What it felt like to freeze my eggs at 30

Creating Motherhood is a collection of stories focused on the intersection of family and creativity and how to live an artful life as a parent.

I never thought that I would spend the first year of my 30s mourning the end of my seven-year relationship, downsizing apartments because I could not afford the rent alone, and considering, for the first time in a long time, what my future would look like—tomorrow, next week, and 10 years from now. And yet, that’s exactly what the last few months of my life have entailed.

I was raised by a liberal, badass mother, a loving dad, a feminist stepdad, and three six-foot-five brothers who escorted me on mall dates with terrified suitors—I was never taught to depend on a man for my self-worth. But nothing could have prepared me for the feeling of absolute loss I felt when I separated from my partner, the man I had silently but firmly decided was the love of my life, the soon-to-be father of my children. It was that sense of mourning over a future I was sure I would have, coupled with anxiety over both my actual biological clock and the more metaphorical timer we women, even in 2024, are chased with once we hit puberty, that led me to freeze my eggs this year. 

I started injections on May 2, sitting on my couch in my Upper East Side apartment crowded with moving boxes. My mom flew in from Mexico City to be with me through this, and I’ll never forget the moment we looked at each other, needles in hand, wondering what on earth led us here. She, a Gen Xer who did the whole work-marriage-kids thing in the way that makes a Catholic proud, now potentially witnessing the making of what could become her grandchildren. I, a lifelong hypochondriac purposely injecting myself with hormones? For a baby with no dad? Without medical supervision?

My medicines were Gonal and Menopur, used to stimulate the ovaries to grow multiple follicles; and Cetrotide, to prevent premature ovulation. Once my eggs were at their peak, I would inject two trigger shots, which mature the follicles and release the eggs.

With each injection, I felt the liquid medicine flood into my insides like a river of hot sauce, burning for just a few seconds and leaving no mark. Each time, my palms sweated as I squeezed my stomach and willed myself to puncture my own skin. My nurses told me this would be the easiest part—that the bloating, the fatigue, and the mood swings that would come from the medicines would be harder—but for me, it was the opposite. I couldn’t get over the needles.

Because of the trauma of my breakup and of apartment hunting in Manhattan on a budget (which is almost as painful), I jumped into this process ready for the worst, assuming the hormones and the exhaustion and the near-daily hospital visits would make me feel more alone, more single. And in a way, they did. Walking into the fertility clinic each morning in my work-from-home sweats and seeing these couples glowing, so excited to be on their journey, it stung. But that, I would remind myself, was the point. That was exactly why I was doing this—because I want a giant career, and a great apartment, and more adventures, and a partner who chooses me through the downs, and eventually, a child. I want to be a mother even if it means I have to do it by myself. But I need time to prepare—more time than my body and current lifestyle allow.

Like a true millennial, I posted selfies in my robe, lying on the hospital bed, feet spread on the stirrups, on Instagram on the days leading up to my egg retrieval. I was unsure about sharing something so personal so publicly, but quickly I was swarmed with responses and words of encouragement from friends, colleagues, and silent followers I’ve met only once or twice—many who have either gone through egg freezing or IVF themselves, or who are contemplating jumping in on the movement. (It is, after all, a movement for us 30-somethings in New York City. And what a cool group to be amongst.)

The reviews from my loved ones on the matter were shockingly mixed. A Gen Z relative deemed it “controversial” and wondered if I should just let nature take its course. A recently married friend asked me if I plan to “settle down” soon or if this were another backup plan so I didn’t have to yet. Meanwhile, my 80-year-old grandma marvelled at the freedom science now affords women, and my mom cried happy tears and called me brave for poking myself with needles for the sake of affording myself more time, more options.

For two weeks, I got blood drawn from my “good vein” every other day and watched as nurses measured my growing eggs on a screen with the help of a lubricated scanning device shoved up to my uterus. I crafted medical potions in my kitchen and set alarms at weird hours of the day to inject myself—first twice, then thrice—with the different medicines. I hobbled around my apartment feeling like a bloated fish tank, bruised and enormous, not wanting to make sudden movements for fear I might shake up my little fish.

The retrieval day was, in some ways, the easiest. While I was initially terrified of being put under anaesthesia, the doctors comforted me, placed me on the operation table, and seamlessly knocked me out before I could even have a panic attack. I woke up 20 minutes later, groggy but proud that I had gotten myself to the finish line. Between tired blinks, I listened as a nurse told me they’d retrieved enough eggs for three to four babies; I was done.

I gained about 10 pounds of water weight, which I carried, heavily and uncomfortably, for almost a week following my surgery. But my babies are now on ice at NYU’s fertility clinic, and I’ll be paying about $1,000 (₹83,349 approx.) a year for their storage until I’m ready to use them. While the entire process would have cost me roughly $10,000 (₹8,33,533 approx.), my work insurance, from Progyny, covered about 70 per cent of it.

A little less needle-phobia and a very bruised chunk of stomach later, what I feel is relief, and an unwavering belief that I can do whatever I decide I can. It was not easy. For the first time in my adult life I had to take a beat. I couldn’t ease my anxiety with exercise—or wine! Some days I was unable to keep my eyes open through the workday, while on others I couldn’t sit still. Some mornings I sang Taylor Swift songs aloud, pretending I was in a coming-of-age film; some nights I cried into my Sweetgreen salad and called my ex.

Now that it’s over, I still have moments of weakness. My Notes app still has the baby names he and I chose together. I still think about what would have happened if we had just made it work and I’d gotten pregnant the “normal” way. (And I still can.) But the reality is, I have never chosen myself the way I did through this process. And when I do have these children, they will know that their mom wanted them more than anything in the world, so much so that she put everything on hold in the most uncertain time of her life just to make sure she would get to meet them one day.

Feature image credits: Unsplash

This article originally appeared in harpersbazaar.com/us in June 2024

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