I had my first IVF and first daughter in the United States; my second IVF and second daughter in Canada, two years later. There is little cultural divide, fertility-wise, between the two countries. My American reproductive endocrinologist, like my Canadian, was a strange amalgam of cautious aggression and hopeful pessimism, and both men seemed to want to simultaneously scare and reassure me as they prodded and poked my aging eggs. The clinic in Canada had massage chairs and a huge fish tank; the American better magazines and logo. Needless to say, stirrups are stirrups, no matter which side of the border I was on. Obstetrically, my file was stamped “AMA” – Advanced Maternal Age – in both countries, winning me extra ultrasounds and blood tests each time. Neither obstetrician cared whether I dyed my greying hair during the first trimester (I didn’t anyway, a triumph for the alarmist-pregnancy industry). […]