Here's Exactly What It's Like to Freeze Your Eggs

I'm 31. I want to be a mom one day. This is my insurance policy.

I'm 31 years old and I'm freezing my eggs

When I first seriously considered doing this, I could barely say that sentence out loud because I was partly in denial and partly in shock that I was even in a position to think about it. 

I decided to go through with it for a bunch of reasons. At first, it was because my boyfriend of more than four years wouldn't commit to having kids yet (let alone making our relationship "official"). I became that girl who I never wanted to be, asking him about it way too often, almost nagging for the ring and the baby. I hated myself for it. Some of that was undoubtedly from my biological clock ticking away and telling me that being a mother was something I truly wanted, and my opportunity was slipping away. Part of it also came from the disappointment that my life wouldn't be coming together the way I had always pictured it. Whatever the reason, that girl wasn't the woman I wanted to be. I wanted to be as confident and empowered in this part of my life as I was in others. I wanted to take control of my life and my timeline for having kids—whether it was with this man or another. I wanted to stop my biological clock from telling me what to do...if I could. 

Here's what I was feeling before I even started: 

I'm sad. I hoped to have kids by now. I grew up in a broken home. My parents divorced when I was three. My father died of a drug overdose when I was 11. By 15, I was out of the house, chasing my career to escape from it all. Now, I want to have the family and home that I didn't have growing up. I want to make it right. I want to be a mom more than I want anything else. Lately I'm an emotional wreck, tearing up every time I see a baby or a child or a happy family. I cry at night for no reason. I cry because I'm sad, and I cry because I don't want to be sad anymore, and I'm not sure exactly how I'm going to fix it. 

I'm nervous. I have a family history of early menopause, so my body clock feels like it's going to hit a wall soon and I'm going to miss my window. I will be devastated if I do. I wonder if this fertility thing, which is basically half of an IVF cycle, will work. I wonder if I'll be able to get pregnant on my own if it doesn't. I wonder if all these years I went through all sorts of birth control options — from condoms to not one but two IUDs — were for naught if I can't have kids without serious fertility help. And if I can't, I wonder if the other half of the IVF cycle will work. I wonder if I'll be able to have kids at all. I wonder if I won't be able to tolerate the intense drug regime I'll be on since I hate medicine; I barely take medicine when I'm sick, opting for natural remedies instead. I wonder if I'll stop wondering. 

I'm hopeful. I want this to work. I want to find freedom from this gnawing urge to have a family of my own, like, yesterday. I wanted to start when I was 30. I never imagined I would be a stone's throw away from 32 without being married and without having kids, much less an imminent plan to have one. I still want it to happen, so badly. I'm hopeful that it will happen, soon. I hope that when I start trying naturally, I will get that moment of showing my guy the pregnancy test and both of us doing a happy, teary-eyed dance at home. And if I doesn't happen that way, then fine: I hope freezing my eggs will be an insurance policy that let's me do the same "I'm pregnant!" happy dance at the fertility office. 

I'm scared. I hear there are shots and stuff involved in this whole egg freezing thing. I'm not sure how it all works. Why don't people talk more about this? Why don't they talk about the emotional and physical toll so that I know what to expect? I've spent my career talking about the taboos of money and this seems like another one that I need to tell young women about as I go through it. I hope I'm brave enough to do it. What if I'm too embarrassed to tell my story, like so many other women are? I'm afraid of all of the questions. I'm afraid of the unknown. I'm afraid that the what ifs in my head are going to drive me crazy. 

Week one: 

Once I decided to go for it, I went for it. That's my typical style. Once I get something in my head, I obsess over it until I just make it happen. I asked a few friends who had gone through or were thinking about going through the egg-freezing process for recommendations. They suggested I go to research institutions like UCLA, USC or NYU over a smaller clinic. I called around and begged for the first available appointments. I was surprised by how booked up they were. I was annoyed that I couldn't get in right away, but also comforted to know that I wasn't the only one trying to get in. 

Then, I got a cancellation call from one of the offices I had reached out to (and subsequently stalked) for an appointment. I was in! Yay! Then it hit me: now this is real.

When I got to the office, I had no idea what to expect. I didn't know which doctor I was seeing. I knew she was a woman but that's it. I had no idea what she was going to ask or which tests she was going to do (if any) during this first visit.

The waiting room was full of couples, but I tried not to let that upset me. I put on my headphones and listened to some Katy Perry and Taylor Swift to help me chill out until I was called in. 

Once inside, I was led straight to the doctor's office before going into an exam room. Little did I know that it was going to be an hour-long conversation. We started with what was basically a therapy session. My doctor was warm, lovely, compassionate, kind—and younger than I had expected. I felt comfortable and safe right away. I had heard horror stories from friends who had gone through the process with rigid doctors who made them feel even more nervous than they already were, so I was relieved. 

She asked me questions like "Why do you want to do this?" "What's your relationship status?" "What's your medical history?" Then she got into the process itself. I'm sure she had told countless women the same things but she made me feel like I was the first. She was patient about answering every single question I had, and you can bet I had many. Normally, she said, women are apprehensive about it and not sure if they want to go through with it. I was sure. 

I just wanted to know how quickly I could do it and get the peace of mind I was longing for. She explained in general terms how to self-administer the shots in my abdomen (which can be the biggest source of fear and a breaker for most women). I was grateful she didn't get too graphic it didn't give me the chance to chicken out. 

My last questions for her made my voice quiver: "Am I too young? Or maybe too late to do this?" She said that it's never too early to do it, and, in fact, the earlier the better. It's more often the case that women wait too long and it becomes more difficult. She said women who are career-focused and start trying in, say, their late 30s have a harder time and it could even be too late for some. She explained that you are basically freezing time, so even if you wait to use the eggs you are freezing now until you're 40, you'll have your healthier 31-year-old eggs to work with. I wish more women would take the proactive measures earlier. 

With that, I felt like I had suddenly put on my Wonder Woman cape. I was ready to get 'er done. 

Next, I was taken into the exam room, which looked like a normal gynecologist set-up only with the addition of an ultrasound machine, and I stripped down like I would for a pap smear.

I happened to be on my period and so it was a bit uncomfortable. She did a transvaginal ultrasound which involved inserting this phallic-shaped wand covered with a condom like piece of latex and a lot of lube to check out your ovaries. She turned the screen to me like you would during an ultrasound when you're pregnant and showed me my resting eggs, apparently the ones you are born with that they have to work with in hopes of stimulating them to grow and multiply with the hormones. 

The eggs looked like little black circular blobs on the ultrasound. As she counted, I started panicking because I had heard that this was the magic number that determined success or failure. As she slowly moved the wand around, she counted 5 on one side and 3 on the other. Was that good or bad? I assumed it was bad but she put me at ease that you want to have a few high-quality ones versus a lot of low quality eggs which might not be healthy enough to make it through the process. In conclusion: my "magic number" was going to be just fine. Phew! Ideally, they want to come out with 10-15 high quality eggs during the retrieval surgery, and she said I was in the right zone. Panic averted. 

Then she told me that I needed to start the process on the third day of my period, which is exactly where I was. I got really excited; it was a sign or maybe just coincidence but I wanted to believe the former. She told me that if we could make it all happen, starting that day, I'd need to pick up birth control pills right away. The pills regulate everything. This was the first glimpse I had into the time sensitivity of this whole process. 

By the time I got dressed and got back to her office, my doctor already had a calendar out and was penciling in options. I would make this calendar my best friend for the next month. But there was a small wrinkle in my plan. It was November and the holidays were coming up, and the surgery center would be closed. Also, I had already signed a contract to host a big event in NYC for which I would need to travel. During the thick of the process you need to stay local, because you are going into the clinic almost every day to get blood work and ultrasounds. Fortunately, my doctor was extremely understanding, since there's never really a perfect time for working women to go off the grid and do this. We crunched a lot of scenarios and ultimately came up with one that worked with the holidays and allowed me to travel (with my shots) for my must-do work engagement. Game on. 

My ultrasounds, that I got every other day, showing the growth of my eggs.

On my way home from the clinic, I went to the pharmacy to get on birth control to regulate everything. It was the first time I had taken birth control pills, so I had to call the doctor's office to check that I took the colored pills now on my period and not the placebos like the package said "Yes," the office nurse lovingly assured me, even though she was probably thinking, "Duh, dummy." I called for just about everything from this point on to make sure I was following instructions because I didn't want to mess up my kids this early on.

Week 2: 

So the pills were easy, but the shots were daunting. 

In order to self-administer them, you have to attend what is basically "shot school." A dedicated nurse puts you through what feels like boot camp: how to use a needle (yikes!), mix vials of medication (ack!), and inject yourself (blargh!). She started by explaining the basics, like how to take the cap off the needle, then she went into how to put the needle into the vial and take the exact amount I was prescribed out and inject it into another vial with the activating powder, swap out the needle for a smaller one, grab a hunk of fat on my belly and stick it in. I thought I was going to pass out. 

I knew I was going to have to inject myself but I assumed they premixed the stuff and I'd just have to close my eyes and go for it. Nope. She gave me step-by-step instructions for not one, not two, not three, but four different shots that I would take over the course of the process. She tried to make it as easy as possible but it felt like I was reading a Chinese medical text book. I videotaped her as she was demoing it. I had to do that, because I was distracted by the constant "I can't do this, I can't do this" in my head. Later, I studied that hour-long video like homework. 

I'm not the type of person who quits anything, but if I were this would have been the time to do it. 

Week 3: 

I knew generally how much egg freezing costs from the research I did online. It was $10,000-15,000 and, fortunately, I had already set aside that much for this procedure in my personal budget. Some of my friends set aside enough for two rounds, saving up by making automatic deposits into an "egg freezing fund." (One of my friends called it her "Eggcellent money" which I thought was clever and made a heavy situation the slightest bit lighter.)

The doctor's office told me that the exact price would depend on how long I chose to pay for the "freezer" and how many shot days I would ultimately need, since they assess and reassess how you do during your regular visits depending on how your eggs are reacting to the doses. 

My first big expense: the shots. Wait for it....FIVE THOUSAND DOLLARS!!! The doctor's office found "the cheapest" (relatively speaking) pharmacy in the area that overnighted my box o' shots to my house in a big cooler. 

I made sure to be home for the delivery since it was by far the most expensive delivery I would ever receive and God forbid one of my neighbors messed with it. On the appointed day, I waited with bated breath. The FedEx guy had barely turned away before I tore the box open. 

Inside, I found a bunch of smaller boxes filled with vials, alcohol swabs, what felt like a million needles of different sizes and a biohazard disposal thingy to throw them out. AHHHH! And like that, I had forgotten everything from shot school. Which ones went in the fridge? Which needles went with which vials? I called the pharmacy to help me understand what was what. I tried to follow her instructions and took lots and lots of notes. I dug through the box, methodically trying to organize everything based on what she told me. When I found the receipt for $5,000 at the bottom of the box, I knew there was absolutely no turning back.

Week 3.5: 

The first day of what would be about 15 days of shots I called over a friend who had gone through this about a year prior. She was a blessing. I had another girlfriend with me, too, who hadn't gone through the process but was there to tell jokes and play DJ, blasting LMAFO's "Shots." It was my lady tribe and I felt safe with them; they were my support system that wouldn't let me fall. 

It took me no less than an hour and a half to do my shots the first night. I followed every single instruction, word for word. My girlfriends were patient, loving and literally held my hand. 

I had been prepared to cry. I had been prepared for a dramatic breakdown where I fell to my knees and curled up in the fetal position. That didn't happen. I cried, but it was one or two lonely tears and more out of relief than fear or sadness. 

Week 4: 

I was getting in the groove of shots, becoming more comfortable with the whole idea of playing Dr. Lapin, but I still had my girl gang with me every day in case I panicked. I'm not sure if I would have if they hadn't been there, but I was glad I didn't have to find out. 

I was starting to feel some side effects of the intense medicine. I was gaining weight (I ripped my new jeans), partly because of the medicine and partly because you can't work out at all during this process. I also started getting a little moody, partly because of the hormones and partly because I couldn't drink coffee or alcohol, or have sex during the process. I was tired, partly because I wasn't sleeping well due to anxiety and partly because they recommended cutting out sleeping pills during this time. My belly was bloated from my growing ovaries and full of needle marks and bruises from the injections. I wasn't feeling like I was my typical health-nut, happy person, but I gave myself a pass. This was a serious and important thing that ripped pants, bags under my eyes and general crankiness wouldn't keep me from. 

Week 5: 

I was going to the doctor's office for monitoring just about every day (the clinic is open even on weekends). I was having some anxiety about traveling with my shots. I started seeing my psychiatrist more often and she prescribed mood stabilizers since not only did all of this take a physical toll but it was really messing with my emotions.

I had my New York trip and follow-up visits scheduled up to the hour. I went to the doctor early on a Tuesday morning before my flight with an insulated bag of the medicine I had methodically packed for the duration of my trip, with a little extra just in case. I hauled ass to the airport to catch a flight exactly two hours after I left my appointment. My doctor had given me a note in case TSA stopped me for questions about my bag of vials and shots. They didn't. I jetted to the gate and boarded the flight with no problem. Phew. 

I landed in NYC, headed straight to the hotel to put on a gown for the black tie event I was hosting and headed to the Plaza hotel, shots in hand. I did a makeup touch up in the bathroom, injected myself, and went on stage. 

In my line of work, I can get called to appear on TV at any time. As fate would have it, The Dr. Oz Show called me to be on the next morning, when I was scheduled to fly home. It was a big booking and I didn't want to turn it down. I called my doctor and asked her if there was any way I could make it work. She pulled up the magic calendar and said that if I could get back that night or first thing the following morning, it could happen. And that's what I did. I moved my flight, took my luggage and shots to Dr. Oz, then jetted to the airport right after we wrapped. 

"All of a sudden, another emotion was added to the mix: guilt. Had I been too career-focused and put this off for too long?"

I was supposed to avoid stress during this process but this whole travel-palooza work whirlwind brought up a lot of existential questions for me about my career. All of a sudden, another emotion was added to the mix: guilt. Had I been too career-focused and put this off for too long? Was I so ambitious that I didn't prioritize my personal life? Was being in this position my fault? Another woman I know who is also a TV personality said, "Telling a woman she can't have kids is like telling a man he can't work." I think that's true except for the fact that I would be devastated if I couldn't have kids and also devastated if I couldn't work. I wonder if I had to choose, which would it be. When all's said and done, I hope that I can have both. 

Week 6: 

By the home stretch my belly was so bruised that I could barely find a spot to inject. The bloating was starting to make me look pregnant. 

The last few days are crucial. They give you a rough window of when your retrieval surgery will be at the start, but then they don't tell you exactly when you are ready to "lay" your eggs until the day before. 

My day was most likely going to be a Wednesday, but that Tuesday my doctor said I wasn't ready; my eggs weren't big enough. I was bummed. Not only did I have another talk show scheduled for Thursday that I would now have to cancel, but I started to feel like maybe I did something wrong. Did I mess up doses? Did I drink too much coffee? Was it that one glass of wine I couldn't do without that one time? The stress of traveling? My doctor assured me it wasn't, but that it would be best to get more meds and let the eggs get a little bit bigger. 


I went to a special fertility pharmacy to pick up more medication to the tune of ONE THOUSAND DOLLARS! At this point I was spending roughly $500/day on medication. I messed up with a few vials and had to throw them out, the most expensive thing I've ever put in the trash. I paid my final doctor's invoice of about $6,000 and paid the fertility center for freezing and keeping my eggs for the next year for another $2,000. I had a minor freak out when they asked me how long I wanted to keep them because you get a discount if you pre-pay for more years. I had no idea when I would need them so I just opted to pay every year until I did. My final bill came to almost $14,000. Yes, I could have bought a car for that amount of money, but to me it was worth it.

The final round of shots were what they call "trigger shots." During the previous weeks of injections, the shots were meant to stop ovulation so that the eggs can grow and mature before they take them out. Twenty-four hours before the surgery, the "trigger shots" do just that: they "trigger" ovulation so the doctor can "catch" the eggs as they are coming down the pipe. The first of these shots needs to be exactly 24 hours before the surgery. The second to last needs to be exactly 12-hours before the surgery. If you mess this up, no surgery. I set two alarms on my phone to remind me of these times. The first one was while I was at a game night party that my friend throws every couple of months. I excused myself from Pictionary to head to the bathroom and give myself the first of my trigger shots. The second trigger shot was taken at the doctor's office the next morning when I had my final blood and ultrasound done. I literally dropped the syringe like one would drop the mic — I thought it was funny and the nurses laughed, although I suspected they were just humoring me. 

My friends came with me for the 7 am surgery. Since I would be receiving general anesthesia, I wouldn't be able to drive myself home. They kept me sane and in good spirits, and I literally danced my way into the operating room. I told my anesthesiologist, "We were going to have an 'eggcellent' time hatching my eggs." He then gave me an IV of what he called "a margarita without the calories" to calm me down — but at this point I was more than ready to do this. My doctor came in with a nurse to help me into the stirrups, which were more technical than the ones you see in an OB/GYN office. She told me to enjoy the nap and, considering I hadn't slept much in the last month, I certainly did. 

When you wake up you don't know exactly how many eggs you have because some die in the freezing process or aren't mature enough to be harvested. Even though I'm not sure of the number or how I'll feel about it, I do know that I feel better than I did before doing this. 

"Freezing my eggs was not the end-all-be-all magical cure for anxiety about my future. But it certainly alleviated some of the pressure I put on myself."

Freezing my eggs was not the end-all-be-all magical cure for anxiety about my future. But it certainly alleviated some of the pressure I put on myself. There are still moments when I cry at the sight of a happy child with her mother, and days when I still get excited for when and if that time will come for me. I still have nightmares that I won't be a mom, but I'm proud that I helped myself have the best chance I could. 

I saved all the vials I used during the process. I kept them in the same place on my kitchen counter after they were empty. Toward the last few days, the collected vials started to look like a heart, so I arranged them in that shape.

I'm getting that heart of my empty vials mounted and I will hang them on my wall. I hope I get a chance to show it to my kids one day because I want them to know that their mommy always wanted them and did whatever it took to have them long before they were born.

[gopher ]


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