Three weeks before my 37th birthday, a good friend called me in tears.
After two years of trying to get pregnant, she’d learned her ovaries had shut down.
Not even advanced fertility treatments would help.
I was sad for my friend, but I was also scared for myself.
One year shy of 38, I didn’t have a partner in sight.
But it wasn’t something I’d go to extremes for.
Men take it for granted that they will always be able to have children.
Would they date someone whose window had already closed?
With my thoughts sending me into a tailspin, I went online.
Had the future already arrived?
I booked a consultation with the clinic to investigate.
Then a doctor uses a needle to extract each egg.
Supercharging the ovaries with hormones did not sound risk-free to me.
Egg harvesting may be fairly routine, but the freezing process is not.
When I began my exploration, none of the clinics near me had reported any pregnancies.
Then I weighed the cost of not doing it.
If I didn’t meet someone in time, there was always the option to adopt.
But after talking to women who’d gone that route, I discovered it wasn’t so simple.
Getting pregnant with eggs from a donor was no bargain either, starting at $15,000 at most clinics.
A cancer scare had forced me to imagine life without my dad.
I called FIRM and made arrangements to start my injections at the beginning of my next cycle.
That night, I slept like a baby.
A looming dread was lifted.
I slept the following afternoon, too, instead of joining friends at happy hour.
Then I lost my nerve to contact a man who’d been weaving in and out of my thoughts.
I needed to focus on work, I told myself.
Newly blase about time and dating, it dawned on me that I was becoming…a guy.
Focusing on a relationship?
It wasn’t healthy to force the issue.
I was marching to the beat of my own naps, which were becoming suspiciously more frequent.
They light a fire under us, jolting us out of our paralyzing fears and into the next adventure.
I knew I wanted a partner, and that wasn’t going to happen while I was napping.
I stalled on ordering the meds and canceled my appointment.
But every time I met someone new, I became preoccupied with his paternal potential.
Exactly how quickly would he be ready to have kids?
Needless to say, no one seemed to do it for me.
I was greeted by a perky young blonde in braids, who introduced herself as “the girlfriend.”
Crestfallen, I went home and collapsed on my bed.
Only one thought could stop the spiral.
I dug up FIRM’s number, then dialed the phone.
Suddenly, the money and the odds seemed meaningless compared with the hope I needed.
“You will want to know that you considered all your options and made a choice.
And then, no matter what happens, you won’t feel bad about it.”
I booked a flight to Jacksonville the next day.
At first, the idea of injecting myself with hormones was daunting: Needles make me squeamish.
When my “due date” approached, I flew to Jacksonville, feeling bloated and slightly crampy.
The last thing I recall was trying to count the rows and rows of glass tubes awaiting my eggs.
Surely they wouldn’t need all of them?
A wave of relief washed over me, sending me right back to sleep.
I carried my little card to the airport the next day, along with Tylenol for cramps.
I felt no pain, though, only a lightness.
I knew it wasn’t a guarantee, freezing those 16 eggs.
And I still felt an urgency to meet someone.
But the panic was gone.
I had done something.
I had been productive, if not yet reproductive.
I had explored all the options and made a choice.
Whatever transpires next, I won’t look back in regret.
Photo Credit: Bill Diodato
