Recently I cancelled my Euro trip and took out a loan so that I could take an important matter into my hands. I paid someone a small fortune (nearly twenty thousand dollars) to give me drugs that I—myself!—had to mix and inject, in exchange for letting them suck out—delicately!—some of my innards, to be placed in a refrigerator, at a perfect temperature—one I no longer controlled—for as long as I pay a subscription fee. That is, until I die or have enough children to deem their frozen siblings unnecessary—if I am lucky to have them at all.

Freezing eggs, I saw, as an existential debate centered around my singleness. Do I wait to have my eggs come out the natural way, after meeting a partner, or watch their monthly exit into landfills, back to dust? Women today are blessed with another option.

I write to open the door a crack, if not swing it wide open, for anyone wondering what the journey feels like. Egg freezing is often sold as a freedom: a way for women to buy time, preserve options, erase anxiety. But my experience held something else. While empowering as an elective feat of simply doing—(a fear I conquered)—it's expensive, physically consuming, entirely uncertain, and dependent upon your employer or a personal loan. It's an emotional rollercoaster that doesn't end post-surgery. There remains a legal contract, an ongoing payment, until the death of some or all of you, or non-payment and the subsequent seizure of assets (read: your eggs).

I once judged a friend for doing it, nearly a decade ago, thinking it wasn't necessary for anyone in their 20s. Have you no faith in your future? In finding a worthy man and giving his sperm a chance? was my specific judgement. What a fool I was to think that! Anyone who embarks on this journey is brave, including her, and the quarter of a million other women before me.

The Decision

Part of why I hate injections is a phobia (mild), and more so, the fact that I'm not living with a partner to help me with them. Sitting on my couch watching a pair of mated green parrots eat apples from the feeder outside, the Golden Gate Bridge hums a brilliant amber hue (before 7am), I think of my dream as a little girl: to get married and have children with the LOML. There are women who say they don't feel that longing.

I do.

Women in the modern era are blessed with many things, like tits and ass, and now, the ability to avoid a lifetime of regret. We can preserve life, just like the Eggos in Safeway, and while I hold out hope for a man with good swimmers, I sign off on a loan in December 2025 and sign up with a clinic in January after asking the important questions—like what is the survival rate of egg thawing, the storage location, or the number of procedures ever completed.

The Cyst

Out of four clinics I speak to, I chose one founded in 1999 that claims to have helped over 13,000 babies come into this world through their IVF and egg freezing services.

First visit is easy. Nurses take blood to obtain a baseline and complete an ultrasound which shows healthy-looking tissue. They prescribe medication and tell me to purchase and coordinate a delivery with the pharmacy, being careful to be home as some require refrigeration. Coincidentally, my little sister froze her eggs a month ago, and she gifts me leftover medication. In total, I have forty needles, many alcohol wipes, and six boxes of plastic mixing parts—totally prepared.

The next ultrasound goes swimmingly. The nurse tells me They will be in shortly and I ask, there's more than one doctor? She says no, the doctor uses They/Them pronouns. Ah, I say, not knowing exactly what sex They/Them are. My whole life I've had female gynecologists.

They are professional, and they do the job. But I realize the job is quite intimate. And for me, the probing of my insides (and the touching of inner thighs) only feels comfortable with a female doctor. Though I know They/Them as a good doctor, I ask to switch and the clinic obliges, updating my profile with a note, as the nature of the 24/7 clinic may mean anyone on staff will be treating me.

Each ultrasound and bloodwork visit costs about $500.

I wait a month for my body to do its thing. Second ultrasound does not go well. My female doctor finds a "Oh, that's a large cyst" on my right ovary. On the screen I can see it. Jet black, a void, it takes up half the screen on the ceiling. It's too large to start the retrieval process. The cyst can impact the release of eggs. I am to wait another month. Doctor says, very normal. I ask if the cyst will be there next month and she says one this size can stay anywhere from one to three months, or longer. You can plan, schedule, and show up, but ultimately, your calendar is sometimes not yours. Nothing to do but wait and see.

The thought of waiting frustrates me. I ask if there is ANYTHING else we can do, and my doctor says yes, there's a procedure—additional cost—can send you the quote—that involves going in and taking it out—it's not bad—laparoscopic surgery.

I decide to wait out my giant cyst.

The following month, after another $500, my ultrasound confirms a change: the cyst appears to be going down. The clinic will double check my levels of estrogen and get back to me. I depart the office with a knowing smile. Not happening.

A voicemail later in the day confirms my suspicion. I'm instructed to return after my next period.

The following month, we spot the cyst, smaller—not a grapefruit, still an avocado. It will be best to wait, to get the full "bang for my bucks." Neither nurse nor doctor understand my Merchant of Venice joke when I tell them to just take a pound of flesh. Ego still intact, I exit feeling comfortable with being misunderstood.

Despite grim odds, a nurse pulls me into a side room to explain and train on the injections. She places pens, plastic parts and vials on the Formica countertop as I unwrap a Reese's from the check-in desk, stashed in my pocket. She unwraps each item too, as my taste buds discover the Reese's is a disgusting vanilla version, likely from last Halloween. She hears my 'ew' and I get up to spit it out in the trash, which unfortunately has not been thrown out, as I stare down a bloody tissue among scrunched paper towels. The aftertaste is worse than the initial bite. She smiles and says this will just take twenty minutes.

The Waiting

As I keep waiting an unknown time, for an uncertain thing to happen, a work opportunity in Chicago arises. It takes coordination across team members in DC and Dallas, and I confirm readily that I can make the trip. A few days later, I check my fertility app messages and realize my—fingers crossed—next cycle and testing aligns with my week in Chicago. I tell my doctor, and they note in my calendar that things can start after. I call back and ask if there's any way to not push out another month. Doctor says there's a way, to try and start in September if all looks good (quiet on the cyst front!). She prescribes birth control, for a week, so I start, quelling laughter inside that a drug primarily used for not getting pregnant is helping me try to get as pre-pregnant as I can.

The birth control causes my period to come early (perhaps the point), and I call into the clinic, following directions.

To book my doctor I squeeze in an 11am clinic visit between work calls, the last of which (of course) runs long, resulting in The Sweats as I dash out in my long khaki trench, headphones in, glasses on—typically left by my keyboard—I stride in patent kitten heels towards a Lyft bike, which ferries me perfectly across downtown traffic for the seven minutes it takes to reach the clinic. Anyone visiting the brick building must sign in with the security guard, who mumbles the same directions to me as the girl who arrived a moment earlier—"It's [DAY OF WEEK, then MONTH DATE], please sign 'yer name and sign 'yer floor." She makes her mark on the paper, timestamping like the women above—a whole half page—all of us—going to the fifth floor—like a HIPAA placard for hope—fingers crossed—legs open—we—are—hoping—for—the—greatest—thing—on—Earth. A baby. And for me, a man I love first.

She and I share an elevator.

Then enter the glass double doors. We check in. Only I get instructions to pee in a cup. With both bathrooms in use, I wait my turn, complete the task, then tuck the cup in my coat as though it's a watch I'll sell on the street. I walk past a different girl getting her blood drawn in order to drop my pee in a basket. Confident. Ready. They call me into the room which is made comfortable by wall-mounted light fixtures with cotton shade tops—they give off real warmth. I slide down on the bed, my feet finding the same black plastic stirrups other women before me have found.

My doctor is warm too. She tells me everything she's going to do before she does it. I stare at the screen—relieved—there's no big black blob taking up half of it! She confirms out loud: my cyst is the size of a pea. It shouldn't have any impact on the performance of my follicles. The nurse walks me through the injections, again. Hands in lap. Fingers clenched. I stare. at. the. needles.

Nine months after deciding to do this, it's go time.

The Injections

My grandma would say I'm blessed to live in a building with good neighbors. One is a nurse. Over two martinis—one too many—she agrees to help inject, pending her schedule. One of my best friends also agrees to the same. Doubly blessed, I text them both, leaving the clinic determined, with a plan. I buy champagne and caviar. Also hot dogs, for my dog, who only eats hot dogs, thanking Bob the cashier before heading home.

It's a beautiful evening. From my kitchen window Sergey Brin's blimp dots the orange sky and we cheers to Taylor Swift—too sad—then, to T-Pain—much better. I pinch my lower belly fat and fixate on the needle.

Oh, to be a man and just jizz in a jar.

My nurse friend yells: DO IT! I uncap the plastic and drive the Follistim-branded pen in, then stare, before she reminds me: PRESS DOWN! I press all the way, then count to three, then pull out. Nurse friend takes the second needle, pre-mixed Menopour, then pinches my arm to distract, before plunging, remarking the viscosity seems thick. Afterwards we sit around the table and talk men and marriage before going home.

At 2am I awake hot and thirsty, gazing out at the night sky like Amelie, except instead of wondering how many people in SF are having sex at this very moment, I wonder if any other woman with raised estrogen levels is awake, tossing and turning, alone or with a partner unbothered. I regret the hot dog I had for dinner as much as the champagne. (A coy disclaimer: I don't drink much). Feeling stupid, I lay a towel on the bathroom floor and prepare for the worst, wondering for the next fifteen minutes if I should force a finger down my throat.

Doctor says there will be nothing noticeably different for a few days, if not week. I feel bloated. Resolving to eat better, I buy salmon, spinach, eggs and more eggs, cottage cheese and yogurt, Gatorade, walnuts, and berries—one of the healthiest orders I've made on Amazon Fresh.

On an evening walk with my senior dog, I run into a friend who also has a senior dog, except sixteen-year-old Enzo isn't with her tonight. We exchange pleasantries as I hold my lower belly and share what I'm going through. She tells me Enzo passed a few weeks ago, that she's seen me with Sully, but didn't have the heart to tell us. As she talks, I cry, overwhelmed with grief for her dead dog, and thoughts of saying goodbye to mine—an inevitable ending I know is coming. Extra hormones or not, I let the tears flow.

Next day is another ultrasound. My doctor today reminds me of Captain Janeway of Star Trek Voyager. Her hair alone lets me relax. She says, YOUR FOLLICLES LOOK GREAT as I take deep breaths in the stirrups. We count them together as she measures, remarking that my right ovary has larger ones than the left. Not a problem. But ideally, it would be best for all to be the same size for retrieval day. Any too-mature eggs will get cast aside (tossed into landfills) along with immature ones.

At the end of the appointment, my doctor says to add another shot. WHAT DO YOU MEAN ANOTHER SHOT I yell inside, like a loser getting scored on in the fourth quarter. I call my sister, "Did you have to do three?" She says no. Not every clinic has the same strategy. Not every person the same ovaries. I tell her, this is so annoying, and she responds by telling me to, flow through it. I decide to shut up and stop giving fuel to negative emotions. As the sun goes down my anxiety goes up. Wrestling with the curse of continuing, for a moment I understand vampires. The only thing to do with negative thoughts is force a positive one, which I do, saying out loud: I get to take out a low-interest SoFi loan and do this.

I pull my pants down and touch the bruises. They're small. Only two. Smaller than a penny. Friend says I'm doing uh-mazing. HONEY. She congratulates me for not bruising bad. On TikTok, there are women that show off MASSIVE bruises, apparently it happens when you hit a vein, "You don't want that," she side-eyes and scoffs, tapping the plastic needle, she pushes air out. It's over soon, and I suck on a Pedialyte popsicle like a four-year-old before sending my friend home in a cab like a lady of the night. She is my private infrastructure of care, saving me thousands of dollars. For those unable or unwilling to inject themselves (that would be moi), the clinic offers after-hours in-home assistance. Her $20/night Uber rides are at least $100 cheaper.

On Labor Day I do nothing but wait. I read poetry by Bukowski. I read a fantasy novel that's too long. I rest.

On Day 6 of injections, I realize I will run out of Menopour. I call the clinic, speak to a coordinator, and get instructions to visit and pick up more. They renew my trigger shot prescription, since it expired, one hundred and fifty more dollars—my annoyance for my (now) tiny cyst grows. I get to take a loan! I get to do this! My Waymo whizzes by a couple embracing both hands on each other's asses, like a sign from God showing me what's to come. I pay $578 for my Menopour and read poster board messages—I'm with you too!—and—You are stronger than you realize—written by other patients.

Queasiness comes the next day, with a headache. I leave a Teams message alerting that I'm taking a sick day. I make breakfast—three eggs, two sausages, a bag of spinach, yogurt with berries—then I dice half a Honeycrisp apple and feed the parrots whose arrival is hard to miss amid mild squawks. Tomorrow morning will be my next ultrasound, and after it, my clinic will provide a new 3-day forecast calendar—perfect as my brain cannot process anything further. I'm now constantly tired, thanks to the amount of progesterone in my bloodstream. Brain fog, bloating, and slow reaction times accompany what feels like a balloon of gas in my belly. Today's ultrasound confirms over twenty follicles present, with an average size of 10-15 millimeters. The nurse instructs to keep injecting, and at tomorrow's ultrasound they'll provide next steps.

That evening, I summon my friend via Uber again. She arrives in stylish overalls, long black hair, and white tee. She seems to float inside while announcing You doing great baby girl. We hug Thank you so much. Sit down. Give me your speaker. Then she puts on Christmas songs. We're going to do a guided meditation tonight. I smile and relax, immediately recalling how we met a decade ago working at Lululemon during the holidays.

Think of the cutest boy you know.

Uhhhhh. I can't.

It's OK, whoever's in your head—you see his face?

Yeah.

It's snowing outside. Sully is jumping in the snow. Your hair is blowing in the wind. He sees you, and throws a snowball right at you. He's smiling.

Keep breathing.

Ok.

What's his name?

No, I can't say.

It's OK if it's your ex.

It's [NAME REDACTED].

[NAME REDACTED] is looking at you. You caught the snowball. You press it firmly in your hands. You throw it back at him, and it hits his shoulder. Now you're laughing.

Ha-ha. We're done. Look at that!

Her only pause is to remind me to breathe, through each syringe entering, giving grace when my brain stumbled to lock in a handsome man to distract myself with. She laughs loudly, distracting me till the last release.

Whatever day it is requires a visit to the clinic. I am escorted to familiar room #4, where I undress and sit on the patient's bed. The nurse compliments my outfit—I am stylish. Wide black pants with a grey tee, suede Birkenstocks. Grandma would kill me. Birkenstocks! Those were not the shoes of a lady looking for a man, only hippies wear them. Bless her. She's correct on both counts. Today is about comfort! I look at the ceiling tiles, imagining the sky and heaven above, and Grandma's tsk-tsking.

I scoot just once, not needing to readjust, before finding the stirrups. I want to shout, "ENOUGH! ENOUGH! NO MORE!" but instead I thank the doctor for starting, after she asks for permission to. She moves the device gently inside as I watch my own tissue come into view on the screen. As she works, she tells me the trigger shot may be tonight or tomorrow—they'll have to count the follicles and their sizes, and average them, potentially losing the most mature ones if it means capturing more. My left ovary is hiding, and I watch her slowly discover it. The keyboard clicks like Pac-Man starting a line across the dark circles, until values are recorded with another click. With my stylish pants back on, they tell me to inject myself—still three times—one more day. I exit the lobby and run into a tall man—the first (single) one of his kind here. He smiles at his phone before meeting my gaze with a polite cowboy nod. I order an Uber and a driver named Jesus takes me home.

I decide to call dad.

He's survived nearly a year of dialysis and multiple surgeries, including a liver and kidney transplant (10+ and 4+ hour-long procedures). He asks how my week is going and I tell him about my friends rallying around me, the bloating, and how I'm up to three needles a night now. The reason for my calling is to ask him about his mindset before the surgeries. Did you think about it a lot, before it happened? The check in? The rolling in? When it would happen? He tells me that he didn't think about it a lot. In fact, he didn't see a point in it. The doctors were professional. He chimed that mine were too, and probably do egg retrievals hundreds if not thousands of times a year. Then he said something uniquely funny. He said his mom, Grandma Pat, a devout Catholic, always told him to "give it up" in prayer, trust that it would all work out. My father is a lifelong Catholic though I've never heard him talk about his faith. The directness of his mother's words hit me like my own pastor's. His voice steady and strong, he says he's proud of me, regardless of the outcome.

I don't like Day 10. Things that only happen when a woman gets her period happen tenfold, in degrees I haven't felt before—tender arm pits, swollen tits, enlarged FUPA, a Frankenstein walking gait, and water weight gains—9 pounds—all of it a touch extreme.

Finally, I'm told: IT'S TRIGGER TIME. After twenty-four shots, only three more.

I force thoughts in a positive direction. After the trigger, there's the IV drip, then the nap, then my eggs will be taken, and that will be that.

That night I'm invited to my friend's home for Rosh Hashanah. She's cooked an amazing blend of pho and Jewish cuisine, and at 9pm we sit in her three-year-old's room and inject together for the last time. We high-five softly, and I start sobbing.

I wake at 5:30am with the feeling of ovaries, somehow, vibrating. Uncomfortable, I lay in bed, watching the sun rise as my small dog snores loudly. The green parrots visit.

I make the breakfast my mother made before every big sports game or SAT test: runny eggs over toast cubed, with bits of bacon. I pack up all remaining meds and text a friend who is starting the process. Maybe she will want them. I want to throw them away, never think of them again, never wonder what they're doing, their impact long-term.

The microwave beeps that my eggs are ready. Three and a half minutes at boiling brings the yolk to a perfect run, and over the pieces of toast I knife each shell, letting the inside drip to cover as many pieces as possible. No need to salt with butter and bacon carrying the flavor, I place the extra bacon in the refrigerator, more empty from the meds removed, and leave them there for my mom tomorrow. I say grace, balancing hope in the same egg-cracking hand that I used to self-inject.

The last day working a dear coworker reminds me: the act of egg freezing is an act of faith. The opposite of my starting mindset—and having patience is not weakness—and acting in response to waiting is not just reacting. I thank my coworker. On the way home, I buy three roses from the local shop, and a friend sends a basket of more—yellow ombre sunflowers and pink rose buds. They have more beauty than most museums. They remind me that the end is near. I just need to stay present, not worry, trust the professionals, and keep walking towards it.

Retrieval Day

I don't look up the mechanics of egg retrieval and how the thin needle goes through the vaginal wall then up into the ovaries, to gently suck follicle fluid and any eggs. My armpits are too sore for deodorant. I don my TinTin on the moon tee, then white sweats, wondering if the waistband will be too tight after. The nurses warned to come in the comfiest of clothes, and to fast after midnight. All I want is a glass of water, but I lick my lips.

In the car my friend is playing calm music. The morning is also calm. Sunny. We arrive and take steady steps through the carpeted lobby, waving to the security guard BIG DAY TODAY! before taking the elevator, which moves loudly, as though Otis hasn't performed maintenance in years. My mom is already on the couch. She gets up with her grandfather's ivory tipped cane and hugs me. I'll be here the whole time waiting for you. The nurses come out smiling. I become a torch, passed from smiling friend—you're amazing, it's going to go great—to smiling mom—then smiling nurses—follow me—all reassuring. I wave to the receptionist, we are all friends.

The hallway behind the door is short. There are six beds, all against the wall, next to a dim-lit room with more machines—the operating room. Soft music plays. I'm told to undress and put on sticky socks—yellow ones, with smiley faces going either way, depending on viewer.

The crew is all female.

I stare at the holes in the ceiling, the ripped netting of the privacy curtain, feet twitching in anticipation. I pretend I'm on a spaceship, in the sick bay, with the hologram doctor about to materialize. Multiple nurses quiz me on my name and birthday. They leave, and a new nurse begins reading paperwork—something about RISKS—and asks me to sign papers, which I do, after reading the bolded underlined text about possible paralysis and death. My anesthesiologist pops in. She is chipper, kind, and beautiful. I ignore all possibility of something bad happening.

I squirm when the IV goes in, and when it comes out, raising my voice at the nurse—IS IT OUT YET?!—only to discover she's just removing the tape. It's the most painful thing I remember. I remember the procedure room. I remember the narrow bed. I remember the window in the corner, with a delivery slot. It was cold. The nurse had trouble undoing the knot in my gown. I was told to lie down, hike up my gown. A nurse tucked my right arm by my side, from above she asked if I was comfortable—yes, thank you—then she tucked my left arm. I remember the doctor placed my right leg in a boot, then took it out, remarking I was too tall. I remember fear. In response to it, I thought of my friend's meditation—a man in the snow, about to throw a snowball, he's smiling at me—as chatter about my height continued—all done—my right leg is in. I cannot move. I remember the kind anesthesiologist leaning over—I've administered the medicine—that I might feel a hot sensation—that's normal—that I would be fine.

A wave of cayenne pepper floats across my chest.

My next memory is a sensation of being pulled. I was dreaming. And I liked the dream. Eyes coming open, awake—no longer chasing something, pleasantly, and getting closer—I feel, in a word, home.

I walk back from the bathroom very high to see my mom.

Do I look really hot right now?

No.

She brings me back to Earth. We go home, because as soon as you can prove you can pee, you can.

Mom sleeps on my couch and makes cream of wheat (twice) in the morning. She fetches my binoculars and delivers Gatorade. From my bed I stare at the finches and try not to command too much. In the afternoon I nap, still groggy from the meds, as a documentary on 9/11 plays on. When dinnertime rolls around, mom orders Italian (lasagna and lettuce wedges) from the wrong Little Joe's. To pick it up, I call a Waymo, forcing her first experience of a ride in one. As the Jaguar headed downhill, she exclaimed, "It's flying!" as I look over to see the dash displaying 23 miles per hour.

There is a list of things to watch out for, namely: a fever, enlarged and non-diminishing stomach, swollen hands and feet, unusual bleeding, and sharp pain that does not go away with Tylenol. To monitor this, nurses ask you to weigh yourself in the morning and measure your belly with a tape measure—I do both things—writing them down on a notepad I keep in the kitchen.

I burp like an old person with no control. My mom says it's OK. But I swear to myself that I'll be more ladylike, even under the circumstances, as I haven't yet cleared the social capital of old people.

Day 2 of recovery is harder. I weigh the same, and my stomach circumference measures the same. But the cramps seem stronger, and despite my desire to feel less inflamed, to feel skinnier, I weigh ten pounds above my normal weight. It's mostly water, my nurses say, in a check-in phone call, but that does not make me feel better.

My mom and I sit outside a coffee shop on Union when the call comes in. The nurse asks if I have any questions and I say yes, How many mature eggs did I get? I got twelve, she says, and I start crying, with a thumbs up to my mom, who also starts crying. The clinic took 14 eggs total. I was expecting six to eight. I'm relieved more than anything.

This all was worth it.

At home, mom tidies her bed (the couch) and I try on clothes for dinner. The cool thing about freezing your eggs is you get to find out which clothing will make killer maternity wear. I don a black stretchy dress with fluttery sleeves and slit to my upper thigh and hold my lower belly going down the stairs. It's a sunny day, though I wish for rain—my favorite season has always been winter.

Overnight I drop three-and-a-half pounds and four inches from the circumference of my belly. A relief to be trending in the right direction, not towards toxicity.

My ancestors would be proud, I think, as I sit here, reviewing my loan payments, resting in bed, returning to work tomorrow in a skyscraper, in San Francisco's financial district. It's a shame my employer didn't cover the cost, but I can bear it, and prioritize it, paying it off steadily over time like any major investment. I hope future access to it relies less heavily on a person's employment or wealth.