IVF, 3 kids, and one last embryo: How my story could make me a criminal in the eyes of a new Supreme Court
Look, I’ve got to be honest. I haven’t really been paying attention. Let me clarify: I have been paying a lot of attention to the 24-hour 2020 circus that is the current state of my family of five plus dog. Because as I’m sure you’re aware, (unless of course, you think this is a hoax, or it doesn’t apply to you or are just that selfish that you are bored of COVID-19, in which case you can seriously go fuck yourself all the way to the bar or political rally or Reno because I am sure that is a place where masks are “so May of 2020, gross”) we are in the middle of a global pandemic. And if I want to live to the day my grandchildren ask me about how many loaves of sourdough I baked, my primary focus these days is keeping us all alive. Oh, and of course I homeschool now. And no one ever leaves me alone. Or stops needing a snack. Or will JUST SHUT UP FOR FIVE GODDAMN MINUTES.
Am I aware that we are in a political crisis and our democracy hangs by toupee threads? Duh. I have eyes and ears and countless sleepless nights to doom-scroll Twitter. I have tried my best while in fight (and sometimes flight) mode to find things to do that are both meaningful and safe to speak out for Black lives, learn what it means to be anti-racist, encourage people to vote, tear down the patriarchy, the list goes on. But it is hard to keep up with the details. I know that I get to say this with the utmost privilege, but it is the details I just don’t have the time or the energy to pay attention to these days. I catch the highlights, I boil with rage and I furiously write more postcards to swing states or I call my representatives but it doesn’t feel like enough, and yet it is all I feel like I can do.
I basically operate under the current assumption: anyone who aligns with what can only be described as the fascist-in-chief is no good in my book. You’re either anti-Trump or you are complicit. I don’t need details because there is actually no gray area for me anymore. Enter: the SCOTUS seat. Am I terrified? Um, beyond. Do I know much about her? Admittedly, no. But I have caught enough of the highlights to know she seems to be on the path to slam every damn door RBG pried open with her understated “Super Diva” strength. But today there was one detail that made my ears perk up a bit and sent a chill right into my closed-for-business uterus. Because today they were talking about me. Not like me, human, me. Or me, woman, me. Like, actually ME.
I have unexplained infertility. At least I did for a good (wretched) five years. I am now the mother of three, so this story has a happy ending. Infertility was terrifying, tragic, hopeful, debilitating, exciting, and life-sucking all at the same time and I could literally cry at any moment of any day if I think about it all too much. I can only compare my feelings about fertility treatments to that of how one might experience grief: I have never gotten over it, but I have learned to live with it.
The administration’s candidate for the gaping hole of an empty seat RBG left behind is Amy Coney Barett, and in true GOP form, she evaded answers to basic questions about the law and human rights but the one I heard loud and clear was the one about criminalizing IVF. So to help you understand how much this stings to hear I am going to share my story with you. And my hope is that maybe through my story, even if you consider yourself part of the “pro-life” army, you will see how dangerous it is to regulate women’s bodies. I am so grateful for my children. I am humbled by the privilege I have to make decisions for my own body. I am proud of myself for getting through it. I am not ashamed of my choices. And I am not a criminal.
________
I really was very ready to make the phone call. Truth be told, I think I would have made the phone call during those excruciating final hours of labor (oh you know the ones mamas) before the doctor arrived to give me my epidural, had I been able to speak in coherent sentences. What I managed to shake out through tightly clenched teeth to my husband was “promise me that I’ll never have to do this again.” He promised.
I knew, practically from the moment I found out I was pregnant, that this child would not just be my third, but also my last. And this meant that sometime in the near future, I was going to have to make the call.
“Hello, my name is Heather Shellen and I have one remaining frozen embryo, but I just gave birth to my third child who I conceived all on my own. Our family is now complete and I need to discuss the next steps.”
But before I got the customer service rep that I said this to, I had to actually pick up the phone and dial the number and then listen to the ringing of the phone, and when it picked up, the options, and press whatever series of numbers and then sit through the hold music until someone was available to take the call that was “very important to them.” During that time I felt my eyes start to well with tears and my heartbeat get a little faster. I almost hung up as the nerve endings on my skin began to prickle and my breath quickened. You see, here’s the funny thing about emotions: you can feel two drastically different ones all at the same time and your body elicits the same response. And it was simultaneous feelings of both clarity and confusion that brought the tears to my eyes.
When my egg retrieval in 2009 resulted in 8 viable embryos I knew I was never going to have 8 children. That would be ridiculous. And to me, these embryos were just that; embryos, not children. They were potential, not people. And then I was handed a picture of my son at 3 days old. Not three days after he was born. Literally three days old. Three days gestation. A microscopic image of a cluster of cells that could become my child. And then that child was born and I held him in my arms. And 4 years later the same exact scenario repeated and my daughter was placed on my chest. What I previously referred to only as potential became people. In fact, they became the two most beautiful people I ever laid eyes on and it was because of them that I couldn’t look at my last remaining embryo the same way any longer. On one hand, according to the logical and practical side of my brain, it was just a cluster of cells. But on the other hand, I saw my children in it. I saw the living, breathing thing it could become. I saw it not just through the eyes of an IVF patient anymore but through the eyes of the mother I always wanted to become. It became impossible to separate these feelings.
So my story goes: after roughly 5 years, 5 rounds of IVF and 2 great kids we had 1 embryo left. And for years I simply refused to acknowledge that it existed. I was happy with our family of 4 and I really, really didn’t want to put my body through IVF again. But I also wasn’t willing to let it go either. Instead, I simply filed it in an “I’ll get to that eventually” folder in my brain. Sometimes I think it would have been easier if we had half a dozen left to deal with. No one would fault me for not wanting six more kids. But just one? One was a reasonable number. And even though I didn’t want to do it again, I knew I could, if I had to. I really just didn’t want to make the decision either way. At one point, I actually started poking around online to see if I was being unreasonable for just not dealing with it one way or another. Turns out, no, I’m not. A lot of people struggle with what to do with remaining embryos. Many even keep paying to have them stored with no intention of ever using them. There are unclaimed embryos that no one is paying for anymore but fertility clinics keep hanging on to not quite sure what to do with them either. Sometimes families even opt for a “compassionate transfer” where they actually transfer the embryo at a time in the women’s cycle where it is nearly impossible for her to become pregnant. Putting it back from whence it came, so to speak. Totally weird, right?
Well, you know what, not really, actually because the whole thing is pretty fucking weird. An embryo is made outside the human body, frozen and then brought back to life. Really, there is no right way to process all the emotions that come along with that petri dish-sized baggage you need to carry around with you now. I had a lot of preconceived notions about what I would do or how I would feel or what was “weird” or “normal” or the “right” decision until I was in it and I realized we are all just trying our best to do what we think is right, under an incredibly strange and emotional set of circumstances of trying to make a family.
And then there was that memorable weekend: It was Saturday, May 13, 2017 (the day before Mother’s Day). We went to a family party where too many chips and bottles of wine were consumed around the fire pit, and by the time I got home, I could hardly stomach the residual smell of the smoke in my hair. A test in the days to follow would confirm my suspicions: infertile no more, apparently. Anyone who has gone through fertility treatments knows there is nothing to cheer about in those first few weeks (or months). To say I was excited would be a lie. I was terrified. There would be no cute announcements or viral videos of us sharing the news with our family. We would just have to hold our breath in case history was going to repeat itself. The ultrasound and undeniable nausea told a different tale. It wasn’t supposed to happen this way, but it did anyway. I no longer had to decide what to do with my last remaining embryo. The decision was made for me in the form of two pink lines.
So I cried as the phone rang that day. I cried over the finality of this decision. I cried over how grateful I was for being afforded the privilege to not only go through IVF but to also be allowed to decide how my story ends for my body and my family without judgment or governmental interference. I cried for how lucky I was that for all the years this embryo was nothing more than a safety net, my just in case, my potential. The day we had the documents notarized granting permission for disposal of our last remaining embryo was the same day we had the document notarized to obtain a copy of my youngest daughter’s birth certificate. It was a very strange full-circle moment that afternoon (in the UPS Store, of all places) for me. In some ways, I am still genuinely sad to have let the embryo go. But mostly my tears are happy ones. Mostly my tears are born of the profound sense of relief that I have reached the other side of this struggle to build my family. I got exactly what I always wanted and I really do have that frozen cluster of cells to thank for a lot of it. But now, finally, I no longer have to wonder, what if. I can finally let go of guilt surrounding that embryo that I’ve carried with me for years. I can close this chapter and be at peace. Finally, I get to let it all go.
I would like to dedicate this post to all the people who have struggled or are currently struggling to build a family of their own. The journey may feel lonely but you are not alone. If someone you know is facing infertility and you are not sure what to say or how to help, I invite you to read this and remember, sometimes the best thing to say is nothing at all. And if you are in a position to do so, please consider donating to RESOLVE.