I've been thinking a lot about the importance of stories in human existence. Stories are how we make sense of the random series of events and experiences that form the course of our lives. It's how we define our family, our nation, our collective history. It's how we sell a CV filled with various professional experiences that we cobble together to pay the bills and hopefully find some meaningful way to contribute to society.
I tried to sell myself on the story of being the future mom who accepted the data that told her that four euploid embryos and one low-level segmental mosaic were sufficient: that odds of 199 out of 200 are squarely enough to feel confident that motherhood is secured, that it's time to move on and not agonize over the tiny reserve of eggs withering away before we thaw out our five little hopes of creating a biological family. But that's not my story. I realized I couldn't stop my fertility journey on so much heartache. The decision has torn me up and left my intestines in knots. What about our bank account? What about the odds that I now endure multiple failed cycles?
Once again, there's comfort and sanity in the stories we tell ourselves: I'm not a woman who failed IVF but a fertile woman who has created five viable embryos and who's on a mission to make a few more. I'm not someone just embarking on embryo banking but someone who's already successfully banked what most doctors would call enough for two children, and who's circling back for a couple of bonus cycles while enjoying the benefits of having hit her annual out-of-pocket limit.
We can't know what the last chapter of the IVF journey will look like, and to be fair that final bits won't come until we've implanted in years to come. All I know is I can't live with the narrative that I gave it anything less than all I had. And what I've got is two more cycles, two more tries for another frozen miracle who might one day make me a mom.
Get those seat belts back on: this ride isn't over yet.
