Septuplets pose health threat

hey say that everyone needs a goal in life. They say those without a dream have no soul. They say shoot for the moon, because even if you miss, you'll still be among the stars (that last one was obviously coined in Copernicus' time).

For many years, I was one of those who was lost at sea, floating aimlessly in the breeze, living one day to the next, like so many in these godless times.

But I now have a purpose, and I will not rest until I have seen it through to its bloody conclusion. Ladies and gentlemen, I plan to seek out every single editor, producer or reporter who ever jumped onto the overflowing McCaughey septuplet bandwagon, round them up, herd them all to some weed-infested pasture land of their Des Moines, Iowa hangout and put them all out of my misery. That would make me happy.

You see, a few weeks ago I was content to have put this whole sorry affair behind me. The McCaugheys had been out of the news for months, the American public was moving on to other, more important things, such as the impeachment hearings, the Gulf crisis and Furby, and it looked as though we might be rid of the seven-headed monster forever.

And then, on Nov. 19, the kids had to have a birthday. Once again, the media was on the prowl, and every TV station, newspaper and magazine just had to include a special report on the McCaugheys, which the Butthead-esque American public eagerly gobbled up. That's when I realized that swift, immediate action had to be taken. Because otherwise, I'd have to sit through this horrid ordeal every year, and frankly, I don't know if I could take it.

It's not simply that I find saccharine, heartwarming stories nauseating, which I do.

It's not simply that the McCaugheys are being mercilessly used as pawns in a ratings grab, which they are.

It's not simply that this is yet another example of America's strange obsession (worship would be a better word) with the bizarre, which it is.

I keep picturing some midwestern trailer park trash named Cleatus telling his wife, "Well, shucks, Peggy Sue, if them there McCaugheys can git seven young Śuns borned all at once, well I reckon that if we try hard enough, we can git eight or nine, or maybe 10, and then we'll be famous too. And I sure could use the hep milkin' them cows."

As valid as all those things are, the main problem here is that we are seeing a complete distortion and misrepresentation of the facts. The truth is, this birth was not at all miraculous; it was the pitiful offspring of the coupling of science run amok and human arrogance. As you are probably aware, Bobbi McCaughey was taking a fertility drug, Pergonal. What you may not be so aware of is how common it is for women who become pregnant while on Pergonal to give birth to two or more children. According to Pergonal's own literature, it is natural for Pergonal injections to cause hyperstimulation of the ovaries, resulting in multiple gestations 20 to 40 percent of the time. Of those cases, 25 percent of women give birth to triplets or more. But that's only half the story.

It's not unusual for more than just two or three eggs to be fertilized (seven is no surprise), but most women, in the interest of protecting their own health and the health of their babies, opt for what is called fetal reduction, in which a number of the fetuses are aborted, leaving only one or two and heightening the chance of a less problematic delivery and fewer incidents of brain damage and other developmental problems for the infants. Not to take this crucial precaution is like playing Russian roulette, but using five bullets instead of just one.

The last time a woman made that mistake was in 1985, when Patti Frustaci, who not coincidentally was also on Pergonal, became the first person in U.S. history to give birth to septuplets - also four boys and three girls. Her babies, born 12 weeks early, all weighed between 1 pound, 1 ounce and 1 pound, 13 ounces - even less than the two to three pounds of the McCaugheys, who were also born extremely premature (as is the case in virtually all multiple births). One of Frustaci's infants was a still birth, three more died during the next 19 days from hyaline membrane disease, in which the lungs collapse, and the final three were diagnosed with cerebral palsy and mental retardation.

I doubt that their first birthday was much cause for celebration. In my book, the McCaugheys are not heroes, just damn lucky. Maybe whoever prescribed Bobbi the Pergonal didn't fully inform her of the risks of her situation. But Bobbi herself was quoted as saying "I'll let God decide the outcome," a ludicrous statement in light of the science experiment that caused the pregnancy in the first place.

The McCaugheys had a lot to be thankful for this Thanksgiving. For the lifetime diaper supply from Proctor and Gamble. For the year's supply of groceries from a local chain. For the mansion built just for them and paid for by the state that has become the greatest attraction in Iowa since the Hawkeye football program fell apart a few years back. For their health care footing the $1-million cost of her month-long hospital stay preceding the delivery, in which 40 doctors were put on call round-the-clock in anticipation of the baby bonanza. And, of course, for the fact that they did give birth to seven babies. Because if only a measly four or five had been born, the media would not have covered it, the public wouldn't have cared and the McCaugheys would have found out what it's really like to raise that many kids without the public's generosity (among others, Julia Roberts donated $10,000).

Not that I would begrudge them of any of this. It's nice to see that there are caring people in this country. Nonetheless, what's wrong with a little balance in reporting, a little responsibility in journalism?

How will Cleatus and Peggy Sue ever know about the dangers of such a venture? The time to act is now, my friends. My personal witch hunt begins now. Sign-up sheets will be posted in USC's family planning clinic. But we must act fast. The next McCaughey birthday is a mere 352 days away.

Editorial Columnist Ben Davidson is a graduate student in visual anthropology.

Copyright 1998 by the Daily Trojan. All rights reserved.
This article was published in Vol. 135, No. 59 (Wednesday, December 2, 1998), beginning on page 4 and ending on page 5.