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One Good Egg*
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The year I turned 40 I finally got pregnant. Several weeks after my pregnancy was confirmed, I visited extended family in Chicago and told a favorite aunt about my infertility treatments and ultimate, still-cautiously-announcing, success. One of my cousins’ wives, a dozen years my junior, interjected sprightly that I should have called her for some eggs—she got pregnant if my cousin just looked at her! Up went the sides of my mouth in an obligatory smile. “Heh,” I offered, with a half-hearted nod. “Yes,” I continued tightly (was I still smiling?) “It is true that we women are extremely fertile in our twenties.”
I wanted to tell her that I too became pregnant at the drop of a hat in my twenties, that it seemed like you needed only to fuck up once and boom you were pregnant. I wanted to tell her it was bad form to brag of one’s fecundity to a woman fresh out of the infertility trenches. I really wanted to say (with a much more gleeful, feigned innocent smile) “Why would I want your dumbass eggs, anyway?” My father-in-law was another who felt the need to tout his fertile bona fides and bragged on several occasions how fruitful his family was. “And how exactly do you factor that?” I finally snapped, considering his sparse lineage, and brimming with hormones. “You have two children, neither of whom has a child, you have one sister, who has only two children, neither of whom has a child. I am the oldest of FOUR. My parents were each one of SEVEN. I have TWENTY-SIX cousins and many of them are already grandparents . . .” “Let’s take a walk,” my husband said. And so it went. Just a few of the tiny indignities along the way to achieving one perfect blastocyst hearty enough to find its way to a reasonably lush uterine lining, nestle in and stay for the duration. As I tried to get pregnant between my 37th and 39th birthdays, I learned of the pregnancies of twelve friends and close acquaintances. Hearing this news necessitated a very special smile of its own, and expressions of gladness and congratulations. One of my dearest friends miscarried quite early, a week or so after the positive pregnancy test, and in short order got pregnant again. “That’s wonderful!” I told her over the phone, and meaning it even as I hoped my last good eggs weren’t overhearing and throwing in the towel. “Now girls, let’s not let this get us down. Come on now, I know you have it in you. You remember how easy it was in 1987!” |
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My first infertility doctor—I’ll call him my doctor instead of our doctor, even though my husband’s masturbatory visits to the clinic were crucial to the process, indeed seminal to the project at hand—was an older British man named Simon Henderson. Dr. Henderson carried himself with the sloped shoulders of a man who came into his height early. His hair was light brown and greying at the temples and his mustache suggested a fear of change. Dr. Henderson strongly emphasized certain words or syllables with a jolly good British accent. Coming in to perform Intrauterine Insemination—basically the turkey baster—he would greet my husband, Frank, with an enthusiastic report on the exceptionality of his semen sample. “Another EXcellent sample!” Dr Henderson would gush. “After the cleaning we have a viable specimen of NINEty-four percent, with NINEty-five percent moTILity, and ninetyTWO percent norMALity!” I looked up at the undersides of their chins, the Doctor and the Husband standing above me, celebrating healthy and plentiful swimmers and pictured them high-fiving each other above me where I lay on the table, naked below the waist, my feet in stirrups.
It happened this exact same way for all three procedures and my reenactment of it at parties became one of the only high points of the whole ordeal. “So there I am with my geriatric eggs, underperforming follicles and t-shaped uterus,” I’d overshare, channeling the Catskills performer I may have been in another life. “And then Frank cruises in for a little late morning porn and a jerk, and an hour later the Doctor bursts into the room to expound the details of”—add accent here—“yet another fanTAStic sample!” After three go-arounds with the excitable Dr. Henderson and his grim, institutional clinic, I took a long break. Was it not meant to be? I was willing to let the universe decide. Several months later at a dinner party just after I turned 39, an acquaintance told me of her new pregnancy by In Vitro Fertilization (i.e., external fertilization). She said, “I hadn’t intended to go that route but I didn’t want to kick myself later for not having taken advantage of the technology available.” This simple rationalization resonated with me, and I decided I’d give IVF one try. The dusty pink walls, complimentary tea and sweeping views of the San Francisco Bay from the waiting room of the new clinic sent a hopeful message. I imagined my last eggs, the robust and not so robust, doing a happy dance as my cup of chamomile tea steeped. The lovely, young (read fertile) woman at the desk took a Polaroid picture of me smiling a big toothy grin and put it in the inside cover of my file so that all who interacted with me would recognize me. Nice touch. Dr. Eldon Schriock was about 50 years old, calm and confident, with a deeply receded hairline, wire-framed glasses and a warm smile. He led us through the steps and financing options for IVF and we began a process that would take a few months, many thousands of dollars and daily, mostly self-injected shots. |
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As had happened with Dr. Henderson, despite the hormone blast to my ovaries I was not producing a lot of follicles—the entity in which an egg matures to be released for possible fertilization. With assisted reproduction you stimulate the hell out of the ovaries to trick the body into producing 20-30 follicles at once. On the morning that my eggs were harvested there were only nine follicles, which yielded seven eggs. At every stage of the process there is attrition so with the dwindling numbers, hope dwindles as well. After Frank’s stellar sperm met my underachieving eggs, only one had fertilized and I knew that the chances of that single zygote growing, and then successfully transferring to the uterus were pretty slim.
When we arrived two days later for the implantation, Frank and I were escorted to a small waiting room near the back of the clinic and forgotten. Freaking out after 45 minutes, I went in search of Dr. Schriock and found him in the hallway. “If there is bad news can we just have the bad news? I can’t keep waiting to find out what is happening!” “No, no!” he said calmly, cupping one of my shoulders, “It’s not bad news—it’s wonderful news! You have three Grade-A, eight-celled zygotes!” “Wha-What?” I said, not understanding, “but only one fertilized . . .” “No,” he said, “two others fertilized as well and we’ve got three to transfer!” Three! Three is the perfect number to transfer! I began taking deep calming breaths in hopes of transforming into a tranquil and accommodating vessel. A few weeks later, based on two blood tests two days apart it was clear that I was pregnant with a singleton! One of our little Grade-A zygotes had taken up residence! We were ecstatic about the news and so grateful to Dr. Schriock we briefly considered adding the name Eldon to the short list of boy names. Briefly. At week seven of my pregnancy, Frank, my sister Meg, and I went back to Dr. Schriock for an ultrasound and saw the tiny heartbeat pulsing from a blurry bean on a black screen, accompanied by the “whocka whocka whocka” of the ultrasound soundtrack. Afterwards, we felt excited and light as we walked down the corridor together, and I asked Dr. Schriock if we could pose for a picture with him. Frank and I leaned in closely on either side of the doctor, the ultrasound picture of our little bean still in my hand. Meg stepped back to take our picture and feeling self-conscious of taking the good doctor’s time, I said to him, smiling, “You must do this all the time.” “Not nearly enough,” he said. *Honorable Mention, Memoir Category, The Soul-Making Keats Literary Competition. 2016.
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Kathy Bruin is a writer, artist, and erstwhile activist. She has worked in publishing, event management, operations, and is currently the director for Osher Lifelong learning Institute (OLLI) at San Francisco State University. Kathy is the founder of About-Face, a media literacy campaign which educates about the way media impact female body image. Among other appearances for About-Face, she was “punked” on a Comedy Central program called Crossballs. Kathy also produces Bruin Snappy Cards and a meditative game called the Fox Box. She lives in San Francisco with her son, Miles, who is a senior in high school.
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Vistas & Byways Review is the semiannual journal of fiction, nonfiction and poetry by members of Osher Lifelong Learning Institute (OLLI) at San Francisco State University.
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Osher Lifelong Learning Institute at San Francisco State University (OLLI at SF State) provides communal and material support to the Vistas & Byways volunteer staff.
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