Questions

I feel like a helicopter mom. And yet, I am childless.

My babies are growing every day. In a lab. In a dish. And yet. Are they babies? Are they just a collection of cells? Can I call them mine?

This journey has been robust with legal jargon and dotted lines. What will we do with the embryos we do not implant? Donate? Cremate? And what if I die? Who will they go to? What if Kris dies? What if we both die? Do I will my unborn children to my sister? My parents? Does anybody even want them?

Every few days, they call with an update. Embryos A-D are doing well and embryo E seems to be progressing too. F didn't make it. What about tomorrow? Will they all still be okay? Why isn't someone checking on them more often?

I can't sleep just thinking of them. I want to give them names. Better names than letters of the alphabet. But I don't let myself. I hold onto hope, but not too tightly. Lest it be ripped from my arms once again.

Two days before retrieval surgery, my doctor called me into the office. Said my estrogen levels were dropping. Said they didn't know why. A condition beholden to women 45 years of age and older. Couldn't explain why it was happening to me. 28. The picture of health, they called me. And now this.

This round likely won't be successful, they said. There probably won't be any mature eggs to harvest. Maybe you can try again in a few months.

Except I can't. We maxed out our insurance. We don't have another 25K to spare. This was our one shot.

I had the surgery anyway. In a haze of lingering anesthetic, I awoke to news of 7 eggs. 7 mature eggs. A holy number. A gift.

We defied the odds once, but we are far from out of the woods. Everyone is so happy for me; I want to be happy too. But all I feel is terror. Now that we have them, I cannot bear to lose them.

Can you lose something you never really had?