A woman experiences secondary infertility, is told by the "experts" that she's a lost cause, experiments with alternative treatments until she finds something that works for her, radically alters her diet and lifestyle, takes care of herself, and, just when she's about to give the experts another go, discovers she's gotten pregnant the old fashioned way. (Take that, fertility industry!)
Hurrah for Julia and all that, but I'm not that taken with this book. One cheer for reminding us not to let the medical-industrial complex strip us of our humanity and take over our lives, but I cringe at the counter-stance that we are the "experts" on our own bodies. If I have to be the expert on my body, I feel like (and maybe this is my own neuroses speaking) I now suddenly having to learn, in my spare time, all the information that my physician went through a decade-plus of training to learn, plus the whole gamut of alternative alternatives. Makes me tired just thinking about it. And if I'm the expert, and my experiments don't have the desired outcome, does that make it all my fault?
Which brings me to another thing that bugged me about the book. The author confesses that part of the pain of her infertility was the feeling that she was letting her husband and her daughter down, failing to provide another child/sibling. Not that she doesn't have the right to wrestle with and express those feelings, but I wasn't satisfied with the solution: she finally gets pregnant and has the longed-for child. Because not every infertile woman who reads this book looking for hope is going to wind up getting pregnant, naturally, supernaturally, or technologically. And that's a huge psychological burden to introduce into the story and then just leave sitting there like an elephant in the living room.
Maybe I'm too much of a pessimist. Or am unwilling to let go of faith in the medical establishment. Or just haven't had to deal with this stuff myself. Anyway, it's not my favorite infertility memoir. But it did prompt me to make better choices about my diet. At least until I remembered where I hid my candy bar stash.