August 2014

The time has come for the retrieval. What a long process. So many needles! See attached photo (delivery one of three). I know I am preaching to the choir, especially if you’re reading this and have already gone through this. I admire women who endure this process time and time again. 



I elected to freeze my eggs at age 37. This was my choice and I am happy that I actually have that choice to make. Of the 40+ women in the waiting room each day for monitoring, most likely only five of us were doing something proactively. Again, I am happy I have the choice. 

This was also especially challenging because I also ended a relationship. Man – Gentle, smart, good values, handsome…. BUT emotionally unavailable. They say timing is everything and I believe that to be true about this situation. I wish him well and still have love in my heart for him. You can imagine this added additional emotions to the roller coaster I was on. 

I was told throughout the injections that my body was not responding and we would only get approximately 5 eggs. This scared me. What was wrong with my body?  Why wasn’t it working correctly. With an FSH of 9.11 and AMH of .28 I knew I needed this to work. This was very discouraging as a 37 year old woman. The same question came into my mind, “Why am I in this situation? Why hadn’t I met anyone sooner and started a family?”  Logically this is a good thing, I hadn’t meet the right guy. But, I still have sadness around this. 

Once all was said and done I was able to produce nine eggs. All were kept, hooray!!! When they told me I couldn’t believe it. I guess it was all worth it. 

Now, I could relax and let the love stuff find a way … Or, so I thought.

To be continued…



Sent from my iPhone

Day 1 -Egg Freezing 

Day 1 – July 2014 

Edit

The first morning has arrived. Not sure what I thought it would feel like. It is 7am and the women are reporting for blood work. I sit and watch them arrive. ‘Them’ as if I am not including myself. It kind of does feel like I am an observer from the outside looking in. 

Married, single, with a friend, one with her husband, lesbian partners. Different races and religions, brunettes, blondes. Wait, I’m the only blond… Let’s just say that highlights are my friend. Can’t get the Southern California out of me! 

Some read books, some thumb through magazines, some just stare off in the distance.

It feels somewhat like a factory. To the left you go for blood work. To the right you go to have a sonogram. What a mix of emotions is displayed in this waiting room.

I keep asking myself, “Why am I in this situation?” Not married, no kids. Is this a bad thing? Logically no, emotionally it is a different story. Hello logical mind are you there? Stop this thinking pronto!

At least I still have options. Truthfully, should have done this years ago. But, I didn’t and here I sit. 

Some women seem like they have done this before… Old hat.

$15,000 is the bill. Due before retrieval. 

 The couple and her sister (I think) have left looking defeated. They walk out in a single file line. My heart aches for them. You can see the sadness on their faces. Another couple checks out. She has tissues in her hand. More disappointed faces. 

 They call my name. The phlebotomist takes me back. Nice enough, although she doesn’t introduce herself. “Sit down, arm here,” she says with a smile. I do as I am told.

As I look around I notice a mural to the right of my head. Pictures of babies, babies, babies. I mean, really!?! They are working it! I don’t ask anything about the pictures, just sort of stare at the wall. Truthfully, the pictures kind of look old. 

 Back to the blood… ‘She’ (I still don’t know her name) proceeds to prepare me for the blood draw. In the needle goes. 15 seconds, it is over. Snap off the tourniquet and that is it.

“I will call you this afternoon,” ‘she’ says. “What is your name?” I inquire. “Jasmine (with a smile)”. Seems so transactional, but again, polite. 

Well folks, that is it. I am done. Just like that. At least I am getting service with a smile! 

 As I near the elevator I come across the man of the couple who was checking out. He stares off as he waits for his wife to come out of the restroom. I am willing to bet she is in the bathroom crying. Again, my heart hurts for her, them. 

 As I step in the elevator I remind myself that their stories are not mine, mine not theirs. I will be married and a parent one day. And hopefully they will too.

Photo credit – http://www.vogue.com