Letting Go | Part One
Photo by Damian McCoig on Unsplash
I’m in the parking lot of Target and the tears are sliding down my cheeks, one after the other so quickly a small wet stain gathered on my shirt. I can’t catch my breath I’m sobbing so hard. My parents are on speakerphone and I can hear the fear in their voices as they search for the words to console me.
I hate what I’m doing to them in this moment. I hate that they are my ‘in case of emergency call’ at 6 PM on a random Saturday in May. I hate that I know they are more than 700 miles away and can’t do anything to help, but I called them anyway.
The decision to freeze my eggs had been a long one, motivated largely by fear, well-intended opinions and unsolicited advice. I know how badly you want a family one day, Katie. You should really consider freezing your eggs.
They were words spoken with good intent but with harsh consequences for me personally. My mind began to spin, trying to sort fact from fiction. Did I need to? What if I didn’t? When was too late? Why did all the other girls get to fall in love and experience the highs and lows of fertility with a partner, while I had to make this choice alone?
Since my relocation to Columbus in 2015, I would scoot to the end of the table each November for my annual exam. And each visit I would mention my age and ask about my fertility. You’re still young and healthy, you are just fine! was my doctor’s response each year.
Until 34.
That was the year I told her I’d be 35 that summer, with no boyfriend still. This year she reminded me again I was young and healthy, but also referred me to a doctor who would start my testing. It was November of 2017.
I didn’t know I’d meet someone I’d quickly fall in love with just 30 days later. I didn’t know the pressure this decision I was making would put on me specifically, but also our relationship. I didn’t know the confusion that awaited me as I navigated this in tandem with the big promises we began making to one another.
I still find it hard to process this event intertwined with our new relationship. How much to share of his impact in all of this without victimizing myself or villainizing him. I was caught up in our new relationship, the extreme highs of having his full attention, his thoughtfulness, his love.
When jury duty delayed an already long process, I welcomed more time with him. When I was told I needed to purchase the medication, with a price tag of $3044.26 to set things in motion, along with my $6,400 deposit, I reached for him a bit longer rather than my credit card. January melted away along with February and March, and it took me until April 17th to finally put the deposit on my credit card.
Insurance often covers infertile couples – my own company does now. However, like mine, many exclude coverage for single women hoping for additional options when they do find their partner later in life. I am fortunate I was to be able to consider this option financially as a single woman and make this investment in my future. And I will openly say had my company not afforded eight free counseling sessions as a health benefit, it may have been an even harder journey emotionally – and even more costly.
And even with therapy, it was an incredibly challenging experience for me. I am a stress starver. It happens very rarely in life, but when faced with unusual circumstances which so far include graduating from college and looking for a job and breaking up with people I had loved, I will struggle to eat. I lose my appetite altogether; the thought of food making me nauseous and often getting sick when I do.
I slowly began losing weight. My stomach was in such knots and I could no longer finish meals. I have never struggled with an eating disorder, but my anxiety compounded as time wore on until I was in therapy weekly and my weight loomed near double digits, pounds melting off my normal 120-pound frame.
“You say I am loved when I can’t feel a thing
You say I am strong when I think I am weak
And You say I am held when I am falling short
And when I don’t belong, oh, You say I am Yours
And I believe.”
All of this took place the weeks leading up to mid-May, when I would begin the process.
The final step was attending my injection class, during which I’d receive a carefully-crafted calendar synched to my medications and the timing of my procedure. I arrived, mostly terrified, so far outside my comfort zone I barely spoke. The nurse looked at me confused as she handed me a paper bag with my name written across the top in black Sharpie.
“Where is your support person?”
My eyes widened and my chest tightened. Do not cry. Do not cry. I repeated the words in my head as I replied no one told me I’d need a support person. “I’m not married … I’m freezing my eggs,” I explained quietly.
I was ushered into a room where I’d spend the next hour with three couples as we practiced changing needles, injecting water into stress cubes and asking questions about medication and timing.
The husbands listened, taking notes with their wives. I struggled to scrawl some onto my page. Save & inject multiples @ end if need be. Wipe tip of bottle. Wipe site before/after.
Unfamiliar words and directions filled the page. Subcutaneous. Intramuscular. Follistim. Menopur which needed to be mixed with 1 cc of sodium chloride. Needle needed to be changed to 30g1/2” to inject.
The list of medications I’d begin injecting into my body, the strict calendar I’d have to keep, and my careful notes scrawled across both.
The couple at my table had been down this road before as she asked questions sharing from her previous experience.
You see? I told myself. Look how fortunate you are. This is precaution for you. This woman is subjecting herself to this again in hopes of a child. Focus on the positives.
And then came the explanation of the trigger shot. After the more than 40 injections into my stomach in the weeks prior, one each morning and two each evening, the trigger shot was the final injection required. It had to be administered exactly 36 hours before my procedure to retrieve my eggs and would result in a positive pregnancy test, if all went according to plan.
I took more notes. Apply patch 20 mins before trigger shot. Have nurse mark a bullseye. Change needle to blue 25 G. The nurse stopped in front of me and spoke in a calm, quiet voice, sensing my panic.
“You’ll want to have a friend help you with this one. It’s in the muscle tissue, above your back upper quad. We’ll Sharpie the mark for you but you’ll need someone to administer it.”
I nodded softly, racking my brain for a nursing friend who could do this for me. When the class ended, I walked to my car and barely got the door shut before I burst into deep, shaking sobs.
I hadn’t even started my injections and I was a mess. How was I going to follow through on this? At this point, the deposit was paid, and the medication was being sent to me.
There was no turning back now.
Next week I’ll share the journey from injections to retrieval, and how I slowly picked up the pieces to come out stronger on the other side. Thanks for reading.