Mistake #1: Throw a sleepover bash at the downtown Omaha Hilton for my daughter’s 12th birthday, inviting a swarm of girls.
Mistake #2: Devour three slices of deep-dish pizza and a hefty chunk of chocolate cake while racing to catch the elevator to the lobby.
Mistake #3: Plead with the hotel shuttle driver to whisk us off to Starbucks.
Mistake #4: As the younger girls joyfully sip on their towering, frothy drinks, I sit nursing a grande cup of Alka-Seltzer.
Mistake #5: Back in our hotel room, the girls gather around the TV to watch The Theory of Everything. My theory? I definitely need more cake.
Energized by sugar, I join the group. During the most heart-wrenching scene, when Jane Hawking says, “I did the best I could,” the girls’ eyes fill with tears. I can’t help but burst into laughter.
“Mom, go to your room,” my daughter, Emma, says, pointing to the adjoining area. She literally sent me away.
Our lives haven’t always been filled with slumber party antics and laughter until our stomachs hurt. We’ve navigated the complexities of life, from Emma’s excitement over new Converse sneakers to my shock at the questionable fashion choices marketed towards 12-year-olds. “You’ve got to be kidding,” I say when she shows interest in a barely-there crop top and shorts that, as my grandmother would say, wouldn’t cover her tuchus.
Before she was born, Emma was diagnosed with gastroschisis, a critical condition where the intestines protrude through the abdomen. Our journey began in a New York City neonatal intensive care unit, where she spent her first seven months, surviving on tube feeds and total parenteral nutrition—an IV fluid that sustained her but posed risks to her liver.
When Emma turned three, I discovered the intestinal rehabilitation program at Nebraska Medicine in Omaha. Before we even arrived, the medical team predicted we would have a treatment plan in less than a week—maybe a few months at most.
As we prepared to leave, our neighbor burst through the door, asking, “Are you moving to Oklahoma?” I, a quintessential New Yorker, thought “going out of town” meant heading upstate. I had always dreamed of living in a SoHo loft with sunlit, arched windows. Instead, I ended up in a Greenwich Village apartment where it felt like there were more Jews than in all of Nebraska combined. I lived my dream writing for New York magazine’s “Best Of” issues and reviewing restaurants for Time Out New York.
But my ultimate dream was always to be a mother.
Three months after moving to Nebraska, Emma’s liver failed, and she was placed on the transplant list for a small bowel, liver, and pancreas transplant, which she received on July 20, 2006—her re-birthday. At that time, I couldn’t even say “transplant,” a term that felt terrifyingly futuristic. However, fate has a way of delivering what we truly need. Our exceptional transplant team turned out to be just that. We sold our New York home and bought a house in Omaha. I didn’t even know where Omaha was until I checked a map months later.
For years, those familiar with our story would ask, “You moved from New York to Omaha? Wasn’t that a culture shock?” The answer is a resounding yes. One day, while walking our shepherd-husky mix, Bella, a kid in a black TransAm sped past. I expected a rude gesture, but instead, he smiled and waved. At Target, the cashier asked, “Need help getting that to your car?”
I’ve come to appreciate the simplicity of life here: children playing outside until dusk, manageable rush hour traffic, and a low cost of living that made home-buying feel like Monopoly money. Ironically, my daughter has shared the spotlight with Tony Award winners in Omaha, performing at the Holland Center, our local version of Carnegie Hall.
I’ve transformed from a high-strung New Yorker, once desperate to keep my coveted 212 area code, to someone who embraces the support around me, welcoming friends with snacks and kindness. When I encourage Emma to shift her perspective and accept life’s challenges (“Feel the fear and let it wash over you,” I say), she retorts with a smirk, “Buddhist.”
Now, as I fly into Omaha and gaze at the skyline (which I refer to as “The Building”), I still feel a tug for my Manhattan roots. Yet, I’ve realized that home is a state of mind. I’ve learned that a city girl can not only survive but thrive outside her comfort zone—provided she has love and, of course, Alka-Seltzer.
For those considering home insemination, you can find more information about the process in this helpful resource. If you’re looking for an at-home solution, check out our post on the Cryobaby at Home Insemination Kit. And for a comprehensive look at international IVF journeys, visit PFCLA.
In summary, this journey from New York to Omaha, marked by challenges and triumphs, has redefined what home means to me. The love of family and community has anchored us in our new life, proving that with support and compassion, we can flourish anywhere.