I will always remember the pivotal moment during the first heartbeat check, when I was flooded with both overwhelming joy and profound sadness. I was overjoyed because it was finally happening, I was on my way to becoming a mother. That joy was accompanied by a sense of mourning for the path that fate had closed off to me: the realization that I would never have children from my own eggs.
My journey to motherhood was long and winding. It was difficult to admit that it was time to start looking for a co-parenting partner. But I was nearly 40 years old, and I knew I could no longer postpone this decision. Once reality sunk in, I became focused on the mission. Luckily, my search led me to an old friend, and we made the decision to bring a child into the world together.
Fertility treatments began soon thereafter. The technical aspects of the process became a daily routine that I adjusted to fairly quickly. A procession of doctors’ appointments, follicle monitoring, blood tests, and nightly hormone injections. What I wasn’t prepared for was the emotional roller coaster that followed.
Every step forward brought exhilaration, and every setback was a devastating blow. The first time our pregnancy test came back positive, we were overwhelmed with joy. At that stage, we were still naive. A few weeks later we were crushed to learn there was no heartbeat and I miscarried.
The second time we found out I was pregnant, we were more cautious, but it was impossible to truly protect my heart from connecting to the life forming inside of me. The third time I got pregnant, things grew even more complicated. And that’s how it went for nine attempts.
At that point, my co-parenting partner broke down. I was in a lot of pain, and my partner also struggled with each dashed hope. That’s when the possibility of using a donor egg first came up. At first, I couldn’t bear the thought of it. I would burst into tears each time we talked about it. My partner was also in pain, but there was a big difference between us. I was trapped inside my body, and my partner was not. Despite our affection and appreciation of each other, we decided to go our separate ways.
I continued trying on my own, this time using donor sperm. But now that I’d turned 44, every attempt had less than a 5% chance of success. This realization made the process, that had once seemed so easy, into something unbearable. Every blood test, every hope, was simply agonizing. Time and again, my seemingly robust embryos refused to develop.
Gradually, I came to terms with the fact that a donor egg was probably my best hope for becoming a mother. Rationally, I understood there was no alternative, but my gut clung to every excuse. Maybe there was some other protocol or procedure that I just hadn’t yet tried? The prospect of using a donated egg raised serious worries in my heart. Would I be able to connect with the child? If I decided to co-parent using a donor egg, would I feel inferior compared to the father, who would have a genetic link to our child while I did not? Would my family love the child as much as they did my nieces and nephews?
Despite these fears, I decided to move ahead with a donor egg. My partner was happy about this development, and we decided to re-enter the process together. It dawned on me that when my partner decided to move forward with me, even with a donated egg, he was essentially choosing me as the mother of his children and as his partner in the most profound sense possible.
As we entered the donor selection stage, I continued struggling to accept my new reality. It was my partner who insisted on choosing a donor who resembled me physically. It was as if he sensed that it would make the process easier for me in the long run. So that’s what we did.
Before the crucial embryo transfer, I needed to take a break from the difficult journey we had undergone. I took a few weeks of vacation at a pastoral haven. While stopping for coffee on my trip, I found myself sobbing, surrounded by bewildered onlookers. Fatigue hit me, along with the hope that maybe, finally, my suffering would end; that I wouldn’t have to scrape myself up off the floor again and again. The prospect of a transfer with a 40-50% chance of success, compared to the slim odds of 4-5% brought me an immense sense of relief.
To my delight, I became pregnant after the first transfer. While I heard stories of women who felt an instant connection to their unborn baby from the moment of transfer, for me it took a bit longer. Slowly, as I felt my baby grow inside me, I realized I could bond with this little life that had now become tangible. I carried the precious ultrasound images with me wherever I went, devouring them with my eyes, and eagerly awaiting my baby’s arrival.
Today, my little girl is almost five years old. She is adorable and funny, and resembles me and my family in ways that never cease to amaze me. My family loves her far more than I could have anticipated. She is the undisputed princess of the family. My co-partner and I face all the regular challenges of raising a child together. The painful process we went through still surfaces from time to time because such an intense experience is hard to forget, and we also grapple with how it might affect our child someday. Yet, we have confidence in our connection and we know we’ll face any future challenges together.
If I had known in advance how much happiness my daughter would bring me, I might have saved myself some suffering. But I also understand that we all need to go through our own journey, and to remember that our partner’s experience is a significant part of that.
I love falling asleep at night with my little girl beside me. Nearly every week I find myself stroking her hair and crying with emotion, thinking about the great miracle she is in my life. With her beauty, sweetness, and all the goodness within her, I am blessed to be her mother. I wouldn’t choose any differently; I have her, and some inner voice tells me that perhaps I had to go through such a difficult journey to find the wonderful child who was meant to be mine.
