust, dramatic, or plain sad–this one is the most outrageous.  When Karbaat wanted to obtain sperm for a patient he would simply go to another room, returning with a fresh sample. In reports, women have spoken of feeling violated now that it seems like the samples most likely came from the doctor himself. At the trial I talked to one mother who said he had conducted the inseminations so aggressively that she requested another physician.

It seems likely that Karbaat did many, many things that were unethical over the course of his long career, but this particular trial was about whether his DNA could be released, allowing people who think they may be descended from him to confirm whether that’s the case. The judge’s verdict was yes. She placed the rights of the now adult children to know about their origins over those of the late doctor to privacy. (Because the doctor wasn’t officially a sperm donor, however, the judge made clear that this doesn’t set a precedent for other donor-conceived people seeking info about their dads.) It’s just one step in a bigger series of cases. The next, the donor children’s lawyer, Tim Bueters, said, will be a request for compensation.

In the meantime, many questions remain open: Karbaat also sent donations abroad, so does this mean he could have descendants elsewhere in Europe? How does this compare with practices among fertility specialists in general during that era (1960s-2010’s)?

Let’s just say that the story won’t end here.

(I covered the case for RTE’s Drivetime, and you can hear the report here.)

The forgotten princess

Today I read a shocking story in the New York Times about Sheikha Latifa, a 32-year-old Emirati princess who has simply disappeared after trying, and almost succeeding, to flee. A previous attempt to escape, when she was just a teenager, had led to three years in solitary confinement, so this time, as she set sail with a friend across the Indian ocean she knew the risks were high. She had almost reached India when her father’s henchmen apprehended her and there has been little news of her since. (A detailed account of her flight is currently on Wikipedia.)

800px-Dubai_marina_WikipediaSheikha Latifa’s story gives just a tiny glimpse of the injustices that must be taking place across the UAE–a country hardly renowned for its record on human rights. I can’t pretend to be familiar with the vastly complex politics of the country, but I do know that Dubai is a glittering destination for tourists, drawn by promises of beaches (aren’t they artificial?) and lavish shopping  malls.

Latifa’s story may be a little like Jamal Khashoggi’s, a single tale whose horror captures our imaginations out of millions of other terrible injustices. When I watched her Youtube goodbye video (to be published only if something terrible happened), I was struck by her normality. She seemed totally sympathetic, and yes, just like me.

What’s additionally shocking here is that Mary Robinson, former president of Ireland and High Commissioner for Human Rights at the UN somehow managed to get bamboozled (hoodwinked?) into visiting the family, being photographed with Latifa and bolstering their story. In the pics, Latifa’s face looks puffy, her eyes glazed. Robinson says that she was clearly a “troubled young woman.” What on earth does that mean? And why hadn’t Robinson investigated further before her visit? Robinson is an activist for women’s rights, and her participation in this photo-op granted approval to the Emirati royal family’s account. For someone in her position, it is a terrible gaffe.

The New York Times piece ends on a sinister note. Several of the people the journalist had been talking to became fearful and abruptly stopped responding to messages. The implication is that Latifa may now be dead. I guess that won’t stop holidaymakers from enjoying Dubai’s beaches, but I hope some people will watch Latifa’s eloquent and entirely credible testimony and think about the powers that worked against her.



An update – two years on!

One of our first holidays w baby was to the weird, old-fashioned Belgian seaside town of Middelkerke.

I came back to this blog meaning to update it, without realising how long it’s been since I’ve written anything at all. Two years, wow!! My baby is almost two.

It’s not that I haven’t done any writing since the last post. I’ve worked on several professional projects, done book reviews, investigated some journalistic stories (not yet published) … I’ve often thought of writing here but I didn’t know what I’d say. And then two years passed, just like that.

So what’s happened since then? February 15, 2017, the date of the last post, was not three weeks before my baby’s arrival, but more than four. He was late, then induced. It was terrible. No one explains how awful it’s going to be, or really clarifies that even if you get an epidural, you go through an hour or two of torture before you’re allowed to have it. The hospital was amazing, and I have no complaints about my care but … it was just super painful for those 1-2 hours. During the birth itself, the baby got stuck and the doc had to use the “ventouse” (suction thingy). She’s a tall German lady who had recently run a marathon, and was pulling with all her might. Eventually he emerged, with an Apgar score of 2/10. Any score below seven is abnormal so two is very bad, and essentially means the baby is brushing up against death. I didn’t understand why he was a bluish black colour and had no idea what was happening, as the paediatrician worked on him out of sight. Later, I caught a quick glimpse of him in the neonatal unit, and things improved quickly. By morning he was fine.

One of our first holidays w baby was to the weird, old-fashioned Belgian seaside town of Middelkerke.

One of our first holidays w baby was to the weird, old-fashioned Belgian seaside town of Middelkerke.

The first year was a blur of mutating challenges. I’m not naturally a maternal person, and having a baby hasn’t changed that, so going back to work after five months was really great. Now, this year, I’m determined to push my work along further than ever–and I’ll be blogging more too. L. my little boy, is super cute and getting more so by the day.

And–phew!!–it feels good to write, personally, here.


Maternity manuals? Avalanche & A Life’s Work

Avalanche, by Julia Leigh, and A Life’s Work, by Rachel Cusk, are perhaps not properly called maternity manuals.

Image from Amazon UK

Image from Amazon UK

Both discuss maternity though. Leigh describes her repeated attempts to fall pregnant, which coincided with the dissolution of her marriage; Cusk’s book is a jeremiad, and portrays the shock of motherhood–with its lost vanity and sleepless nights–in gripping detail. Neither is conventional.

Despite their differences there are many similarities between the books. Each, I think, digs into the wilder feelings a person can experience, situated on the fringes of mental health. It could be argued that Leigh and Cusk are victims of depression. And each resolutely refuses to conform to society’s expectations of them as women or authors.

The reception of Leigh’s memoir doesn’t appear to have suffered for this; perhaps it’s easier for critics and readers to feel empathy for a woman who has not gotten the motherhood she so profoundly desired. Cusk on the other hand has been lambasted, torn apart. A thread exists on Mumsnet with the heading, “If you loathe Rachel Cusk, you’ll love this.” Nice!

Complete with creepy baby photo. Image from Amazon UK

Complete with creepy baby photo.
Image from Amazon UK

From my reading of the comments on these sorts of threads, what women (and those who hate her are often female) dislike about Cusk’s work is not only her expression of her struggles with motherhood but also her tone, which one could ascribe to the literariness of her narrative. She’s a determinedly clever writer, and keeps it that way in this memoir. She also turns her lacerating pen on other women without scruple or pity.

In doing so, Cusk remains true to her experience, and that’s why I liked her book. As someone who will soon give birth (within the next two weeks!) I’ve felt the same nascent, pulsing sexism that Cusk so accurately conveys when she notes:

This experience forcefully revealed to me something to which I had never given much thought: the fact that after a child is born the lives of its mother and father diverge, so that where before they were living in a state of some equality, now they exist in a sort of feudal relation to each other. Whatever their relative merits, they are days spent on opposite sides of the world. From that irreconcilable beginning, it seemed to me that some kind of slide into deeper patriarchy was inevitable: that the father’s day would gradually gather to it the armour of the outside world, of money and authority and importance, while the mother’s remit would extend to cover the entire domestic sphere.

When I’ve attended a couple of “moms'” and “women’s” groups, I’ve come away stunned at the sudden segregation by gender and the assumptions of maternal self-sacrifice that are the norm at these events. After one, I couldn’t stop crying. I later realised it was because my self-conception felt under siege. So long, ambition or a wish to have a public identity, values that had governed my life since I was old enough to think. This is what Cusk is getting at, I think, the fact that a set of established behaviours and mores suddenly appear, ready and waiting for you. Her approach to the topic is necessarily complicated, provocative–and offensive to anyone who may have dedicated their life to more traditional ideals.

Leigh, of course, doesn’t get as far as motherhood, but her portrayal of her situation is all the more interesting for the fact that she’s not someone who longed to be a mother all her life. As a younger woman, she held “a deeply ambivalent view of motherhood,” she writes. “I scorned women who thought they could only feel fulfilled if they had a child.” Despite these mixed feelings, she articulates how ambivalence can transform into desperation when one’s wishes, however uncertain, prove difficult to fulfill.

What Leigh and Cusk share beyond their gorgeous precision and simplicity of style, is a willingness to expose themselves, or versions of themselves, in pursuit of an artistic ideal. Whether you agree or not with everything they say doesn’t matter. The fact that they say it opens the way for others to express complex, marginalised and subversive feelings about motherhood and parenthood, and that’s something that benefits us all.


Best policy? How much maternity leave is enough?

How much time should women take off after giving birth before returning to work? How much paid leave should they receive? It’s a fraught question but one on which the needle needs to move. In the US, notoriously one of the few wealthy countries globally not to legislate for paid parental leave, the law requires most organisations to give women 12 weeks’ leave–unpaid–, but the criteria are high: the company must employ at least 50 people for more than 20 workweeks per year, and the employee must have worked for the employer for at least 12 months.

In Europe, of course, the situation is different. Sweden offers 480 days of paid parental leave, with 90 of those days reserved for the dad (facts proudly publicised in English on the country’s homepage); in France women get 16 weeks’ paid maternity leave, and they’re not obliged to tell their employer about their pregnancy until they decide to take it. Belgian women in full-time employment are eligible for 15 weeks’ paid leave. Those, like me, who are self-employed, get a somewhat less generous 8 weeks’ paid leave.

It’s self-evident that some kind of paid leave is important. Few households living on two incomes can sacrifice one at a time when their expenditure is likely to increase. Also, with the WHO and UN urging breastfeeding as the healthiest option for babies, returning quickly to full-time work becomes even more complicated: it’s hard to see how a person in an office from 9am to 6pm could provide her baby with breast-milk, no matter how much “pumping” she was able to fit in.

So paid maternity leave is a necessity. But what we also need to add to this conversation is paid paternity leave, or parental leave with some set aside for men, as the Swedish system does (OK, I admit I’m joining a crew of cheerleaders of Sweden on this issue!). Legislation is key, but it’s not enough; we also need cultural change, and there are indications that when men participate in childcare from an early stage they’re more likely to share the burden equally later on as well. This is about men as much as it is about women: men should have time with their kids, changing nappies, playing with them and feeding them (yes, pumping comes in here) just as women do. Work needs to change too, to allow people of any gender to thrive and lead without spending years of 15 hour-days at the office.

Lastly, as someone who has until quite recently been both single and childless, the leave parents are granted ought also to be on offer to people without children, who should be able to take time out to refresh their thinking, study or learn a new skill.

This does start to sound utopian in an era of high unemployment and economic angst. But it should be a goal: we ought to agitate not for better maternity leave but, ultimately, for a paid personal leave, accessible to all.


Infertility injustices

Who should have access to infertility treatment? It’s an interesting question at a time when healthcare systems, even those in wealthy countries, are crumbling under the pressures of reduced finances and ageing populations. In this environment fertility treatments can seem like a luxurious add-on, distinct and separate from life-saving medicine.

About two years ago I was considering fertility treatment but found it inaccessible for rather different reasons. My partner has cancer so we assumed we’d be unable to conceive naturally, and yet when I made inquiries at a top clinic in Brussels I was told we probably wouldn’t be able to receive IUI or IVF. The reason was not financial (in fact, the Belgian public insurance system covers up to 6 cycles of IVF and attendant therapies) but ethical. The clinic deemed it inappropriate for someone with cancer to have a child–even if their partner wants one. Bizarrely, had I been single, the situation would have been different; having a child with donor sperm would have been entirely okay.


I’m blurring things a bit because the clinic didn’t absolutely say no. Over the phone, a nice woman told me we’d have to go through counselling and have an opportunity to make our case, meeting several doctors who would assess us psychologically and deduce whether we were in a position to be parents. We’d also have to provide my partner’s medical records and his oncologist’s prognosis of how long he’d live. “It’s very harsh,” she said. “But having a child with IVF is difficult and having cancer is also difficult, so we think both are too much.”

It was the first time I’d come up against a medical decision with which I absolutely disagreed. Who were these anonymous doctors to tell my boyfriend and me whether or not we were fit to have a child? And how dare they make that decision on our behalf? We’d never received a set prognosis from my partner’s current oncologist–and all the predictions we’ve had in the past were inaccurate. Some people with his type of cancer have survived for 6 months, others for 30 years. Getting his doctor to put a figure on paper seemed unhelpful and stressful.

Luckily this was the opinion of just one clinic, albeit the largest and best-publicised in Brussels (it’s popular among international fertility patients and invests heavily in English-language marketing materials). We found another in Leuven that was willing and able to work with us. Its staff were very friendly and kind, but we hit another roadblock, this time in the form of EU law. We’d lived in the US when my partner had his first cancer treatments. It turns out that New York law differs from that in Europe, and tests for conditions like HIV and Hep C only if the sample is intended for a third party.

Because the sample was for my partner’s use, and mine, it wasn’t tested. As a result, it was illegal for us to ship it to Europe. The fertility specialist in Leuven was sympathetic but crystal clear. That was that.


Since then, and to our huge surprise, we’ve succeeded in conceiving naturally, and a baby’s on the way. All of this made me think though. Fertility treatment isn’t just about money although money plays a big and questionable role in the industry. It also raises so many ethical issues. Should cancer patients be allowed to have kids? (I think so.) Should such treatment be funded from the public purse? (I don’t know.) When is it appropriate for doctors’ views to over-ride those of the patients they treat? (A tricky one.)

What do you think?

How much time do you waste online?

The real problem is darting from task to task, tool to tool, without completing anything.

If someone told you that you spent 10 hours per day on social media you might feel rather surprised. But those are the figures cited in “The Distracted Mind,” a new book by Adam Gazzaley and Larry D. Rosen, published by MIT Press. College students described as “low smartphone users” spent 3 hours per day on their phones, while those designated “heavy smartphone users” spent as many as 10 hours per day on their phones–figures that are almost incredible.

How do they (/we) find time to do anything else? The answer is that we multitask, switching frenetically from one activity to another, checking email and IMs in between. As Gazzaley and Rosen point out, this creates feelings of anxiety, depression and stress. In short, using social media and online technology is not very good for you.

Image credit: MIT Press,

Image credit: MIT Press,

‘The Distracted Mind” has attracted a lot of attention in the US and it’s easy to see why. Social media and a constant rotation of new technologies have been ubiquitous for a few years now, but without a developing sense that we know how to manage them. When I worked in an office, instant replies to email were de rigeur (a habit G and D show truly prevents work from getting done). Often these days, when I check my phone, I have a queasy, slippery sensation in my mind, perhaps the equivalent of how your stomach might feel after drinking a McDonald’s chocolate milkshake. (They used to be my favourite.) Slightly unpleasant, enough to suggest that looking at my phone 8 or 9 times an hour probably isn’t very healthy, but not bad enough to stop me from doing again. This book articulates what the source of that sensation might be and includes findings from multiple psychological experiments on the subject.

I’m keen to get to the “solutions” chapter but already I’ve begun to modify my tech use and am working on curtailing my obsessive phone-scanning habit. There is perhaps an irony in writing about this online, but I don’t think the authors will argue for total abstention from tech-driven activities; just a more controlled and thoughtful approach.

I’ll keep you posted!