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Pregnancy
The One That Remains
It’s the unspoken presence—the embryo that sits quietly in the background of our discussions. Almost four years have passed since my last embryo transfer, which brought our second (and final) beautiful son into our lives. I began my IVF journey at 36 and welcomed our second child just shy of my 41st birthday. My husband and I had already decided that two children would be our limit, and after a challenging pregnancy and labor, our decision felt solidified.
Now, one embryo is left in storage.
The first time the storage bill arrived, my husband covered the cost without hesitation. It was a hefty amount, hundreds of dollars, but I was still pregnant, and it felt like a safety net after enduring years of infertility, a miscarriage, two ectopic pregnancies, two emergency surgeries, and a destroyed fallopian tube.
When the second storage bill came, our newest baby had already entered the world. My husband called while I was at work. Known for his straightforwardness, he approached the topic cautiously. “We need to decide whether to pay for the embryo storage,” he said. I pleaded with him to just take care of it and we could revisit the conversation next year. With two beautiful children—one just an infant—I was overwhelmed by exhaustion and hormones, and I didn’t want to confront the reality of that remaining embryo.
He paid the bill again without question.
Now, as I approach my youngest son’s third birthday, I feel a gnawing anxiety that he might soon want to stop paying for this storage and bring up the future of our remaining embryo.
This dread is difficult to articulate. I firmly believe in choice and view the embryo as merely a cluster of cells, possessing as much potential for life as the egg that bursts forth from a cyst each month or the sperm that my husband produces without concern.
Before my first IVF transfer, the doctor showed me images of the two blastocysts set to be implanted. High on valium, I found humor in their resemblance to spider eggs, detached from any emotional attachment. My hope was solely that they would succeed, and when one did, I didn’t mourn the other but celebrated the joy of finally becoming a mother.
With our second child, however, my husband and I faced challenges in our marriage and debated the timing of trying for another. After a year of therapy, we felt ready. But I was older, and the stakes felt higher. We had three embryos frozen after my first transfer.
On transfer day, I was filled with anxiety rather than eagerness, despite being under the influence of valium. In a moment of generosity, my husband offered to implant two embryos. However, the doctor later informed us that only one survived the thawing process. I was devastated, realizing this was our last opportunity. There wouldn’t be another $20,000 spent, nor would we endure the extensive IVF process again.
Instead of elation at the sight of the single blastocyst, I felt fear. I returned home, anxious to do everything possible to support this lone embryo. I cried for hours while my husband entertained our toddler.
Then, the call came from the fertility lab. “Ms. Carter, we have exciting news! One of your other embryos survived after all! It just needed a bit more time to thaw. We need your permission to freeze it again for the future.”
My tears flowed anew, but this time they were tears of joy. Yes, of course, save it! Suddenly, that little cluster of cells transformed into a fighter, a piece of hope I wanted to keep frozen indefinitely. Rationality faded, and this embryo became more precious than I had anticipated.
I know the day will come when my husband calls to discuss the bill again. Objectively, I recognize that my little fighter is simply a collection of cells. Yet, I find myself hoping he continues to pay the bill quietly, allowing me to forget about the embryo that remains for just a little longer.