The Death of My Production and Life During Fertility Treatment: What the Wreckage of COVID-19 Has Taught Me

At least once a month, it happens. I awaken to my own screams. My pillow soaked, and my face hot with tears. I inhale sharply to catch my breath and find my throat raw, inflamed from guttural cries that have begged release. I awaken to the jabs of my baby, his movement hard and frenetic. I rub my belly and think, “I’m so sorry, joonam. It was just a dream.” But with a year gone and no steps taken to confront my trauma, neither he nor I can escape the adrenaline-induced reality.

In a time when people the world over have grieved the incomprehensible casualties of COVID-19, the termination of my play’s World Premiere was akin to a mercy killing.

For over 16 years I worked as an “emerging playwright,” diligently putting in my dues in anticipation of the break that would finally launch my career. As an immigrant, woman, and person of color, I knew I had to work harder than my white peers. This was a fact I’ve understood since I immigrated to the U.S. in childhood.

As a playwright, I was unrelenting. I remained persistent despite hours of culturally-insensitive feedback sessions orchestrated for audience member satisfaction; tens of thousands of dollars in student loan debt for a Dramatic Writing masters degree; thousands of miles traveled on my own dime to development readings for plays that were production-ready; false promises from countless artistic directors who used my plays as quota fillers but wouldn’t respond to my production inquiries. Playwriting was what defined me, and — unable to fathom any other path in life — I persisted. In 2018, I finally found my theatre-home. After years of being treated as an up-and-comer, I found a forward-thinking theatre that was as passionate about theatre activism as me. With the largest budget I’d ever encountered, they excitedly committed to producing my play in March 2020.

But be forewarned.

If you are a woman, immigrant, and person of color, the years you have labored to give life to your play will lead you to more hazards than you could ever have perceived.

Your director will read your play once, maybe twice, and never again. They will not respond to your emails in the months leading up to rehearsals. When they finally make time for you an hour before the first read, they will gossip about your mentor, call her a bitch, and never discuss or mention your play. They will look dumbstruck when the cast asks for one word that elicits the world of the play, and say, “Let me sleep on it.”

And sleep they will.

They will waste time with arbitrary intro-to-theatre acting exercises, ignoring that it is a mere three weeks before previews. They will get flustered when the actors question the motive. When a meticulous actor corrects their textual continuity error, they will abruptly yell, “If you know it so well, why don’t you direct the play?”

They will demean your lively protagonist — an innocent and inquisitive child based on your childhood experiences — and call her annoying, a spoiled brat, an idiot. They will direct every scene with this shade, willfully ignoring your lead actor’s wise intuition, coloring the play with inferences not rooted in the text.

They will make weird sexual comments during rehearsal. They will make inappropriate and demeaning comments about your partner.

They will do all they can to debase your work and experience. They will tell you to stay home because you’re not needed for blocking, and then ask, “What are you doing here?” upon your return. They will ignore and alter your stage directions. Even though you’ve worked as a playwright for nearly 20 years, they will belittle you to the actors and say, “The writer is just precious about her work. She’s young. She’ll get over it.”

When your dramaturg reminds them of the stage directions’ integrality to the magical elements of the play, they will lash out and ask, “Why is the dramaturg so involved?” They will speak — passive-aggressively and at full volume — when you approach them with an acting adjustment in a shared space with the cast during break.

They will verbally berate you, yelling, “If you think you can do a better job at directing this play, then be my guest” when you respond to time-sensitive production questions. They will say you send too many emails. You’re overwhelming them. They can’t think straight. Stop pestering them about the puppets. They’ll happen eventually. Don’t worry about the timeline. That’s their job. Your job is to shut up. Your job is to not exist. Your job is to disappear.

When you finally call them out on their behavior in rehearsal, they will gaslight you and file a complaint saying you’re creating a toxic work environment. That the actors are confused and unable to work because of your presence. They’ll demand an apology. They’ll be on the verge of tears and threaten to quit. It’s hours before tech. It’s days before the first preview.

And then the coronavirus hits.

The pain of my production’s cancellation was an unfathomable devastation. I could never have anticipated the searing pain of seeing years of hard work dismantled, the last crackles of meager kindling turned to ash overnight. Yet after watching my work get abused, my words assaulted, my voice silenced and suppressed, the death of my production ushered in a deranged stillness. In the aftermath of the storm, my heart rate steadied to a normal pace. As I held my still-born production in my heart, I felt relief knowing that I was in charge once again. I, who birthed this play. I, who nurtured it, cherished it, gave it the love and sustenance of my memories and experiences. As a woman who desperately wanted a child, I had put off motherhood in service of my ethereal children, my plays.

I was referred to a fertility specialist a month after my production was terminated. While the world quarantined, I made the weekly drive in the early morning light of a desolate highway, once brimming with work-going commuters. I kept the radio off and the window open, the sound of the wind my only companion during the 15-mile drive to the clinic. I was swiftly ushered in and out to a litany of tests — vaginal ultrasounds and bloodwork to check my follicle counts, uterine lining, fallopian tubes, progesterone, FSH, AMH levels, and on — to determine why my partner and I were having trouble conceiving. In the aftermath of my production, I became a science experiment to see if life within me was possible.

All tests came back within normal range. I was tentatively diagnosed with “unexplained infertility,” and my partner and I decided to give IVF a go. I held my breath, awaiting the bad news. The earth to crack and engulf me. At the time, I believed that — apart from dying of COVID-19 — nothing could be lonelier than undergoing IVF during a pandemic. Nothing could be lonelier than spreading my legs for an egg retrieval procedure and never seeing my doctor’s face. Nothing could be lonelier than the absence of my partner during our embryo transfer.

But this is not true. In reality, the pain I had suffered in the months prior was more blistering. IVF gave me control and a sense of purpose. Jabbing myself daily with needles and dealing with the hormonal effects were tangible actions that allowed me to garner control of my own life and the life my partner and I hoped to create. From six viable embryos, we picked the strongest — a day 5, B+B+ embryo whose cells aggressively multiplied with a ferocity for life that couldn’t be ignored.

On September 22nd, we received the incredible news that the embryo transfer worked. Our microscopic cell had burrowed into my uterine lining, causing my HCG levels to multiply exponentially every day. I wept until my body shook. The science experiment had worked. Life still thrived inside me.

Now in my third trimester, with time rapidly escaping me, I am plagued with worry about what kind of mother I will be. I always envisioned going into motherhood whole as a person, with a strong foothold in my identity. I’ve known since the age of 18 that I was a playwright. Having lost the defining aspect of who I am, who will I be to my child? What will I tell him about this experience? What do I have to contribute to his life, other than love and nurturing?

In the dead of night, I often lay awake haunted with the memories of my director. Their callous, insensitive remarks. Their uncaring and deaf ear to the pain of others.

My baby kicks, and I tenderly caress my stomach. He kicks again and again. We play this game until I fall asleep.

Nothing is possible without love and nurturing. Maybe that’s the most that he… I… maybe that’s the most that anyone needs.