David and I celebrated our daughter’s first birthday at home in Marfa in June. The occasion marked the passing of a raucous year of new experiences, tender moments and the greatest happiness we have ever known. We regarded the milestone as a miracle because, not long ago, we did not think the joy of family was a possibility for us.
On the day we married, our combined age was 87. As individuals, we had found satisfaction in our single lives until a surprising and uncommon relationship grew between us and swept us in a wholesome new direction. David did not question our fertility. I felt doubts from when we first started trying. I was soon minutely focused on every day of my cycle, every indication of my body, tracked fastidiously on an app on my phone. Months passed and any optimism faded, as every time, our anticipation culminated in a negative test. “My only advice to you,” offered a close friend with a similar experience, “is to get ALL the information.”
When the initial tests came back, the report on me was favorable. David’s sperm count was abysmal, and a surgical procedure was required to confirm our viability. Even more alarming, we learned that we were both carriers of a rare genetic disorder that could affect our baby physically and developmentally. I spent hours on Google — a random child born in the United States has a 1/50,000 chance of being born with this disorder — our child’s odds were 1/4.
At first, we resisted the idea of IVF. David and I shared a concern that the stress of infertility and disappointment would damage what was otherwise a happy life. We had seen friends, so desperately wanting children, diminished with grief and frustration. We vowed to stay focused on what we did have –– a loving relationship, dear family and friends, a home we adore in what we consider the greatest small town in America –– as opposed to what we didn’t have. We initiated fertility treatments with the understanding that if we stopped feeling good about it we would discontinue.
We started our journey in January of 2022. The egg retrieval would take place in July. I found the egg retrieval process disorienting and uncomfortable. The shots I administered to myself multiple times a day contained hormones that would basically make my body ovulate a lot of eggs at once. Approximately every other day I went to the clinic for an ultrasound and a blood test to monitor progress. The egg retrieval would coincide with a procedure on David. Waking up from the operation, I recall the nurse’s face coming into focus and she was smiling and I felt hopeful. It was a relief to go home to Marfa and wait for news.
A nurse would call and give us updates. They were able to retrieve 27 eggs, which was quite good for a 42-year-old woman. Out of those 27, 19 were successfully fertilized. Out of the 19, just 7 made it five days to reach the “blastocyst” stage, at which point the embryo can be genetically tested and/or implanted. We didn’t know what to think. Sometime in late August we learned that out of those 7, we had just one healthy embryo. The nurse asked me if I wanted to know the sex — it was a girl.
We were scheduled for implantation in early October. Prior to that, I would administer another round of daily shots and pop in and out of the clinic for tests and ultrasounds — this time to build up the lining in the uterus and determine the optimal time to implant the egg. Before donning the surgical gown, a nurse handed me a black and white picture of our embryo under a microscope — a blastocyst is approximately 30 cells in total and roughly the size of a single poppy seed. It was not much to look at, to be honest; a blob of genetic matter that contained the potential to make our greatest dream a reality.
I was awake during the implantation and David held my hand. The embryologist gave us encouraging words. We had a high-quality embryo — better than many couples get after multiple tries — and our chances were as good as one could hope. She also confided with an earnest expression that she was an IVF baby herself. I don’t think the lump in my throat had subsided when the procedure was already complete.
Back to Marfa, where we were now in the only part of the process that was familiar — the miserable “two week wait.” What really were our odds? What could I do to increase them? What was supposed to be happening? What signs might indicate that it did/did not work? I tried to rest, ate pineapple, ran the essential oil diffuser (geranium), Googled everything constantly, and read hundreds of testimonials on Reddit, trying to maintain my zen, until I frankly couldn’t take it anymore. Fifteen minutes later, I emerged from the bathroom in tears and clamoring to find David; for the one and only time in my life, the test was positive.
David and I initially planned to share our story for the benefit of those in our community who are quietly struggling with fertility. We know we are fortunate that our IVF journey was short and successful. We give credit to Dr. Gregory Neal and his team at the Fertility Center of San Antonio.
Last week, Republicans in the U.S. Senate gave us another reason to share our story when they defeated the Right to IVF Act, authored by Illinois Senator Tammy Duckworth. Like us, Senator Duckworth owes her family’s very existence to IVF access. Calling her bill a political ploy, Texas Senator Ted Cruz has proposed an alternative that he calls the IVF Protection Act. Cruz’s bill does not protect IVF, but rather strips states of Medicaid funding if they enact an IVF ban. If our senator’s cynicism is not already obvious, it bears mentioning that the red states (like ours) that are most likely to ban IVF are the same red states that are hostile to Medicaid expansion. Ted Cruz threatens extremists in the Texas Legislature with a good time.
Our daughter is a ninth-generation Texan, born one year to the day after the U.S. Supreme Court released their decision in the Dobbs case, effectively ending Roe v. Wade. For me, that recollection illuminates the fact that, under Republican leadership in this state, my daughter holds fewer rights than her grandmother and I did.
Like the right to abortion, David and I hope the right to IVF is not one our baby girl ever has to exercise. We pray that our daughter has an easier path than we had. We pray that our daughter may discover her passions and embrace her dreams, that she may grow into a strong woman, accomplished in her own right, a leader and an asset to her community. We pray that, one day, she will find the perfect partner to share her life, and that if they desire, they may know the joy of family in their own time and on their own terms.
IVF is the answer to that prayer for thousands of Texans. With that understanding — and our daughter’s rights — top of mind, when David and I go to the ballot box in a few short weeks, we will be voting against Ted Cruz and the Texas Republicans who would impede her freedoms and her future.