Why I Froze My Eggs

"Of course," she adds, "many women over 35 still have a large-enough ovarian reserve and are therefore younger from a biological perspective."

I tell her that I recently learned that I had eight antral follicles. Antral follicles produce eggs, and the number declines as a woman ages. "That means you're biologically young," she says. This is the vital piece of information I've been looking for. I leave Italy feeling more convinced that egg freezing is the right choice for me now.

On Dec. 17 I attend my first egg-freezing class at NYU. A nurse at the clinic explains that I will begin by shooting myself up with a hormone called a gonadotropin that is used to stimulate egg production. In a natural menstrual cycle, it takes two weeks for an antral follicle to grow one egg. "Gonadotropins stimulate a larger number of follicles to grow so you get more than one egg," she says.

During a normal menstrual cycle, estrogen typically peaks shortly before the point of ovulation. When stimulated with the drug, my estrogen level should reach 10 times the level of a normal cycle. The nurse uses the analogy of cooking. The key to getting a good number of eggs is to take my levels up slowly, like thickening a sauce on a low heat. If my estrogen gets high too quickly, then I run the risk of ovarian hyperstimulation syndrome—burning the sauce. It happens in only 2 percent of cycles, but if it does, I could get really sick.

I'll go into the clinic every few days for a blood test to check my estrogen levels and have my follicles measured to know if my eggs are ready for retrieval. Just before the retrieval, I will take what the nurse refers to as the "trigger shot" to induce ovulation. Then, using an ultrasound needle, Noyes will remove the eggs from my follicles. I will be under a light anesthesia, and the procedure will take about 25 minutes.

I tell the nurse I'm concerned about the long-term effects of the drugs because every time I tell someone what I'm doing, they say, "Doesn't that cause cancer?" She says I shouldn't worry. Later that day, I read a number of studies that conclude that no direct correlation has been found between IVF drugs and breast or ovarian cancer.

On Jan. 4 I start giving myself the shots, which blend into my morning ritual. Make coffee. Wash face. Brush teeth. Shoot hormones cloned from Chinese hamster ovaries into my belly. After three days of shots, I have an enormous amount of energy. It turns out, however, that my doctors have given me too high a dose. On the third night, I wake up dizzy and nauseated, and it turns out my estrogen has gotten too high. I've overheated—and the doctors have to cancel the cycle.

I've run into one of the pitfalls and feel discouraged. For a moment, I even wonder if I'm acting out of desperation. But my strong reaction to the drug is ultimately good news. It means that I'm really fertile for my age and will probably produce a lot of eggs. So I toughen up to start a new cycle. And this time it works.

The night before my retrieval, my good girlfriend gives me the trigger shot of human chorionic gonadotropin, a hormone that tells my ovaries to prepare my developing eggs for release. On Good Friday morning, I take a cab to NYU. A nurse takes my vital signs, and then leads me to lie down on the surgery table where I talk briefly with the doctor who will perform the retrieval. The anesthesiologist tells me to sleep well. In what seems like three seconds, I'm awake in the recovery room.

The anesthetic has made me feel jittery, so I drink some apple juice while I wait to hear the results. In the meantime, the freezing process is beginning behind the scenes in a lab. My eggs are placed in a portable incubator. An embryologist hunts for the most mature ones, puts them in a petri dish filled with cryoprotectant and then places them in liquid nitrogen.

I'm still drinking apple juice when the embryologist comes into the recovery room to report that they have retrieved 35 eggs. Eight are mature. I go home feeling tired, a little sore and not sure whether my choice is a success.

Later, Noyes calls to say that eight mature eggs is good, though she wishes I had a few more just in case I end up wanting a second baby. She suggests I go through another cycle. I tell her I can't afford that, and anyway, I feel as if I should just accept what I have. "Do you feel less anxious now?" she asks.

I do feel more at peace knowing my younger eggs are preserved in a little test tube in a big metal tank. NYU has offered me free storage for the first year and then charges $400 every year after that. It seems surreal, but I also feel like I've done everything within my control. Even though the odds are uncertain that I'll produce a child from my frozen eggs, I've taken a step forward. I won't stop thinking about my fertility entirely, but I think I'll feel a bit calmer the next time love comes my way.

Lehmann-Haupt is a writer who lives in Manhattan. This article is an adaptation from her upcoming book, “In Her Own Sweet Time: Unexpected Adventures in Finding, Love, Commitment, and Motherhood,” published by Basic Books and on sale May 11.

© 2009