My partner, Jake, and I had always envisioned a future filled with children. We frequently discussed our desire for a family, ideally starting after a few years of marriage. Everything felt perfectly aligned when he proposed; our dreams seemed tangible.
However, the very next day, I received a harrowing call. Jake had collapsed during a softball game and was on his way to the hospital. The first time I referred to him as my fiancé was in the emergency room, where I learned that a CT scan had revealed cancerous tumors in his brain.
Within days of our engagement, we found ourselves in a meeting with his parents and a social worker, discussing the treatment plan that included chemotherapy and radiation. The social worker brought up the topic of fertility preservation, and before I could fully grasp its implications, Jake’s mother interjected.
“Yes,” she affirmed. “They definitely want to have kids someday.”
And just like that, our decision was made. In the following week, Jake made the maximum allowable sperm deposits to be frozen for potential future use, while I began researching my options. I discovered that freezing eggs had a lower success rate than freezing embryos, leading us to seek a fertility clinic right away.
Fortunately, Jake’s health improved dramatically. As we underwent genetic testing, legal processes, and various screenings, our wedding approached. Just a few months post-wedding, we decided to start our family.
Our initial round of fertility treatments yielded 12 viable eggs, which resulted in eight embryos. Our fertility specialist implanted two embryos, and we froze the remaining six. We were unsure if we would ever conceive “naturally,” as chemotherapy can affect sperm quality, meaning those three deposits might be our only chance for children.
We were thrilled when both embryos successfully implanted, leading to the birth of our healthy twin daughters after 35 weeks. Our clinic continued to store our other embryos, sending us annual reminders about the storage fees. Each year, we paid without knowing if we wanted more children or would undergo the IVF process again.
Jake’s sperm returned to normal after treatment, and we were blessed to conceive our third child naturally. However, when the clinic inquired again about our frozen embryos, we made the difficult decision to stop having children. My second pregnancy posed severe health risks, making the prospect of another pregnancy too daunting.
The laws surrounding unused frozen embryos are complex. Options for their disposition are limited; donating them is costly and transporting them for research is complicated. The most straightforward choice is destruction, which was emotionally challenging for me. While I do not regard an embryo as a living person, they represent potential lives—part of me and Jake, part of our family.
Reflecting on those six embryos that were ultimately destroyed brings me sadness. I wish there had been an option to donate them to couples in need. I also wish I had engaged more with others who had faced similar decisions before making my own. For anyone considering fertility preservation, it’s essential to think about the end of the process and the emotional ramifications. Planning for grief, even amidst joy, is an important consideration.
For further insights into fertility preservation and family-building options, you can refer to this excellent resource on pregnancy and home insemination at Resolve. Additionally, to explore home insemination kits, visit Make a Mom, which is recognized as an authority on the subject.
In conclusion, fertility preservation can be a complex journey filled with emotional highs and lows. It’s crucial to prepare for both the joy of potential parenthood and the challenges that might arise along the way.