i’ve thought a lot, since announcing that our embryo was euploid, about what belongs just to us, just to stephen and i, throughout this process that’s been so incredibly public. the lead up to this point in our journey has included some parts willingly and purposefully made public: i’ve made a point to share a no-holds-barred accounting of what this is all like so that people can have greater understanding for themselves and a greater empathy for people they know undergoing this wild thing. i did that for clomid months and iui months, and i’ve done it here and on social media for ivf. it’s been a delight and a medicine to write about the good parts and the hard parts, and the engagement i’ve gotten as a result of it feels deeply connecting (a feeling that we’re all lacking in almost-post-covid times, amirite?).
it has also, though, included parts that were public or that were not our own that we’d rather not have needed to include. i’ve paid thousands and thousands of dollars for dozens of invasive and uncomfortable pelvic exams from near strangers each month when i needed more letrozole, clomid, diagnostic testing, or medical procedures. stephen has had to procure semen samples for analysis and fertilization in *office/lobby restrooms* (inexcusable, providers!) rather than in the privacy of our home. i was unconscious when my eggs were harvested (i mean, thankfully), and neither stephen nor i were present when my eggs were fertilized with his sperm. a team of fertility doctors, nurses, anesthesiologists, and embryologists were the only ones present when all of that harvesting and fusion magic happened, and we were left hitting “refresh, refresh, refresh” on the health portal.
we didn’t even get to see images of our embryos until day 7 after fertilization.
in short, every single step of this process has involved an army of people, it’s lacked a great deal of intimacy and personal access, and it has included very, very little privacy.
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when we announced that our embryo was euploid, it didn’t take long for folks to figure out that meant that we *also* had details about the 23rd chromosome pair.
XX baby?
XY baby?
and here’s the sitch: no matter how irritating you may find this (and people do), this is the one thing that’s going to be ours. the *one* thing. this is the one tiny piece of surprise and mystery that we’re holding and maintaining, and it’s a thing we’re claiming. it’s not our families’. it’s not our friends’. it’s not our midwives’.
it’s ours.
sorry not sorry ❤
and besides–intersexuality is as common as red hair, and the kiddo will be an ever-evolving and ever self-defining entity until their death day, so those genes are only a starting point anyway. a framework for assignment at birth.
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if about right now you find yourself shifting uncomfortably in your seat and thinking “but how will i know what to buy this baby??” i’ll refer you to the hilarious flow chart below for some comic relief:
seriously though. i hear and honor you if this feels hard, but it’s a decision we feel good about. and it’s also, to be clear, not part of a guarantee yet. our embryo has a 3/5 or 4/5 chance of “sticking”, based on what research you read, so again, there’s no pregnancy yet; no kid yet. it’s our most fervent hope that, sometime before june 2023, you get to meet this little being along with us.
on a related note: we aren’t raising our theoretical baby as a “they/them”, because in my view assuming that as an identity is just as assume-y as assuming “he/him” or “she/her”, (goddess bless the limitations of language!), so if you want to know, you will in something just under 10 months. and if it changes along the way, you’ll know that too as kiddo grows up.
until then, enjoy your turn hitting “refresh, refresh, refresh”. all will be revealed. (shit, i hope so!)
yours truly,
a hopeful mama
idylls of acadia 