I achieved motherhood thanks to my stubbornness: when I turned forty, I could hear my biological clock ticking away, and I did not stop until I become a mother. At that time, I was an independent, optimistic woman, enjoying life to the full. That’s why maybe I still felt young and immature. However, the new decade made me rethink the future: “what do you want to do with the rest of your life, grasshopper?”. It felt like having an epiphany, where I realized that I didn’t want to miss the experience of being a mother in my life. The challenge was how my partner then did not want to, and I ran out of time. I had to drop ballast to find my way, so I broke up with my boyfriend and started searching for the right assisted reproduction centre. Once I found it, I went through a thorough examination, and the doctor determined that I wasn’t that bad for my age. Even so, the possibilities were ten per cent with AID (artificial insemination by donor).
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I approached the first attempt full of hope. It would be a slight puncture to release those little soldiers directly on the battlefield. After two weeks, I found out the result of the mission: insemination failed. Disappointed, but with an unusual determination, I decided to keep on the fight. Second attempt, third, fourth. Nothing. In my life, I’ve always needed to feel the ground under my feet to take a step forward, and now I was halfway walking on a cable suspended between two posts—a tightrope walker is about to jump into the net and give up her spirit.
I went through a nightmare and needed to stop and reconsider if it was worth the emotional wear. Pursuing a dream affected my mental stability, even though I wasn’t under any hormonal treatment yet. The only clear thought I had was that in the future, I didn’t want to regret not having done everything possible with all the means within my reach. I should try one last time. It would be through a more aggressive yet more effective procedure: IVF (in vitro fertilization). Now, the aim was to produce as many eggs as possible, without damaging my excited ovaries, to retrieve and fertilize them in a laboratory. It was hard not to obsess over the goal when the hormonal injections and pills constantly reminded me of the undertaking I had embarked on. The retrieval resulted in thirteen eggs, of which only eight were ready to be fertilized. In the end, just three of these embryos made it to blasts after five days, which meant that the cell division succeeded and they were mature enough for transfer. I chose to have only two transferred, as I didn’t want to risk having a large family. The uncertainty lasted two weeks until a blood test put an end to the anguish.
I remember having the worst time while waiting for the results. I was alone in the waiting room of the assisted reproduction clinic, feeling nervous and worried and yet in the hope that everything would go well at last. My sister, who had been beside me all the way holding my hand in each cycle, called and asked to accompany me, just as she had read my mind. She arrived in time to receive the good news. Hurray! The count of beta hormones was so high that there was no doubt of pregnancy. So much that it could be two fetuses 😳. I was so excited about the news at that time; I could not think of being a mother of twins. A week later, I had the first ultrasound, and I clearly heard the heartbeat of a single baby, my baby. The real adventure was about to start.