More expensive than a luxury holiday and more painful,
too. Why, at 34, I chose to hit the snooze button on biological clock.
‘The only plan the world offered me was a needle to the ovaries.’
Sarah and I have been friends for almost
all our adult lives. She’s one year older than me; we share the same birthday.
She got married last January, at 35, to a man she’d been dating for less than a
year. A few months after Sarah’s wedding, we met for dinner and she told me her
news: ‘I’m pregnant!’
I said all the right things. I’ve said them
before. Many times. The nice side of me had to tell the evil thoughts to wait
until got home before they said everything they wanted to: ‘You will die
alone.’ ‘no-one will ever have a baby with you.’
Sarah took a sip of water. ‘You know my
friend Carlene froze her eggs.’ I was shocked. ‘What? Why? She’s only 35.’
Sarah shrugged. ‘Egg quality goes down after 35.’ I got defensive. ‘Didn’t she
have to inject herself with hormone shots? And isn’t it a million dollars?’
Sarah nodded: ‘Yes.’ ‘I’d never do that,’ I said.
This was my consolation prize? ‘I’m
pregnant, but don’t worry, you can freeze your eggs.’ I moved to topics I was
more comfortable with. My disappointment in men. My disappointment in weight.
My disappointment with disappointment. Sarah finished eating quickly.
I couldn’t blame her. We left and stood
quietly at the door before I shoved out a final congrats that sounded to false
I had to add, ‘Seriously!’ But I couldn’t get the egg freezing out of my head.
It made me mad. It made me hate being a woman. It made me hate being
successful, even though I’ve fought hard to make it as a TV writer and producer
in Hollywood. It made me hate being picky. Had I passed up ‘The One’ on a
dating website? The Buddhist alien enthusiast? The guy who wore a cardigan and
said he loved sodomy?
I was nearly 35 without a plan of my own
and the only plan the world offered me was a needle to the ovaries. And I’m
scared of needles. It didn’t seem fair. My desire to defend womankind from
needling this procedure was fuelled by a fear that I was going to have to do it
myself. That I should do it. That egg freezing was a technology designed for
me.
By the end of the week, I’d made an appointment
with a fertility doctor.
Egg freezing – or, to use the technical
term, oocyte cryopreservation – used to be the last resort of cancer patients
who wanted to try to preserve their fertility before treatment. Unlike embryos,
which scientists have been freezing since the ‘80s, eggs were considered to
delicate to survive the process because they contain a large amount of liquid,
and the slow-freezing method that was successful for cryopreserving embryos
created ice crystals. Fifty percent of frozen eggs were harmed during the
procedure. But five years ago, embryologists started experimenting with a
freezing process known as vitrification to chill the eggs to -1960C
in seconds. It means that each egg, made up of a single cell, is more likely to
survive unharmed – 60-70 per cent of eggs now survive the freezing and thawing
process.
The doctor explained what would happen
next.
First, I’d have to stop taking the pill. I
was nervous about this because I’d been on it since I was 17. I was worried I’d
break out in acne. She said I probably would, but it shouldn’t stop me. She
told me the second step would be the test for STIs. After my first period off
the pill, I would start hormone injections (that I’d administer myself), and 12
days later I would have the egg retrieval. The hormone shots (that I’d give
myself) would encourage my ovaries to overproduce eggs during ovulation, so
instead of having one egg in one ovary I’d produce as many as 15 or as few as
two.
The whole thing would cost $20,000, roughly
the price of an extravagant honeymoon with a man who loves you and wants to put
a baby in you for free. Because I’m successful with no dependants, I could
afford the procedure. I know there are women who would like to freeze their
eggs, but can’t afford it. I hope that if enough people like me do it, we can
bring the costs down. I thought for a minute and told the doctor, ‘Sign me up.’
As soon as I’d made the decision to freeze
my eggs, I told my friends and sister. Everyone seemed supportive. I wish a few
had protested a little more, but it was like when you say you’re going on a
diet and everyone nods instead of telling you you’re crazy. I’m getting old.
And they know it. Several of my friends are on their second marriages and
second round of kids.
I wasn’t ready to tell my parents; to admit
I’d failed somehow as a daughter. But I did tell my gynaecologist. Turns out
she’d just frozen her eggs. She’s 37. She wished she’d done it at my age. It
was reassuring that a beautiful, smart doctor was also having trouble meeting
men. She told me I’d make it through, then lifted her hair to reveal acne along
her jawline. I pretended not to see but panicked inside. I had two months until
the procedure. Two months to get my first real periods since I was 17. Two
months to get PMS and acne.
After a few weeks off the pill, I began to
feel a little crazy. But I had a wedding to attend. At the rehearsal dinner, I
told my table I was freezing my eggs.
There was a man at the end of the table,
David. I heard him say he lived in New York. I noticed he laughed at a few
things I said and I wondered if I’d spend the night with him, even though he
was only 29. the next night, after we danced at the wedding reception, David
kissed me.
